Through the Fog

Blog

  • Perceived Abandonment

    It’s strange how loneliness can make you believe you’ve been abandoned, even when no one’s gone anywhere.

    It creeps in quietly — not as an event, but as a feeling.

    A hollow shift inside the chest, a soft whisper that says they don’t care anymore, even when they do.

    I know it’s not true.

    But in the moments when silence stretches too long,

    when messages go unread and days pile up in quiet stacks,

    it feels like proof.

    Proof that I’m too much, or not enough, or somehow both at once.

    It’s the oldest wound — that fear of being left behind.

    Not just by people, but by life itself.

    You start to think maybe everyone else got the map,

    and you were born to wander lost.

    I’ve learned that perceived abandonment isn’t about others leaving.

    It’s about the part of me that still believes love is temporary,

    that care has an expiration date,

    that any warmth will eventually fade.

    So I brace myself for endings that haven’t even begun.

    I pull away before anyone has a chance to.

    And then I call it loneliness, when really it’s just fear —

    the quiet kind that pretends it’s truth.

    But loneliness doesn’t mean I’ve been abandoned.

    It means I’m here, still longing, still feeling, still alive enough to miss something.

    And maybe that’s not weakness.

    Maybe that’s the part of me still hoping

    someone will stay long enough to prove my heart wrong.

  • The Shape of Silence

    It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak, 

    a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest

    like something carved from grief

    and sharpened by silence.

    It crawls along the inside of your skull,

    slow and deliberate,

    leaving claw marks in places

    you swore nothing could reach.

    It fills the rooms of your mind

    with a stillness so absolute

    it feels like a warning.

    Breathing becomes a memory,

    a thing you used to know how to do

    before this presence learned your shape

    and wrapped itself around you

    with the cold precision

    of something that doesn’t need to rush.

    This isn’t a blanket—

    it’s a shroud.

    It doesn’t warm;

    it constricts.

    It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm

    and your ribs forget their purpose.

    It settles deeper than fear could ever go,

    into the marrow,

    into the places no light has touched in years.

    You can’t see it—

    that’s the cruel part.

    It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,

    drowning you in a darkness

    that feels personal,

    intentional,

    intimate.

    And somehow,

    it knows you’ll let it stay.

  • Outlaw

    She was born with dust on her boots

    and trouble in her shadow—

    the kind of trouble

    that follows you slow,

    like it knows

    you’ll never shake it loose.

    They call her an outlaw,

    but she never meant to be one.

    Life just taught her early

    that some roads ain’t straight,

    and some sins

    don’t wash off easy.

    She’s ridden through towns

    that whispered her name

    like a warning,

    like a prayer,

    like a story told

    to keep children indoors.

    She’s stolen time,

    not gold—

    running from the woman she was

    toward the woman she might be,

    hoping the distance between them

    counts for something.

    Nights get long on the run.

    The moon watches everything,

    silent as a judge

    with a tired heart.

    But still, she rides—

    not for glory,

    not for fear,

    but because the horizon

    has a way of calling someone

    not yet ready

    to stop fighting her own ghost.

    Maybe outlaw’s just another word

    for someone who keeps moving

    when the world tries

    to pin her down.

    And if that’s a crime—

    then let the dust

    be her alibi.

  • Powerful Words

    Powerful words

    aren’t always loud.

    They don’t always arrive

    with thunder

    or fists on tables.

    Sometimes

    they slip out softly—

    barely above a whisper—

    and still manage

    to split a life in two.

    “I’m done.”

    “I forgive you.”

    “It wasn’t your fault.”

    “I need help.”

    “I choose myself.”

    Five syllables

    can reroute a future.

    Three words

    can untangle years

    of silence.

    There are sentences

    that bruise.

    Sentences

    that resurrect.

    Sentences

    that sit in your chest

    for decades

    like a nail you never removed.

    I have said words

    I wish I could swallow.

    I have swallowed words

    that should have been set free.

    That’s the danger of language—

    it carries weight

    whether we mean it to or not.

    But there is power, too,

    in choosing carefully.

    In speaking truth

    without cruelty.

    In drawing boundaries

    without apology.

    In naming pain

    without weaponizing it.

    Words built the cages

    I once lived in.

    Words also

    handed me the key.

    Sometimes power

    isn’t in shouting.

    It’s in saying the right thing

    at the right moment—

    and meaning it.

    It’s in knowing

    that what leaves your mouth

    doesn’t disappear.

    It lands.

    And once it lands,

    it grows.

  • Something Beautiful

    Something beautiful

    is happening

    where no one can see it.

    Not in the loud places

    that beg to be noticed,

    not in the moments

    people photograph

    to prove they were happy—

    but in the quiet work

    of a heart

    learning how to stay soft

    after being broken open.

    It’s in the way you breathe now,

    a little slower,

    like you’re no longer

    trying to outrun

    your own life.

    It’s in the small mercies

    you used to ignore—

    morning light

    resting on the floor,

    a song finding you

    at the exact right second,

    the strange relief

    of realizing

    you survived again.

    Nothing dramatic.

    Nothing the world would clap for.

    Just the slow return

    of gentleness

    to places that forgot

    it was allowed to live there.

    And maybe

    that’s what beautiful really is—

    not perfection,

    not happiness

    that never breaks,

    but the quiet decision

    to keep opening your hands

    to the light

    even after

    everything tried

    to teach you

    to close them.

    Something beautiful

    is happening.

    And this time,

    it’s you.

  • Loaded

    Holding to the grip

    of a loaded gun—

    is it protection

    or prophecy?

    My fingers curl

    around the cold promise of control.

    Something solid.

    Something final.

    Something that says

    you won’t hurt me again.

    But control

    can be an illusion

    with teeth.

    Sometimes what feels like safety

    is just fear

    disguised as strength.

    Sometimes what feels like power

    is only pain

    looking for a louder voice.

    Will it save me

    or leave me in the mud?

    Will it guard my heart

    or bury it deeper?

    Because anything held that tightly

    long enough

    starts to shape the hand.

    And I don’t want to become

    the thing

    I’m gripping

    to survive.

    Maybe salvation

    isn’t in the weapon.

    Maybe it’s in loosening

    my fingers—

    choosing to walk away

    before the echo

    decides my future for me.

  • Hanging on Hope

    I don’t hold hope

    like something certain.

    I hold it

    like the edge of a cliff—

    fingers raw,

    arms shaking,

    refusing to let go

    even when the wind

    tries to reason with me.

    Hope isn’t bright.

    It isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t always feel

    like faith.

    Sometimes

    it feels like defiance.

    Like saying

    not yet

    to the dark.

    Like choosing

    one more breath

    when the weight in my chest

    argues otherwise.

    There are days

    it thins to a thread—

    barely visible,

    barely strong enough

    to carry my name.

    But I’ve learned something

    about threads.

    They tangle.

    They knot.

    They hold

    more than they look like they can.

    I am hanging on hope

    not because I’m fearless,

    not because I’m sure,

    but because I’ve seen

    what happens

    when I let go.

    And I am not ready

    to fall back

    into the version of me

    that mistook surrender

    for peace.

    So I grip it—

    this quiet, stubborn thing.

    Even if it frays.

    Even if it burns my palms.

    Even if all I have

    is the smallest whisper

    that tomorrow

    might not feel

    like today.

    Sometimes survival

    isn’t a leap of faith.

    Sometimes

    it’s just

    refusing

    to unclench

    your hands.

  • Stuck

    I’m stuck here—

    in this space between

    who I was

    and who I fought to become.

    And I’m scared.

    Not of falling apart loudly.

    Not of breaking in some obvious way.

    I’m scared of the quiet slide.

    The subtle shift.

    The old voice clearing its throat

    inside my head.

    I remember her.

    The version of me

    that didn’t care

    what burned

    as long as I felt something.

    The one who mistook chaos

    for control.

    Who called self-destruction

    freedom.

    Who wore damage

    like armor.

    I buried her.

    Or maybe I just

    outgrew her.

    But sometimes

    when I feel cornered,

    when life presses too close

    to my ribs,

    I feel her move.

    Not gone.

    Just waiting.

    I don’t want to lose control.

    I don’t want to wake up

    one morning

    recognizing the hunger

    in my own hands again.

    I worked too hard

    to soften.

    Too hard to breathe

    before reacting.

    Too hard to choose quiet

    over fire.

    Being stuck

    is better than being reckless.

    Stillness

    is better than self-sabotage.

    If this is the space

    between breaking

    and becoming—

    then I will stand here.

    Shaking.

    But standing.

    Because the fact

    that I’m afraid

    of going back

    means I already know

    I don’t belong there anymore.

  • Hurt People Hurt People

    They say

    hurt people hurt people

    like it’s a proverb

    you’re supposed to swallow whole—

    like pain is a permission slip

    passed quietly

    from one trembling hand to another.

    As if wounds

    are instructions.

    As if bleeding

    is a language

    that only knows

    how to say

    come closer

    so I can show you

    what it did to me.

    I have been hurt.

    Deeply.

    In places that still echo

    when someone shuts a door too hard.

    But I learned something

    in the dark:

    Pain explains behavior.

    It does not excuse it.

    There is a difference

    between understanding

    and allowing.

    Between empathy

    and self-abandonment.

    Yes—

    hurt people hurt people.

    But healed people

    break the pattern.

    Healed people

    feel the fire rise

    and choose

    not to hand it forward.

    Healed people

    sit with the ache

    instead of building

    a throne out of it.

    I am learning

    that my scars

    are not weapons.

    They are reminders

    of what I survived—

    not what I’m entitled

    to inflict.

    If I bruise you

    because I was bruised,

    then the chain continues.

    If I pause—

    if I breathe—

    if I choose differently—

    then something ancient

    ends with me.

    Maybe that’s the real inheritance:

    not pain,

    but the moment

    someone finally decides

    it stops here.

  • Polished Lies

    Things are not always

    what they seem to be.

    Some truths wear a better disguise,

    polished enough to pass,

    softened just enough

    to be believed.

    Smiles can be rehearsed.

    Silence can mean more than words.

    And what looks like strength

    is sometimes just exhaustion

    standing upright.

    I’ve learned to look past the surface—

    past the shine,

    past the stories people tell

    to survive themselves.

    Because clarity doesn’t announce itself.

    It waits.

    Things are not always what they seem to be,

    and sometimes the real damage

    isn’t what’s visible—

    it’s what’s carefully hidden

    until no one’s left

    to notice.