Through the Fog

Tag: accountability

  • 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.

  • When Reality Sets In

    In sober living,

    the air was softer.

    Time moved slower,

    like the world agreed

    to lower its voice.

    Everyone spoke the same language—

    triggers, steps, boundaries, hope.

    Pain was expected there.

    Relapses whispered about,

    not shouted.

    No one asked why are you still struggling

    because the answer was obvious:

    you’re human.

    Out here,

    the volume is different.

    Bills don’t care how long it took

    to relearn how to breathe.

    People don’t pause

    because your nervous system is still

    learning how to stand upright.

    The world wants productivity,

    not progress.

    In the bubble,

    healing was the job.

    Out here,

    healing is something you’re supposed to do

    quietly,

    after work,

    without letting it show.

    Out here,

    bars glow like invitations.

    Old streets remember your name.

    Old versions of you

    wait patiently

    in familiar places.

    No one claps when you don’t drink.

    No one sees the war

    that didn’t happen today.

    Sobriety stops being a celebration

    and starts being maintenance.

    And some days,

    that’s the hardest part—

    realizing the safety net is gone,

    but the fear came back.

    Still,

    you wake up.

    You choose it again.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because it feels good.

    But because you remember

    what it cost

    to survive long enough

    to get here.

    The bubble taught you how to live.

    The real world teaches you

    how to keep choosing it

    without applause.

    And maybe that’s what recovery really is—

    staying sober

    when no one is watching,

    when the world is loud,

    and the comfort is gone,

    and you’re still standing.

  • After the Fact

    Nothing teaches you faster

    than the sentence

    I wouldn’t do that again.

    It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—

    just more aware

    of the cost.

    Awareness isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t brag.

    It just changes how you choose

    when no one is watching.