Through the Fog

Blog

  • What Do You Want in Life?

    It’s the kind of question that stops me in my tracks.

    What do I want in life?

    For years, I didn’t know how to answer it. I thought the right response was supposed to be about success — the career, the house, the milestones people nod approvingly at. But none of that ever felt like the full truth.

    What I want in life is simpler, and harder.

    I want peace. Not the kind that means nothing happens, but the kind that lives inside me — steady, quiet, a place I can return to no matter what storms rage around me.

    I want connection. The real kind. The kind where I can sit in silence with someone and still feel understood. Where masks fall away, where I don’t have to earn my worth to be allowed to stay.

    I want honesty with myself. To stop hiding, numbing, or pretending I don’t feel what I feel. To live without apology for being human, even when that means being messy, tender, uncertain.

    I want to create. To write words that outlast me. To turn my pain into something that might reach someone else who feels alone in theirs. To leave behind a trail of truth, however small, that someone else can follow back to themselves.

    And maybe, most of all — I want to feel alive. Not just survive my days, not just check boxes, not just endure. I want to notice. To breathe deeply. To laugh without looking over my shoulder. To belong to this life while I’m still here.

    What do I want in life?

    To heal. To write. To love.

    And to keep learning how to stay.

  • Gravity Between Hearts

    It is hard to write about the thing that binds us most without naming it.

    But sometimes the word itself feels too small, too worn, too fragile for the weight it carries.

    So instead, I’ll describe it.

    It is the quiet pull between two hearts —

    a gravity no distance can undo. You can try to resist it, build walls, bury yourself in noise, but it lingers like an invisible thread, tugging gently, reminding you that closeness exists.

    It is the warmth in silence.

    When the conversation fades, and there is no pressure to perform or entertain, the air itself feels softer. Presence becomes enough. The world outside may roar, but here, stillness is its own language.

    It is the courage to be fragile.

    To hand someone the sharp, unpolished pieces of yourself — the fears, the mistakes, the shadows — and trust they will not drop them. Trust they will not run. That is where the miracle lies, in being held not because you are flawless, but because you are whole.

    It is both fire and shelter.

    A flame that burns without consuming, giving light to the darkest corners of your being. A roof that holds steady in the storm, reminding you that even when everything shakes, there can still be safety.

    It is being seen in your entirety.

    Not just the curated version you offer the world, but the raw and unguarded self — the mess, the laughter, the tenderness, the grief. To be seen fully and not turned away is to finally believe you are enough as you are.

    It does not rescue.

    It does not erase pain, or fix the wounds you’ve carried. It will not solve the war inside you. But it sits with you in the fire. It listens when words falter. It steadies you when you forget your own strength.

    It stays.

    And in its staying, it teaches you something you cannot learn alone: that sometimes the most powerful thing in the world is not escape, not defense, not pretending to be unbreakable — but the quiet, stubborn presence of someone who chooses you, again and again, without needing to say the word.

  • Forgiveness

    I can forgive other people easier than I can forgive myself.

    When someone hurts me, I can usually find a way to understand it — to see their side, to let it go, to believe they didn’t mean the damage they caused. But when it comes to my own mistakes, my own choices, the weight is heavier.

    I replay the things I did when I was lost, when I was drowning, when I was trying to numb pain I didn’t know how to carry. The words I said. The people I pushed away. The promises I broke. And even though I know I can’t go back, part of me still tries — as if punishing myself now could undo what’s already done.

    The truth is, forgiveness for myself feels harder than healing. Harder than sobriety. Harder than change. Because it means accepting that I am human — that I was human even at my worst.

    It means looking at the version of me I don’t want to remember and saying, you still deserve to come home.

    I’m not there yet. Some days I’m closer. Some days I fall back into shame, into silence. But I’m trying. Because I know forgiveness isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about loosening its grip.

    Forgiveness for myself is hard. But living without it is harder.

  • Finding Strength in Sensitivity

    For most of my life, I saw my sensitivity as weakness.

    I felt too much, too quickly, too deeply. A passing comment could wound me. A goodbye could feel like abandonment. A song could unravel me for days. People told me to “toughen up,” as if shutting down was the only way to survive.

    But here’s what I’ve learned: what I thought was fragility is actually a kind of strength.

    Sensitivity means I notice what others overlook the tremor in someone’s voice, the sadness behind their smile, the way silence can say more than words. It allows me to connect, to empathize, to create. It’s the reason I can turn pain into poetry, grief into art, loneliness into words that reach someone else’s heart.

    Yes, sensitivity makes life heavier. But it also makes life richer. I feel the sting of sorrow, but I also feel the sweetness of small joys — the warmth of sunlight on my skin, the kindness of a stranger, the quiet relief of being understood.

    Strength doesn’t always look like hardness. Sometimes it looks like softness that refuses to disappear. Sensitivity isn’t about breaking — it’s about bending, carrying, absorbing, and still choosing to keep your heart open.

    If you’ve ever been told you’re “too sensitive,” I want you to hear this: sensitivity is not a flaw. It’s your power. The world doesn’t need less of it. The world needs more of it.

  • Heavy Gratefulness

    Gratitude does not always come easy.

    Sometimes it arrives with trembling hands,

    laden with the weight of what was lost

    and what was barely salvaged.

    It is heavy—

    because to be grateful

    is to remember the ache that came before,

    to acknowledge the storm

    that left you standing in its wake.

    And yet,

    this heaviness is holy.

    It anchors you to the present,

    reminds you that survival itself

    is a gift.

    Heavy gratefulness—

    a burden you choose to carry,

    because even in the sorrow,

    you found something worth holding onto.

  • Vaguely Familiar: Stranger in My Own Life

    I move through my days

    like hallways I once knew,

    everything vaguely familiar,

    yet tilted,

    off-center—

    the walls leaning,

    the mirrors untrustworthy.

    Faces smile as if they’ve known me,

    and I smile back,

    pretending I remember

    what it feels like to belong.

    But inside,

    I am a stranger in my own life—

    watching myself from the edges,

    carrying fragments of memory

    that slip through my fingers

    like water.

    Still, in the blur,

    a truth lingers:

    what feels unfamiliar now

    is only waiting

    to be met again,

    patient as a shadow,

    faithful as a heartbeat.

  • Beneath Closed Lids

    The world is heavy,

    and she has carried it longer than most—

    its storms etched into her skin,

    its silence pressed into the folds of her brow.

    With eyes closed,

    she leans into memory,

    where shadows blur into light

    and the names of the gone

    rise like whispers on the wind.

    It is not sleep,

    but surrender—

    a moment to unclench her fists

    from the decades they have held,

    a moment to breathe

    without the weight of being seen.

    In the hush behind her lids,

    there is grief, yes,

    but also gratitude—

    the quiet relief

    of someone who has endured,

    who has outlasted the fire,

    and now simply stands,

    weathered but unbroken,

    letting time pass gently

    through her bones.

  • Invisible in the Crowd

    Invisible in the Crowd

    I stand where voices gather,

    laughter spilling like wine,

    but none of it reaches me.

    Their eyes pass over mine

    as if I were glass,

    a shape without weight,

    a name without sound.

    Loneliness is not the absence of bodies—

    it is the absence of being seen.

    The hollow ache of invisibility

    even as shoulders brush mine.

    I could scream,

    and still their conversations

    would weave around me

    like smoke ignoring stone.

    So I sit quietly,

    a ghost in the present tense,

    learning how it feels

    to be surrounded,

    yet utterly alone.

  • Chasing Happiness

    Happiness is elusive.

    It shows itself in fragments—

    a laugh that lingers too briefly,

    a sunset you almost forget to notice,

    the warmth of a hand

    that slips away too soon.

    We spend our lives chasing it,

    like children running after fireflies,

    cupping our hands around the glow

    only to find

    the light escapes through the cracks.

    They say happiness is a choice,

    but choices do not stop

    the hollow ache of night,

    nor the silence that settles

    when the world grows quiet.

    Happiness is not absent,

    but fleeting—

    a ghost brushing past your shoulder,

    reminding you it was real

    even as it vanishes.

    And maybe the point

    is not to catch it at all,

    but to learn how to live

    in the in-between—

    where sorrow builds its house,

    and joy comes knocking,

    if only for a moment.

  • The Shape of Grief


    Sorrow is not a passing tempest.
    It is the sea you adapt to dwell beside,
    its currents surging unexpectedly,
    its stillness just as burdensome.


    It lingers in the empty chair,
    the melodies playing to an absent audience,
    the echoes of joy
    that now seem out of place.


    They say time is a healer,
    yet time does not obliterate—
    it shows you how to bear absence
    like a part of yourself,
    to move forward with a perpetual ache,
    to discover beauty in moments of fracture.


    Sorrow is love
    without a place to reside.
    And so it finds a home within you,
    transforming your heart into a shrine
    for what the world can no longer embrace.