Through the Fog

Blog

  • Life Is Beautiful

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    even when the days blur together,

    when the light feels distant,

    when the weight in my chest

    makes everything look dimmer

    than it really is.

    But beauty has a way

    of slipping through the cracks—

    in the sound of someone’s laughter,

    in the warmth of a morning sunbeam,

    in the quiet moments

    I forget to appreciate

    until they’re already gone.

    I don’t always notice it,

    don’t always feel it,

    don’t always believe

    the world still has softness

    left for me.

    But then something small happens—

    a gentle word,

    a familiar song,

    a breath that comes easier

    than the one before—

    and it reminds me

    that beauty doesn’t vanish,

    it waits.

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    and maybe the seeing

    will come easier

    if I keep looking.

  • Flint

    Photo Credit: Pete F

    Flint strikes out

    and pierce the dark—

    a single spark

    against a sky

    that’s forgotten how to shine.

    For a moment,

    light is a knife

    cutting through the quiet,

    a reminder

    that even the smallest fire

    can challenge the night.

    The dark leans in,

    hungry,

    certain it will swallow everything—

    but flint is stubborn,

    and sparks are born

    with rebellion in their bones.

    One strike,

    one flash,

    one heartbeat of brightness—

    enough to tell the shadows

    they don’t own this place,

    not tonight.

    Sometimes

    all it takes

    to change the whole sky

    is a spark brave enough

    to burn.

  • Rage, Tiredness, and Everything Between

    I don’t even know where to start tonight.

    Everything feels too loud and too heavy, like the whole fucking world is pressing down on my chest and I’m supposed to just breathe through it.

    I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.

    I’m tired of acting like I fit anywhere, like I’m some puzzle piece with a place waiting for me. Most days it feels like I’m forcing myself into corners that were never meant for me.

    There’s this anger inside me I can’t explain—

    anger at the world, at myself, at everything I can’t control.

    It sits under my skin, buzzing, burning, making me want to scream just to hear something break besides me.

    And underneath the anger?

    I think there’s just exhaustion.

    A deep, bone-level tiredness from trying so hard for so long.

    Trying to be okay.

    Trying to care.

    Trying to convince myself I belong somewhere, anywhere.

    Tonight I don’t have answers.

    I don’t have hope or clarity or some neat lesson to wrap around this pain.

    I just have honesty—

    and the honesty is that it hurts.

    And I’m still here, somehow, sitting in it, writing it out because something in me refuses to let this be the final word.

    Maybe tomorrow will feel different.

    Maybe it won’t.

    But right now, this is where I am—

    not pretending, not polished, just me trying to breathe through the weight.

  • Maybe I Will, Maybe I Won’t

    And maybe one day

    I’ll finally grow up—

    stop running from shadows

    I created myself,

    stop pretending the chaos

    doesn’t belong to me.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll quit messing up,

    quit ruining the good things

    before they ever get a chance

    to feel real.

    But maybe I won’t.

    Maybe this is who I am—

    a storm tied together

    with shaky hands,

    a pattern I keep repeating

    even when I swear

    I’m done with it.

    Maybe I’ll just let you down,

    the way I’ve let down

    everyone who ever tried

    to get close enough

    to hold something

    I could never name.

    It’s not intention—

    it’s gravity.

    I fall the same way

    every time:

    hard,

    crooked,

    backwards into the dark

    I thought I’d outrun.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll rise out of it—

    but tonight,

    I’m just trying not to drown

    in the truth

    that some parts of me

    still cling to the wreckage

    I should’ve left behind

    long ago.

  • Imposter Syndrome

    I walk into rooms

    and wonder how long it’ll take

    before someone realizes

    I don’t belong here.

    My smile feels staged,

    my confidence borrowed,

    my voice a shaky echo

    of someone I wish I were.

    They say I’m strong,

    capable,

    brave—

    but all I hear is the doubt

    scratching at the back of my mind,

    whispering that I’m faking it,

    fooling them,

    lucky more than worthy.

    I carry praise like it’s fragile,

    like it might shatter

    the moment I look at it too closely.

    Every compliment feels like a mistake

    with my name on it.

    And yet—

    I keep showing up,

    heart pounding,

    hands trembling,

    hoping no one sees

    the cracks beneath my skin.

    Maybe I’m not an imposter at all…

    maybe I’m just someone

    who’s been fighting so long

    I forgot what it feels like

    to trust myself.

    Maybe the real fraud

    is the voice that tells me

    I’m not enough.

  • Sober Didn’t Fix My Broken

    Sober didn’t fix my broken—

    it just turned the lights back on.

    And suddenly I had to face

    every crack I’d tried to drown,

    every scar I’d blurred into silence,

    every memory I’d washed in poison

    just to make it bearable.

    Sober didn’t make me whole;

    it made me aware—

    of the pieces that don’t fit anymore,

    of the heaviness I still carry,

    of the storms that still rise

    even when my hands are clean.

    But maybe healing isn’t the miracle

    people make it out to be.

    Maybe it’s the slow work

    of learning to live

    with the parts of yourself

    you used to run from.

    Maybe sober isn’t the cure—

    maybe it’s the chance.

    The chance to rebuild,

    to feel without collapsing,

    to hurt without disappearing,

    to stay alive long enough

    to find the pieces

    that still want to shine.

    Sober didn’t fix my broken.

    But it gave me the hands

    to start picking myself up.

    And maybe—

    for now—

    that’s enough.

  • I Never Want to Leave This World Without Saying I Love You

    I think about how fragile life really is—

    how it slips between moments,

    how days turn into memories

    before we even realize we’re living them.

    And it hits me:

    I never want to move through this world

    quietly holding back the one thing

    that has always mattered most.

    I never want to leave this place

    without saying I love you.

    Not because I’m planning on going anywhere,

    not because I’m standing at any edge—

    but because this life is unpredictable,

    and the people who matter

    deserve to hear the truth

    while they’re still here to hold it.

    I love you

    in the simple ways,

    the human ways—

    in the way your voice steadies me,

    in the way your presence softens the noise,

    in the way something inside me

    finally feels understood.

    I love you

    in the ways I’ll never say out loud enough—

    in the small gratitude between heartbeats,

    in the quiet comfort of knowing

    you exist in the same world as me.

    If today were ordinary

    or extraordinary,

    if it were the first day

    or the last—

    I’d still want you to know.

    So hear it now,

    in case time gets away from me again:

    I love you.

    Not as a goodbye,

    but as a promise

    to speak the truth

    while it still has the chance

    to reach you.

  • Voice of Addiction

    You whisper like you know me,

    like you built me,

    like I wouldn’t be standing here

    without you holding my hand.

    But listen closely—

    I’m not yours anymore.

    I hear you in the quiet moments,

    trying to slip back into my breath,

    telling me you can make it easier,

    that you can take the weight off my shoulders.

    But you never carried anything

    except pieces of me

    you stole.

    You say you miss me.

    I don’t doubt it.

    Parasites always miss the body

    they drain.

    You say I was better with you—

    no, I was quieter,

    numb,

    half-alive,

    a shadow of the person

    you were killing slowly.

    You were never comfort.

    You were a cage.

    So let me be clear:

    I don’t need you

    to feel less.

    I’m learning how to feel

    and still survive.

    You can whisper all you want—

    but I’m done mistaking your voice

    for my own.

    This time,

    I walk away.

    This time,

    I choose breath over burning,

    light over lies,

    life over you.

  • Dead Flowers

    Photo Credit: Earl Wilcox

    Dead Flowers

    They sit on the table,

    stems bowed like prayers

    that were never answered.

    The petals curl inward,

    holding their last breath,

    fragile and stubborn

    against forgetting.

    I should throw them away.

    But I don’t.

    I let them stay—

    a monument

    to what once was alive

    and too beautiful to last.

    You’d laugh if you saw them now,

    these ghosts in a vase,

    color drained,

    smelling faintly of endings.

    I keep them

    like I kept your words—

    even when they started to rot.

    There’s a strange kind of comfort

    in decay.

    It reminds me that love

    was here once,

    that something bloomed,

    even if it died

    quietly.

    And maybe that’s enough—

    to know it lived,

    to know it mattered,

    to sit with the proof

    in a vase of dead flowers.

  • Tolls on Burnt Bridges

    The hardest part of getting clean

    are all the damn apologies—

    the ones I owe,

    the ones I can’t say,

    the ones that taste like regret

    and old habits.

    It’s paying tolls on bridges

    I’ve already burnt,

    walking back through smoke

    I started myself,

    trying to make peace with ghosts

    who remember me at my worst.

    Recovery isn’t just staying sober.

    It’s swallowing pride,

    owning the wreckage,

    and learning how to rebuild

    with hands that once only knew

    how to destroy.

    And God,

    some days it feels impossible—

    but I’m still here,

    paying the tolls,

    crossing the ashes,

    trying anyway.