Through the Fog

Blog

  • Wildfire

    Maybe it’s just the way

    your heart leans toward comfort—

    toward quiet things,

    easy truths,

    places that don’t feel like risk

    or revelation.

    And that’s all right.

    Not every soul

    is meant to wander into the flames,

    not every pair of hands

    is steady enough

    to hold something burning.

    Some hearts want gentle—

    the kind of calm

    that doesn’t shake their edges,

    the kind of love

    that never asks them

    to grow,

    to change,

    to rise beyond who they were yesterday.

    Some hearts

    weren’t made

    to love a wildfire—

    a woman who loves fiercely,

    breaks honestly,

    and glows even

    in her darkest moments.

    A wildfire is a force—

    unapologetic,

    uncontained,

    the kind of heat

    that leaves you touched forever

    even if you only stood close

    for a moment.

    She doesn’t smolder quietly.

    She burns bright

    because she has to,

    because something in her

    was never meant

    to be small.

    And if you could not stay—

    if the fire felt too much,

    too honest,

    too alive—

    that’s all right.

    Not every story

    is written for the flames.

    But remember this:

    what you left behind

    will still rise,

    still blaze,

    still turn her own scars

    into something golden.

    Because that’s what fire does.

    It survives,

    it transforms,

    it becomes.

  • Sometimes We’re Broken and We Don’t Know Why

    Sometimes we’re broken

    and we don’t know why—

    there’s no moment to point to,

    no sharp edge we tripped over,

    no memory that explains

    the heaviness we wake up with.

    Some wounds aren’t from events,

    but from seasons.

    From slow storms

    that soaked us through

    before we even realized

    we were standing in the rain.

    Sometimes the sadness

    isn’t loud or dramatic—

    it’s quiet,

    a small tear in the soul

    that widens over time

    until the light slips through

    and we mistake it for emptiness.

    We say we’re fine

    because nothing “bad” happened,

    but our hearts ache anyway,

    caught between the person we were

    and the one we’re trying to become.

    And maybe that’s the truth—

    maybe being broken

    doesn’t always have a reason.

    Maybe sometimes

    the heart just gets tired

    from carrying everything alone.

    But even then,

    even in that quiet unraveling,

    you’re not beyond repair.

    You’re just learning yourself

    in the hardest way—

    piece by fragile piece,

    pain by honest pain.

    And one day,

    the why won’t matter

    as much as the fact

    that you made it through

    without needing an answer.

  • Borrowed Happiness

    I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

    where the edges blurred

    and the ache softened just enough

    to feel like relief.

    For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

    the full weight of myself.

    Laughter came easier,

    memories felt kinder,

    and the world loosened its grip.

    In that fog, pain was distant—

    muted, negotiable,

    something I could outrun

    with another swallow,

    another borrowed sense of peace.

    I mistook numbness for healing

    and silence for rest.

    But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

    Clear-headed and heavy,

    left alone with everything

    I tried not to feel.

    The truth waits patiently

    for sobriety,

    for morning light,

    for the moment pretending runs out.

    There’s no romance in the aftermath—

    only the echo of what I avoided

    and the knowing that happiness

    built on escape

    never survives the night.

    I was happy for an hour, yes.

    But misery has a longer memory.

    And now I’m standing in it,

    fully awake,

    trying to learn how to live

    without needing to disappear

    to feel okay.

  • When the Nights Get Heavy

    Dear God, please—

    I’m trying to hold myself together

    with hands that won’t stop shaking.

    The nights get long,

    the thoughts get heavy,

    and the world feels too sharp

    for a heart this soft.

    Dear God, please—

    quiet the noise in my head

    before it swallows the parts of me

    I’m still trying to save.

    I’ve been running from shadows

    that look too much like my past,

    and I’m tired of losing sleep

    to memories that won’t stay buried.

    Dear God, please—

    remind me I’m not alone

    when I’m convinced I am.

    Remind me You see something in me

    I’ve never been brave enough to believe.

    Hold me when I fall apart,

    even if all I bring You

    is the wreckage of another long night.

    Dear God, please—

    don’t let go.

    Not now.

    Not when I’m this close

    to breaking or becoming—

    I don’t even know which anymore.

    Just stay.

    Just guide.

    Just breathe with me

    until I can breathe again.

    Dear God, please.

  • What I’d Leave Behind

    I would paint the walls

    with every beautiful thing I am

    and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —

    layered thick,

    no clean lines,

    no apology for the mess.

    Joy smeared beside regret,

    love dripping into shame,

    gold pressed hard

    against the bruised colors

    no one likes to look at too long.

    I wouldn’t fix the edges.

    I wouldn’t soften the truth.

    There would be laughter

    caught mid-breath,

    and grief so old

    it’s learned how to sit quietly.

    There would be nights

    I survived out of spite,

    and mornings

    I stayed for no good reason at all.

    It wouldn’t be pretty.

    It would be mine.

    A room that says:

    this person felt deeply,

    broke often,

    kept going anyway.

    A testament to contradictions —

    light bleeding into dark,

    dark refusing to erase the light.

    If anyone stood there long enough,

    they’d see it wasn’t destruction

    I was trying to leave behind —

    it was proof.

    Proof that I was here.

    That I contained multitudes.

    That even the terrible things

    never managed

    to erase the beautiful ones.

  • Where We’re Headed

    I’ve thought about you all night—

    in the quiet between hours,

    when the world loosens its grip

    and thoughts stop pretending

    to be small.

    You showed up in fragments:

    the sound of your voice,

    the way your name settles

    in my chest,

    the life we’re slowly walking toward.

    Sleep came and went

    without permission.

    My mind stayed awake,

    circling you like a promise,

    not desperate—

    just sure.

    If you felt a pull in the dark,

    a warmth you couldn’t explain,

    maybe it was me—

    already holding space

    for where we’re going next.

  • Regret is My Constant Companion

    Regret walks beside me

    like a shadow that never learned

    how to leave when the sun comes up.

    It knows my footsteps,

    matches my breathing,

    whispers the names of moments

    I wish I could touch again

    with gentler hands.

    I carry whole conversations

    that never happened,

    apologies folded small

    inside my chest,

    waiting for a door

    that doesn’t exist anymore.

    Sometimes regret is loud—

    a storm of what if

    crashing against the ribs

    until sleep feels impossible.

    Sometimes it is quiet,

    just a chair pulled out

    at the table of memory,

    sitting across from me

    without speaking,

    and somehow saying everything.

    I used to think regret

    was punishment—

    proof that I had ruined

    the only life I was given.

    But maybe regret is only love

    with nowhere left to go.

    Maybe it stays

    because something in me

    still cares enough

    to wish I had chosen

    more gently.

    And if that’s true,

    then regret is not my enemy.

    It is the part of my heart

    that refuses to become careless.

    The part that still believes

    even broken people

    can learn how to hold the world

    without hurting it.

    And maybe one day

    regret will loosen its grip,

    not because the past changed,

    but because I finally did—

    soft enough

    to forgive the person

    who didn’t know

    how to be me yet.

  • This Foolish Life I’ve Lived

    This foolish life I’ve lived

    was loud with mistakes,

    heavy with lessons I didn’t want to learn

    until they bruised me into listening.

    I ran toward things that burned,

    called it passion,

    called it freedom,

    anything but fear.

    I loved too hard,

    stayed too long,

    believed in people

    the way you believe in miracles—

    recklessly,

    with my eyes closed.

    I’ve mistaken survival for strength,

    chaos for meaning,

    pain for proof

    that I was alive.

    But even in all that foolishness,

    I was searching—

    for quiet,

    for truth,

    for a reason to soften my grip

    on everything that hurt me.

    Maybe this life wasn’t foolish at all.

    Maybe it was just honest.

    And maybe every wrong turn

    was teaching me

    how to finally choose

    something gentle.

  • As If We’ve Met Before

    It feels like recognition,

    the way your presence settles into me—

    not rushing,

    not demanding,

    just arriving like it knows my name.

    As if somewhere beyond time,

    we once stood close enough

    to learn the sound of each other’s breath,

    and this moment

    is only the remembering.

    Your words touch places

    I didn’t know were still awake,

    like hands finding hands

    in the dark

    without searching.

    Maybe it’s not a past life.

    Maybe it’s this one,

    finally lining up just right—

    two souls brushing edges,

    sparking softly,

    saying there you are

    without speaking.

    There’s no need to promise anything.

    The warmth is enough.

    The closeness.

    The way the world feels quieter

    when we meet here.

    Some connections don’t ask

    to be kept forever.

    They only ask

    to be felt fully

    while they’re here.

    And this—

    this feels like something

    worth feeling.

  • A Chance

    You gave me a chance

    when they had already decided

    I was done.

    When my mistakes were louder

    than my effort,

    when my name came with footnotes,

    when worth felt conditional

    and temporary.

    They saw my failures

    and stopped there.

    You saw the space after—

    the trying,

    the rebuilding,

    the quiet work no one applauds.

    You didn’t flinch at my history.

    Didn’t ask me to explain

    every scar.

    You just handed me room

    to be more

    than what broke me.

    You believed in a version of me

    I was still learning how to trust.

    You treated me like someone

    becoming—

    not someone ruined.

    And maybe you’ll never know

    how much that mattered.

    How being given a chance

    can feel like oxygen

    when you’ve been holding your breath

    for years.

    You gave me a chance

    when they thought I was worthless—

    and in doing so,

    you reminded me

    I never was.