Through the Fog

Blog

  • Meeting Myself

    I met both the happiest

    and saddest versions of myself last year—

    sometimes in the same breath,

    sometimes in the same night.

    I met the one who laughed freely,

    who believed again without checking the cost,

    who felt light enough

    to imagine a future

    that didn’t scare her.

    And I met the one

    who sat on the floor too long,

    who questioned her worth in silence,

    who carried grief

    like it was part of her anatomy.

    They didn’t recognize each other at first.

    One wanted to stay.

    One wanted to disappear.

    Both were tired of pretending

    they didn’t exist.

    Last year taught me

    that joy and sorrow

    aren’t opposites—

    they’re neighbors.

    They borrow from each other,

    shape each other,

    prove we’re alive in different languages.

    I survived by learning this:

    I don’t have to choose one version

    to be real.

    I can hold them both,

    thank them both,

    and keep moving.

    Because meeting myself—

    all of me—

    was the hardest

    and most honest thing

    I’ve ever done.

  • The Ocean, Palm Trees, and Regrets

    The ocean keeps breathing

    like nothing has ever been broken.

    Waves arrive, waves leave,

    each one pretending it isn’t carrying

    someone else’s grief back out to sea.

    I watch them anyway,

    hoping they’ll take something from me

    without asking what it costs.

    Palm trees sway overhead,

    carefree and rooted,

    as if they’ve never questioned

    where they belong.

    They don’t ache for other lives.

    They don’t replay moments

    they should’ve handled differently.

    They just exist—

    and I envy them for that.

    The air is warm,

    salt clinging to my skin,

    sunlight making everything look

    forgiven.

    From a distance,

    this place looks like healing.

    Like peace.

    Like the kind of postcard

    people think fixes you.

    But regrets travel well.

    They pack light.

    They follow you barefoot through sand,

    show up uninvited

    between sips of something cold,

    whispering names

    the ocean can’t drown out.

    I think about the words

    I didn’t say soon enough,

    the moments I let slip

    because I was afraid

    of what choosing would cost me.

    I think about how easy it is

    to mistake beauty for closure,

    movement for growth.

    The ocean keeps rolling in,

    unbothered by my spirals.

    The palm trees keep dancing,

    unaware of the weight

    I’m carrying under calm skin.

    And I stand here—

    sun-soaked, smiling for strangers,

    learning that sometimes regret

    doesn’t mean you chose wrong.

    Sometimes it just means

    you cared deeply,

    and the tide hadn’t turned yet.

  • I’ve been waiting all night

    Not pacing.

    Not counting the hours.

    Just staying awake

    in that quiet way

    where hope doesn’t make noise.

    Waiting like you wait for a light to turn on

    in a room you know by heart.

    Waiting because some part of me believed

    you’d come back to this moment,

    to this breath,

    to me saying it out loud.

    I’ve been waiting all night—

    not because I had nothing else,

    but because this mattered.

  • The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie

    The devil wears a suit and tie—

    pressed clean,

    smiling easy,

    knows exactly how to sound reasonable.

    He doesn’t knock things over.

    He rearranges them.

    Calls temptation opportunity,

    calls control love,

    calls silence peace

    while he’s draining the room of air.

    He shakes hands,

    looks you in the eye,

    tells you everything you want to hear

    right before he takes

    everything you didn’t know

    you were giving away.

    The devil doesn’t scream.

    He persuades.

    He waits until you’re tired,

    until you’re lonely enough

    to mistake charm for safety

    and confidence for truth.

    He wears a suit and tie

    because evil learned

    it doesn’t need horns

    when it has credibility.

    It doesn’t need fire

    when it has patience.

    And by the time you notice the cost,

    you’re already wondering

    how you ever thought

    he was on your side.

  • Oh, Misunderstood 

    The common things—

    oh, how misunderstood.

    Quiet kindness mistaken for smallness,

    routine for emptiness,

    stability for lack of fire.

    We overlook the ordinary

    until it’s gone—

    the steady hand,

    the familiar voice,

    the moments that didn’t ask to be noticed

    but held everything together anyway.

    It’s always the simple things

    that carry the most weight,

    and somehow

    the least applause.

  • When the Magnolias Bloom

    When the magnolias bloom,

    the world remembers how to soften.

    White petals open like quiet forgiveness,

    thick with scent and patience,

    unhurried by whatever we rushed through.

    They bloom after the cold

    as if it never owned them,

    as if survival didn’t leave marks.

    No announcement.

    No apology.

    Just beauty insisting on itself.

    I think about timing then—

    how some things wait until they’re ready,

    how some hearts don’t open

    until the frost finally loosens its grip.

    How blooming late

    doesn’t mean blooming wrong.

    When the magnolias bloom,

    I let myself believe in return.

    In second chances that don’t explain themselves.

    In tenderness strong enough

    to come back every year

    without asking who stayed to see it.

    And for a moment,

    everything feels possible again—

    not because life is easy,

    but because something beautiful

    chose to open anyway.

  • Self Destruction

    I don’t destroy myself loudly.

    There are no explosions,

    no dramatic exits.

    Just a slow erosion—

    choice by choice,

    silence by silence.

    I wear it like a habit.

    Like something familiar

    I reach for when I don’t know

    what else to do with my hands.

    Old patterns feel safer

    than unfamiliar hope.

    I sabotage gently.

    Miss the calls that might save me.

    Stay where I know I’ll be hurt

    because at least it’s predictable.

    Pain I recognize

    feels easier than healing

    I don’t trust.

    I tell myself I’m in control.

    That I could stop anytime.

    That this isn’t destruction,

    it’s coping.

    But the mirror keeps count

    of what I’m losing

    even when I refuse to.

    Some days it looks like recklessness.

    Other days it looks like discipline—

    like denying myself rest,

    joy, softness,

    as if I haven’t earned them yet.

    That’s the trick of it.

    Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.

    Sometimes it convinces you

    you deserve the damage.

    I don’t hate myself—

    that’s the lie people expect.

    I just don’t know

    how to be gentle

    without feeling exposed.

    So I choose what hurts

    before something else can.

    And still, somewhere under the ruin,

    there’s a part of me

    that notices the harm,

    that flinches,

    that wants out.

    That part is quiet.

    But it’s not gone.

  • Resentment, Unfinished

    When resentment rides high

    but emotions won’t grow,

    I feel everything

    and nothing

    in the same breath.

    Anger sharpens its teeth,

    paces my ribs,

    while feeling stays stunted—

    rootbound,

    afraid of the light.

    I want to care louder.

    I want to rage cleaner.

    Instead I exist in this in-between

    where hurt ferments

    but never transforms.

    It’s exhausting—

    carrying so much weight

    with nowhere for it to bloom.

    Just bitterness circling itself,

    calling that motion

    progress.

  • When the Glass is Empty

    You only smile like that

    when you’re drinkin—

    that loose, half-forgotten grin

    that shows up

    after the edges blur.

    It’s not happiness.

    It’s relief pretending to be joy.

    A borrowed light

    that flickers just long enough

    to make everyone believe you’re okay.

    Your eyes give it away.

    They don’t soften—

    they drift.

    Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

    and left the rest behind to cope.

    I’ve seen that smile disappear

    as fast as it arrives,

    leave you emptier than before,

    like laughter echoing in a room

    no one stays in.

    You wear it well, though.

    Convincing.

    Almost beautiful.

    The kind of smile that makes people think

    the problem is solved.

    But I know better.

    That smile only shows up

    when the ache is muted,

    when the truth is diluted,

    when feeling less

    feels safer

    than feeling everything.

    And when the glass is empty,

    so is the room.

  • Change

    I want to change everything—

    not out of hate for who I was,

    but out of love for who

    I’m finally brave enough

    to become.

    I’m tired of surviving days

    that were meant to be lived.

    Tired of shrinking myself

    to fit places that never felt like home.

    So I’ll start small—

    a thought, a boundary, a choice.

    And one by one,

    the life I’ve been carrying

    will learn how to let me go.

    I don’t need to burn it all down.

    I just need to stop building

    on what was breaking me.