Through the Fog

Category: Self Worth

  • I Hate Me

    I hate me.

    There.

    No metaphor.

    No pretty way

    to make it easier to read.

    Some days

    I genuinely cannot stand

    the person inside my skin.

    I hate the decisions

    I knew were wrong

    while I was making them.

    The people I hurt.

    The people I let hurt me.

    The way I can see

    every red flag from a mile away

    and still walk toward it

    like maybe this time

    red means welcome.

    I hate how much

    I fucking feel.

    How one word

    can ruin my day.

    How silence

    can turn into rejection

    before I even know the truth.

    How my mind

    can take something small

    and drag it through

    every wound I’ve ever had

    until suddenly

    I’m bleeding from all of them.

    I hate that I know better

    and don’t always do better.

    That I apologize

    then repeat myself.

    That I want peace

    but sometimes

    I’m the one

    setting everything on fire.

    And God—

    I hate looking backward.

    Because hindsight

    makes everything obvious.

    Every exit I ignored.

    Every boundary I crossed.

    Every moment

    I abandoned myself

    just to keep someone else

    from leaving.

    People tell you

    to love yourself.

    Like it’s easy.

    Like you can stand

    in front of a mirror,

    say something kind,

    and undo years

    of believing

    you’re the problem.

    I’m not there yet.

    Some days

    forgiveness feels impossible.

    But maybe

    I don’t have to love myself

    today.

    Maybe I just have to stop

    being cruel to the person

    who already hurts.

    Maybe I can look at her

    without calling her worthless.

    Maybe I can admit

    she fucked up

    without deciding

    she is a fuckup.

    Because underneath

    everything I hate—

    she’s still trying.

    Still waking up.

    Still carrying consequences

    and somehow believing

    she might become better

    than the choices behind her.

    So yeah—

    sometimes

    I hate me.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if hatred is just another wound

    I’ve mistaken

    for the truth.

    And maybe someday

    I won’t look at myself

    and see everything

    I wish I could erase.

    Maybe I’ll see someone

    who survived being

    her own worst enemy

    and finally learned

    how to stop fighting herself.

  • Like I Always Do

    I let you down

    like I always do—

    at least that’s the story

    I keep telling myself

    every time someone looks at me

    with disappointment

    I saw coming long before they did.

    Maybe I’m too much.

    Too distant

    when things get real.

    Too damaged

    to hold anything good

    without shaking.

    I try—

    God, I try.

    But somewhere between

    wanting to be better

    and actually becoming it,

    I keep falling back

    into the same patterns.

    The same silence.

    The same mistakes.

    The same version of me

    I swore I’d outgrow by now.

    And the worst part is—

    I see it happening

    while it’s happening.

    Like watching a car crash

    from inside the driver’s seat

    with no idea

    how to stop it in time.

    So when you pull away,

    when your voice changes,

    when I feel the distance growing—

    part of me thinks

    of course.

    Of course I ruined it.

    Of course I became

    exactly what I was afraid of being.

    But maybe

    I’m not impossible to love.

    Maybe I’m just someone

    still learning

    how to stop expecting abandonment

    before it even arrives.

    Maybe I’m not letting everyone down—

    maybe I’m just exhausted

    from believing

    I always will.

  • Get What I Deserve

    I used to think

    getting what I deserve

    meant punishment.

    Like life was keeping score

    in some quiet ledger—

    every mistake inked in permanent,

    every failure waiting

    to be returned to me

    with interest.

    So I braced for it.

    For the fall.

    For the loss.

    For the moment

    everything I touched

    would finally reflect back

    what I believed about myself.

    Not enough.

    Too much.

    Hard to hold.

    Easy to leave.

    I called that honesty.

    I called that accountability.

    But it was just

    familiar cruelty

    wearing my voice.

    Because the truth is—

    I’ve already paid

    for things I didn’t deserve.

    Stayed too long

    where I was shrinking.

    Apologized

    for taking up space.

    Carried weight

    that was never mine.

    And still,

    some part of me

    thought balance meant

    more suffering.

    Like peace

    had to be earned

    through exhaustion.

    But maybe

    getting what I deserve

    isn’t about pain at all.

    Maybe it looks like

    rest without guilt.

    Love without proving.

    Being met

    without begging to be understood.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and not immediately

    putting myself on trial.

    Maybe it’s this—

    learning that I am not a debt

    waiting to be collected.

    And for the first time,

    when I say

    “I want what I deserve,”

    I don’t mean consequences.

    I mean

    something gentle

    finally staying.

  • Nothing But the Best

    I used to take

    whatever was given—

    half-answers,

    half-effort,

    half-love dressed up

    like it was enough.

    I told myself

    it was patience,

    that waiting meant loyalty,

    that settling

    was just another word

    for understanding.

    But I learned—

    the hard way—

    that you can give your whole heart

    to something

    that never planned

    to meet you halfway.

    And it will still take.

    So I stopped.

    Stopped explaining

    why I deserve more.

    Stopped shrinking

    to make room

    for people

    who never made space for me.

    Because love

    isn’t supposed to feel

    like convincing.

    It isn’t supposed to feel

    like earning.

    It shows up.

    It stays.

    It chooses you

    without hesitation.

    And now—

    I don’t want almost.

    I don’t want someday.

    I don’t want potential

    that never turns real.

    I want something steady.

    Something sure.

    Something that doesn’t

    leave me guessing

    where I stand.

    Nothing but the best—

    not because I’m perfect,

    but because I finally learned

    I don’t have to be

    to deserve it.

  • No One Determines Our Worth

    Photo Credit-Aleksey Kuprikov

    No one determines our worth—

    not the ones who doubted us,

    not the ones who left,

    not the ones who tried to shrink us

    into something quieter

    so they could feel louder.

    We are not defined

    by the people who couldn’t see us.

    We are not measured

    by the moments that broke us.

    We are not small

    just because someone else

    was afraid of our size.

    Our worth was carved into us

    long before the world decided

    to name our scars.

    It lives in our survival,

    in our softness,

    in the way we rise again

    even when the ground trembles.

    No one determines our worth—

    we do.

    We rewrite the story,

    we choose the truth,

    we decide who we are

    and who we refuse

    to ever be again.

    And if anyone tries

    to tell you otherwise,

    let them talk.

    Let them underestimate.

    Let them watch you grow

    into everything they swore

    you’d never become.

    Because here’s the secret

    they never wanted us to know:

    our worth is ours.

    Untouched.

    Unbroken.

    Undeniable.

    And we don’t need permission

    to rise.