Through the Fog

Category: Thoughts

  • Hard on Myself

    I’m hard on myself

    in ways no one ever sees.

    I hold myself to standards

    I never asked anyone else to reach,

    carrying expectations

    that feel heavier than my own skin.

    People tell me to be gentle,

    to breathe,

    to give myself grace—

    for grace has been here all along.

    In a heart that remembers everything,

    In a mind that keeps score

    even when no one’s playing.

    I pick myself apart

    before the world ever gets the chance,

    as if hurting myself first

    will soften the blow

    of being human.

    I overthink,

    over-apologize,

    over-analyze every word

    I should’ve said differently.

    Every choice, every stumble

    feels like proof

    that I’m too much

    and not enough

    all at once.

    But I’m trying.

    Trying to loosen the grip,

    to unclench the jaw,

    to stop treating my heart

    like a battlefield.

    Trying to remember that growth

    isn’t supposed to be perfect—

    that healing is messy,

    and learning to love myself

    might look like failure

    before it looks like freedom.

    One day,

    I hope I look back

    and see someone who deserved

    so much more kindness

    than she ever gave herself.

    Until then,

    I’m learning—slowly—

    that softness isn’t weakness,

    and I don’t have to break

    to deserve peace.

  • My Thoughts

    People ask me all the time where my thoughts come from,

    like there’s some peaceful corner of my mind

    where everything sits neatly in place.

    I usually just laugh a little,

    because if they really knew,

    they’d probably never ask again.

    My thoughts don’t come from pretty places.

    They show up from the things I tried to bury,

    the memories I hoped would stay quiet.

    Half the time it feels like I’m digging up old ghosts

    that refuse to stay dead.

    People think inspiration is soft and beautiful.

    Mine isn’t.

    Mine comes from nights I couldn’t hold myself together,

    from moments that broke me in ways I still don’t talk about,

    from the weight I carry even when I swear I’m fine.

    So when someone says,

    “Where does your writing come from?”

    I smile, because the real answer would make them uncomfortable.

    It comes from the parts of me I don’t show.

    The fears I wake up with.

    The wounds that still ache.

    The stories I survived but never really got over.

    And honestly, I don’t write because it’s poetic

    or because it makes me look deep.

    I write because if I don’t get this stuff out of my head,

    it just sits there and eats at me.

    So yeah, people ask.

    But the truth is simple:

    My thoughts come from the places I wish they didn’t.

    And most people really, truly don’t want to know.