Through the Fog

Blog

  • Christmas isn’t what it was as a kid.

    Christmas isn’t what it was as a kid.

    Back when the house felt fuller,

    when laughter filled every corner

    and love arrived wrapped in noise and warmth.

    I miss being surrounded by my family,

    the way the room buzzed with togetherness,

    the way happiness felt simple

    measured in torn wrapping paper

    and everything crossed off my list.

    Back then,

    nothing felt missing.

    Everyone was right there.

    Alive.

    Loud.

    Certain.

    Now we’re scattered

    across cities, years,

    and places we can’t drive to anymore.

    There aren’t many of us left,

    and the quiet settles heavier

    than the stale December air.

    The lights still glow,

    the songs still play,

    but they echo differently now.

    Like they’re trying to remember us

    the way we were.

    Christmas didn’t lose its magic

    it just grew older,

    like we did.

    Carrying more memory than moment,

    more longing than surprise.

    And still,

    when I close my eyes,

    I can hear them

    feel that warmth again,

    if only for a breath.

  • The World Wouldn’t Stop Turning

    I didn’t move,

    but the world wouldn’t stop turning.

    Time kept its pace

    while I stood still inside myself,

    watching everything pass

    like I wasn’t part of it anymore.

    The sky seemed blue

    or maybe that was just my emotion

    projecting something softer

    onto a day that didn’t earn it.

    Funny how feelings can repaint reality

    and call it truth.

    I tried so hard to be cool about it,

    to play it off like nothing touched me,

    nursing a half-empty bottle

    or is it half full?

    I could never decide

    if I was losing something

    or still clinging to it.

    I drank for the pause,

    for the quiet between thoughts,

    for the moment where I didn’t have to name

    what was breaking underneath my calm.

    The world kept spinning.

    The sky kept pretending.

    And I sat there measuring my life

    in sips and seconds,

    wondering when stillness

    started feeling heavier

    than motion ever did.

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • Slow Dancing at 2AM

    Photo Credit: Hanna Lazar

    Slow dancing at 2am,

    George Strait humming low through the room,

    bare feet on cold floors,

    the world asleep

    while we stay awake

    inside this small, borrowed moment.

    No crowd but the shadows,

    no spotlight but the lamp in the corner.

    Your hand at my waist

    like it’s always known

    where it belongs,

    like this song was written

    for the way we move together.

    We sway without counting time,

    letting George 

    tell the story for us—

    about love that lasts,

    about staying,

    about choosing each other

    without making a sound.

    At 2am, nothing is rushed.

    Nothing is heavy.

    There is only you,

    only me,

    and a slow song playing softly enough

    to feel like a promise

    we don’t have to say out loud.

  • The Fortress

    Photo Credit: Daniel Mačura

    A fortress built around your heart—

    stone laid from old betrayals,

    walls raised higher with every almost-love

    that taught you not to lean too hard.

    You call it strength.

    I see how lonely it gets up there,

    guarding something that only ever wanted

    to be held.

    I don’t want to tear it down.

    I know those walls saved you once.

    I’d rather sit outside them,

    patient, unarmed,

    hoping one day you’ll open a gate

    and realize not everyone

    came to lay siege.

  • Gratitude

    I don’t always say it out loud,

    but I’m grateful.

    Not in some big, dramatic way —

    just in the quiet, steady way you feel

    when you look back and realize

    you survived things you thought would break you.

    I’m grateful for the people who stayed,

    and even the ones who left,

    because they taught me something

    I didn’t know I needed.

    I’m grateful for the days that felt impossible

    and the nights I didn’t think I’d make it through,

    because somehow I did.

    I’m grateful for the small things —

    the ones nobody notices

    but somehow keep me going:

    a warm drink,

    a song I forgot I loved,

    a moment where my chest doesn’t feel so heavy.

    And I’m grateful for myself,

    even if I don’t say it enough.

    For the version of me that kept trying

    when it would’ve been easier to give up.

    Gratitude doesn’t fix everything,

    but it reminds me that not everything is broken.

    And some days,

    that’s enough.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.

  • I Was High Then

    I was high then—

    I couldn’t face things

    the way they stood in front of me,

    bare and demanding.

    I needed the blur,

    the soft edges,

    the lie that told me

    tomorrow could wait.

    Reality was too sharp,

    asking questions I didn’t have answers for,

    holding mirrors I didn’t want to look into.

    So I floated above it,

    called it coping,

    called it freedom,

    anything but fear.

    I wasn’t chasing joy—

    I was running from myself,

    from the weight of being present

    in a life that hurt to touch.

    Now I see it clearer:

    I wasn’t weak,

    just overwhelmed.

    I didn’t want to disappear—

    I just didn’t know

    how to stay.

  • Lessons

    Everyone you meet

    has something to teach you—

    even the ones who stay a moment,

    even the ones who leave too soon.

    Some will show you kindness,

    soft as sunlight on tired skin.

    Some will show you strength,

    quiet and unspoken,

    the kind born from surviving.

    Others will show you pain—

    not to break you,

    but to uncover the places

    you still need to heal.

    Some will teach you patience,

    some will teach you boundaries,

    and a few rare souls

    will teach you love

    in a way you never knew existed.

    Every person is a chapter,

    every encounter a line—

    and whether you keep them

    or let them go,

    they shape you

    in ways you won’t see

    until later.

    Everyone you meet

    has something to teach you—

    and sometimes

    the lesson

    is simply

    who you’re becoming.

  • Disassociate

    I leave my body without moving.

    Eyes open, but I am elsewhere.

    The room blurs, voices stretch thin,

    and I hover just above myself

    like smoke that forgot its fire.

    Disassociation feels like safety,

    but it is also loss.

    A way of surviving the unbearable

    by not being there at all.

    Time folds in strange ways.

    Minutes dissolve,

    hours vanish,

    days pass like a dream

    I can’t quite remember

    but can’t wake from either.

    I watch my hands move,

    hear my mouth speak,

    but none of it belongs to me.

    I am vaguely familiar to myself,

    a stranger inhabiting my skin.

    And yet,

    this distance once saved me.

    It kept me alive when being present

    was too dangerous, too sharp, too much.

    But now, healing asks me to stay.

    To return,

    to feel,

    to sit inside my own body

    without slipping through its seams.

    Disassociation taught me survival.

    Presence will have to teach me living.