Through the Fog

Tag: adult identity crisis

  • Who I Thought I Was

    I’m not who I thought I was,

    and I’m terrified I never will be.

    The image I held of myself—

    steady, certain,

    someone who knew where they were going—

    has slipped through my hands

    like water I couldn’t hold onto.

    I look in the mirror

    and don’t recognize the eyes staring back,

    don’t recognize the heaviness

    or the tired shape of my own hope.

    I keep wondering

    how I drifted so far from the person

    I swore I’d become.

    Was it one small choice?

    A hundred little ones?

    Or the weight I carried

    quietly enough that no one noticed

    how much it changed me?

    I’m not who I thought I was,

    but maybe that’s the truth

    I needed to face—

    that growing hurts,

    that becoming someone new

    often feels like losing

    everything you expected to be.

    And yes, I’m terrified

    I never will be that version of me—

    but there’s a small, trembling part

    that wonders

    if maybe who I’m becoming

    is someone worth meeting, too.

  • A Fucking Liability

    There’s a certain kind of shame

    that comes with getting older

    and realizing

    you still don’t have it figured out.

    Like—

    wasn’t I supposed to be stable by now?

    Grounded?

    Proud of the person staring back at me

    in the mirror?

    Instead—

    some mornings I wake up

    and it feels like I’m just

    a grown child

    wearing adult skin.

    Still making the same mistakes.

    Still learning lessons

    I should’ve mastered

    years ago.

    I’m 35 years old—

    and still a fucking liability.

    Not just to other people—

    to myself.

    And it’s not loud anymore.

    That’s the thing.

    It used to be chaos.

    Reckless.

    Obvious.

    Now?

    It’s quiet.

    It’s forgetting to eat.

    It’s isolating.

    It’s replaying conversations

    like they’re crimes

    I need to confess to.

    It’s sitting in a room

    with my own thoughts

    and realizing

    I don’t know how to turn them off.

    I tell myself—

    “you should be better by now.”

    But “better” feels like a word

    that belongs

    to other people.

    People who figured it out.

    People who don’t wake up

    feeling like they’re already behind

    in a race

    they never signed up for.

    And I’m tired.

    God, I’m tired.

    Tired of surviving.

    Tired of explaining

    why I’m still not okay.

    Why things that look simple

    feel impossible.

    Tired of pretending

    I’m not drowning

    just because

    I learned how to stay quiet

    while it’s happening.

    Because everyone else

    looks like they’re swimming just fine.

    And me?

    I’m just…

    trying not to sink

    in front of them.

    But here’s the part

    I don’t say out loud—

    Somewhere,

    deep under all of this—

    I still want to believe

    I can be more than this.

    That maybe

    “liability”

    doesn’t mean

    worthless.

    Maybe it just means

    unfinished.

    Still in progress.

    Still carrying things

    I never asked to hold.

    Still trying—

    even when I don’t know

    what I’m trying for anymore.

    So yeah—

    I’m 35

    and still a fucking liability.

    But I’m also

    still here.

    And maybe—

    just maybe—

    that counts

    for something.