Through the Fog

Blog

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • Stuck Between Here and There

    I’ve been living

    stuck between here and there—

    between who I was

    and who I’m trying to become,

    between letting go

    and still looking back.

    Nothing feels settled.

    The past still pulls at me

    like it wants another chance,

    while the future stands distant,

    blurred out

    like something I’m not sure

    I’ll ever reach.

    So I exist in the middle.

    Half-healed.

    Half-hoping.

    Halfway out of places

    that no longer fit me

    but still feel familiar enough

    to miss.

    And maybe

    that’s why it hurts so much—

    because becoming

    isn’t clean.

    It’s uncomfortable.

    Lonely.

    A constant tug-of-war

    between comfort

    and growth.

    Some days

    I want to run backward—

    toward old habits,

    old people,

    old versions of myself

    that at least knew

    what to expect.

    But something in me

    keeps moving forward anyway.

    Even slowly.

    Even scared.

    Because deep down

    I know

    I can’t stay suspended forever.

    Eventually

    I’ll have to choose

    what parts of me

    come with me

    and what parts

    have to be left behind.

    Until then—

    I’ll keep standing

    in this in-between place,

    trying to believe

    that lost

    and becoming

    sometimes look

    exactly the same.

  • Heart of Stone

    They say I’ve got

    a heart of stone—

    like I woke up this way,

    cold from the beginning,

    untouched by anything

    that ever tried to reach me.

    But stone

    isn’t born hard.

    It becomes that way

    through pressure,

    through weather,

    through years

    of standing in storms

    with no shelter.

    People see the surface

    and stop there.

    They don’t see

    how many times

    I tried to love softly,

    how many times

    I opened my hands

    just to watch

    everything good

    slip through them.

    So I learned.

    Learned how to close off

    before something

    could get close enough

    to ruin me again.

    Learned how to act indifferent,

    how to keep my voice steady,

    how to pretend

    nothing touches me anymore.

    But pretending

    and feeling nothing

    aren’t the same thing.

    Because even stone

    remembers pressure.

    Even stone

    can crack.

    And underneath

    everything hardened in me—

    under the distance,

    the silence,

    the walls I built

    to survive—

    there’s still a heart there.

    Just one

    that got tired

    of bleeding

    every time

    it tried to be soft.

  • Happy

    I forgot

    what happy feels like.

    Not joy—

    I remember flashes of that.

    Moments.

    Temporary things.

    I mean happy

    in the quiet sense.

    The kind that settles in your chest

    without needing a reason.

    The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed

    or fragile.

    Lately, everything feels measured.

    Every smile examined

    like I’m trying to decide

    if I actually mean it

    or if I just got good

    at performing okay.

    People ask

    when I’ll finally be happy

    like it’s a destination,

    like one right choice

    or one right person

    is supposed to unlock it.

    But maybe happy

    is smaller than that.

    Maybe it’s not fireworks.

    Maybe it’s peace.

    A morning

    where your thoughts

    don’t immediately turn against you.

    A laugh

    that doesn’t feel forced.

    A moment

    where being alive

    doesn’t feel so heavy.

    And maybe

    I’ve been chasing

    the loud version of happiness

    for so long

    I forgot to notice

    the quiet kind

    still trying

    to reach me.

  • Bottom of the Sea

    I feel like I’ve been sinking

    for so long

    the bottom of the sea

    started feeling familiar.

    No sunlight here.

    No noise.

    Just pressure—

    constant, crushing,

    quiet enough

    to make you forget

    what breathing freely

    used to feel like.

    At first

    I fought it.

    Kicked toward the surface,

    reached for light,

    told myself

    I wasn’t meant

    to stay this deep.

    But exhaustion

    changes things.

    Eventually

    you stop fighting

    what keeps pulling you under.

    You let the dark

    wrap around you

    like something almost comforting.

    And that’s the dangerous part—

    how pain

    can become home

    if you live in it long enough.

    How loneliness

    starts sounding like peace.

    How silence

    starts feeling safer

    than hope.

    But somewhere

    beneath all this weight,

    beneath the wreckage

    and the parts of me

    that settled here years ago—

    there’s still movement.

    Still a pulse.

    Still something inside me

    remembering

    there’s a surface

    above all this.

    And maybe

    I haven’t drowned yet.

    Maybe

    I’m just lost

    deep enough

    to forget

    I was built

    to rise.

  • Im Getting Pretty Good at This

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    the way I hold it together,

    the way I answer

    like nothing’s slipping.

    You’d never know

    how close it gets sometimes.

    How everything inside me

    leans just a little too far,

    like it might tip

    if I don’t stay careful.

    But I do.

    I keep my voice even.

    My face steady.

    My reactions small enough

    to pass as normal.

    I’ve learned the timing—

    when to speak,

    when to nod,

    when to let silence

    do the work for me.

    It’s not lying exactly.

    It’s… editing.

    Choosing which parts

    of myself

    get to exist

    in front of other people.

    And I’m good at it now.

    Good at being okay.

    Good at making it believable.

    Good at disappearing

    just enough

    to keep everything intact.

    But there are moments—

    small ones,

    quiet ones—

    where it almost breaks.

    Where I forget

    what I’m supposed to look like,

    what version of me

    I’m holding up.

    And I feel it—

    the weight

    of everything I’ve pushed down

    trying to come back up.

    I catch it though.

    I always do.

    Smooth it out.

    Lock it back in place.

    Go right back

    to being fine.

    I’m getting pretty good at this—

    and I don’t know

    if that’s something

    I should be proud of

    or afraid of.

  • Losing Sleep

    I’ve been losing sleep again—

    not because I can’t close my eyes,

    but because my mind

    won’t close with them.

    Every thought

    shows up louder at night.

    Every memory

    suddenly needs to be replayed

    like it’s trying

    to prove something.

    The room stays still,

    but my head doesn’t.

    It circles the same questions,

    the same regrets,

    the same unfinished conversations

    that should’ve died

    hours ago.

    I tell myself

    to let it go.

    As if the mind

    listens

    just because you’re tired.

    But exhaustion

    doesn’t stop thinking.

    Sometimes

    it makes it worse.

    So I lie there

    watching shadows shift,

    counting hours

    instead of sheep,

    feeling the weight

    of everything I avoided

    during the day.

    And somewhere

    between midnight

    and morning,

    I realize—

    I’m not really

    losing sleep.

    I’m losing peace

    one restless night

    at a time.

  • Stay

    Some nights

    the world gets too loud

    inside your head—

    every thought

    echoing,

    every memory

    sharper than it should be.

    And there’s a door there—

    not a real one,

    but close enough

    to feel like an option.

    It whispers easy answers.

    Shortcuts.

    Silence.

    And for a moment—

    just a moment—

    it feels like relief.

    But there’s another voice too.

    Quieter.

    Not convincing.

    Not strong.

    Just there.

    The one that says

    wait.

    Not forever.

    Not fix everything.

    Just—

    stay.

    Stay through this hour.

    Through this breath.

    Through the part

    that feels unbearable

    right now.

    Because feelings lie

    about how long they last.

    Because the version of you

    that made it this far

    didn’t do it

    by accident.

    Because even now—

    with everything heavy,

    everything blurred—

    you are still here.

    And that matters

    more than anything

    the dark is trying

    to tell you.

    So don’t decide tonight.

    Don’t close the door

    on something

    that might still change.

    Just stay.

  • It Scares Me

    It scares me

    how fast my mind can go there—

    how something small

    can open a door

    I didn’t mean to touch.

    Like there’s a version of me

    that knows the way out too well,

    that whispers in quiet moments

    when everything feels too heavy

    to carry again.

    I don’t always believe it—

    but I hear it.

    And that’s enough

    to make my hands still,

    to make me sit with myself

    a little longer

    than I want to.

    Because there’s another part—

    quieter,

    harder to hear—

    the one that stays.

    The one that waits

    for the storm to pass

    even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

    The one that knows

    these thoughts

    aren’t the same

    as truth.

    So I stay.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because I have answers.

    But because something in me

    is still choosing

    to be here—

    even when it scares me

    how close the edge

    can feel.

  • I Survived Myself

    Nobody talks about

    the version of you

    that almost didn’t make it.

    Not the dramatic kind—

    not the one that leaves

    a clean story behind.

    I’m talking about

    the quiet destruction.

    The nights

    you sat in your own head

    too long.

    The mornings

    you woke up tired

    of being you.

    The way you kept going

    not because you were strong—

    but because stopping

    would’ve meant facing it

    all at once.

    I have been

    my own worst place.

    My own war zone.

    My own reason

    for almost giving up.

    And still—

    I stayed.

    Not gracefully.

    Not beautifully.

    Not in a way

    anyone would applaud.

    I stayed

    out of stubbornness.

    Out of spite.

    Out of something in me

    that refused

    to disappear

    just because it hurt.

    People think survival

    looks like progress.

    Like healing.

    Like light.

    Sometimes it looks like

    getting out of bed

    when nothing in you

    wants to exist in the day.

    Sometimes it looks like

    breathing

    through something

    you don’t even have words for.

    Sometimes it looks like

    not ending it

    when you could have.

    So no—

    I’m not proud

    in the way they expect.

    I’m not fixed.

    I’m not finished.

    But I am still here.

    And if that’s all

    I’ve done—

    then that’s everything.

    Because I didn’t just survive

    what happened to me.

    I survived

    what it did

    to me.