Through the Fog

Blog

  • Still Coal

    If pressure makes diamonds,

    how the hell am I still coal?

    I’ve been buried long enough.

    Pressed by expectations,

    by grief,

    by every version of myself

    that was supposed to turn out better.

    I’ve held the weight.

    Didn’t crack loudly.

    Didn’t fall apart in a way

    anyone noticed.

    I just stayed dark,

    compressed,

    waiting for something miraculous

    to happen.

    They say pressure builds strength.

    They say suffering refines you.

    They say one day

    you’ll shine.

    But nobody talks about the waiting—

    how long it takes,

    how quiet it is,

    how easy it is to believe

    you’re not becoming anything at all.

    Maybe I’m not broken.

    Maybe I’m just unfinished.

    Maybe not all pressure polishes—

    some of it just teaches you

    how to survive underground.

    So if I’m still coal,

    it’s not because I failed.

    It’s because transformation

    doesn’t happen on a schedule,

    and not every miracle

    glitters right away.

  • I’ll Praise You While My Heart Breaks

    There are moments when the pain is too heavy to name —

    when the silence feels like punishment,

    and all the prayers sound like echoes that never reach past the ceiling.

    I don’t always understand why the breaking has to come before the healing,

    why the people I love get taken,

    or why the storms never seem to stop.

    But I’ve learned that faith isn’t built in the easy moments.

    It’s forged in the dark — in the waiting, in the ache, in the stillness after everything falls apart.

    So I’ll praise You while my heart breaks.

    Not because I’m strong, but because I’m desperate to believe this pain has purpose.

    Because somewhere deep inside, beneath the exhaustion and the anger,

    I still want to trust that You’re here —

    that You see me,

    that none of this is for nothing.

    Praise doesn’t always sound like singing.

    Sometimes it’s just whispering thank you through tears,

    or choosing to get out of bed when your spirit feels shattered.

    So I’ll keep praising You — not because my heart is whole,

    but because I know You’re the only one who can make something out of what’s left.

  • Pain

    Trying to live while in pain

    is a quiet kind of bravery—

    waking up with the same heaviness

    and choosing to move anyway.

    It’s breathing through the ache,

    holding yourself together

    with trembling hands,

    pretending the world isn’t sharp

    even when it cuts.

    It’s walking forward

    with a heartbeat that feels bruised,

    hoping one day the weight will lift,

    hoping one day you’ll feel more alive

    than broken.

    And even when no one sees it,

    every step you take

    is a victory

    you don’t give yourself

    enough credit for.

  • Forgotten Kindness

    Forgotten gentle kindness,  

    days blur, nights sigh,  

    I run on empty promises,  

    never asking why.

    A to-do list heavy,  

    rest crossed out each week,  

    I give and give,  

    but my spirit grows weak.

    Lessons of love left unread,  

    quiet needs, never spoken—  

    In the mirror’s tired glance,  

    see a soul softly broken.

  • Hey, Depression, My Old Friend

    You always try to get the best of me—

    to take the last laugh,

    to rewrite my thoughts

    until they sound like yours.

    You whisper that I’m weak,

    that I’m late to my own life,

    that I should know by now

    you never really leave.

    Battling you isn’t easy.

    You know that.

    You know every fault line,

    every night I doubted myself,

    every fear I never said out loud.

    You wait until I’m tired

    and call it truth.

    You wait until I’m quiet

    and call it surrender.

    You think persistence makes you powerful.

    You think showing up uninvited

    means you own the place.

    You mistake familiarity for victory.

    But listen to me—

    I am still standing.

    Even when my legs shake.

    Even when I’m angry, exhausted,

    done pretending this is fair.

    I push back in ways you don’t see—

    by getting out of bed,

    by choosing to stay,

    by refusing to disappear

    just because you asked me to.

    You knock me down,

    and I get back up pissed off,

    breathing hard,

    learning my strength the long way.

    You don’t get the last laugh.

    You don’t get to finish my sentences.

    You don’t get to decide

    how this story ends.

    I will overcome you—

    not cleanly,

    not quietly,

    not without scars.

    But I will.

  • The Dying Day

    The day doesn’t end all at once.

    It weakens.

    Light thinning at the edges,

    hours learning how to let go.

    I watch it die quietly—

    no drama,

    no final words—

    just shadows stretching

    like they’re tired too.

    The dying day carries

    everything I didn’t finish:

    conversations I rehearsed,

    apologies I swallowed,

    hope I meant to believe in

    a little harder.

    Night arrives

    like an understanding,

    not cruel,

    just honest about what remains.

    I sit with the dark

    and take inventory—

    what hurt,

    what survived,

    what I’ll try again tomorrow

    if morning is kind.

    The dying day doesn’t judge me.

    It just leaves.

    And somehow,

    that feels like permission

    to rest

    without explaining myself.

  • Why Is It So Easy to Fuck Up?

    Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try, I keep finding new ways to mess things up.

    Not on purpose. I don’t wake up thinking, let’s ruin something today.

    It just happens.

    A word lands wrong.

    A feeling shows up before I can stop it.

    A moment where pain speaks faster than logic ever could.

    Why is it so easy to fuck up

    and so hard to forgive yourself?

    Maybe it’s because deep down, I expect perfection — from me, from everyone.

    Like if I get it right this time, I’ll finally be enough.

    But life doesn’t work like that.

    Healing doesn’t either.

    It’s two steps forward, three back,

    and a quiet voice in between saying, try again tomorrow.

    The truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can with what we know.

    Sometimes trauma speaks louder than intention.

    Sometimes old versions of us resurface when we’re tired and scared

    and just trying to make it through the day.

    But fucking up doesn’t mean we’re broken beyond repair.

    It means we’re human —

    still learning,

    still fumbling,

    still reaching for something better.

    So yeah, it’s easy to fuck up.

    But it’s also easy — if you let it be —

    to start over.

  • Running in Place

    I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,

    like one wrong move will collapse

    every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.

    So I lock myself inside my head—

    bolt the doors,

    pace the floors,

    run in place until my lungs burn

    and call it preparation.

    I don’t freeze because I don’t care.

    I freeze because I care too much.

    Because every decision feels loaded,

    every choice feels permanent,

    every step forward feels like a gamble

    I can’t afford to lose.

    My mind turns into a track meet—

    thoughts sprinting,

    worst-case scenarios stretching,

    my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic

    while my life stays exactly where it is.

    I analyze.

    I overthink.

    I tear every option apart

    until nothing feels safe enough to touch.

    I tell myself I’m being careful,

    that caution is wisdom,

    that staying still is strategy.

    But really—

    I’m terrified.

    Terrified of messing it up.

    Terrified of proving every fear right.

    Terrified that trying and failing

    will hurt worse than never trying at all.

    So I run in place.

    Sweat, strain, panic—

    no distance covered.

    Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,

    momentum without movement,

    noise without progress.

    I scream inside my head

    while the world keeps going,

    unaware that I’m fighting a war

    no one can see

    and losing ground by standing still.

    I’m angry at the pressure.

    Angry at myself.

    Angry that wanting something badly

    can paralyze you just as easily

    as not wanting anything at all.

    And maybe the cruelest part

    is knowing this isn’t living—

    it’s containment.

    It’s fear disguised as discipline.

    It’s survival mode

    with nowhere to go.

    I don’t need another plan.

    I don’t need another rehearsal.

    I need the courage to stop running in place

    and accept that movement—

    real movement—

    will always feel dangerous

    to someone who’s been hurt before.

    But I’m so damn tired

    of sprinting nowhere,

    of locking myself away

    from the very life

    I’m trying so hard

    not to lose. 

  • Rock Bottom

    I hate rock bottom,

    but I’m good at digging holes—

    hands blistered from familiar work,

    knowing exactly where the ground gives way.

    I tell myself I’m searching for answers,

    for something buried worth finding,

    but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,

    proving I still know how to disappear.

    Rock bottom scares me

    because it asks me to stop digging,

    to stand still with the damage,

    to look at what’s left

    instead of what I can destroy next.

    Digging feels like control.

    Like movement.

    Like I’m doing something

    instead of admitting I’m tired.

    But every hole looks the same

    after a while—

    dark, quiet, convincing.

    I don’t fall because I don’t know better.

    I fall because climbing feels

    like hope,

    and hope feels dangerous

    when you’ve been let down before.

    Still—

    even with dirt under my nails,

    even with gravity winning again—

    some part of me keeps looking up,

    measuring the distance,

    wondering what it would take

    to stop digging

    and start building

    instead.

  • Autopilot

    Photo Credit: Olesya Yemets

    My days keep blurring together,

    nothing is happening,

    but everything is happening.

    I wake up, I move, I breathe—

    do what I’m supposed to do.

    Smile when it’s expected.

    Hold it together long enough

    to get through the day.

    Time feels soft now,

    like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

    Mornings turn into evenings

    before I notice I was even here.

    I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

    Carrying things I don’t know

    how to set down yet.

    Waiting for something to make sense,

    or maybe just waiting

    to feel like me again.

    So the days blur.

    They pass quietly,

    hand in hand,

    like they’re trying to be gentle

    with what I’m surviving.