I want to change everything—
not out of hate for who I was,
but out of love for who
I’m finally brave enough
to become.
I’m tired of surviving days
that were meant to be lived.
Tired of shrinking myself
to fit places that never felt like home.
So I’ll start small—
a thought, a boundary, a choice.
And one by one,
the life I’ve been carrying
will learn how to let me go.
I don’t need to burn it all down.
I just need to stop building
on what was breaking me.
Don’t tell me to soften it.
Don’t tell me to pretty it up.
The darkness in me isn’t gentle
and it sure as hell isn’t poetic.
Some nights the ache gets so loud
I swear my skin hums with it,
buzzing with a restlessness
that wants out,
wants release,
wants something sharp enough
to quiet the storm underneath.
I pace the room like an animal
looking for an escape hatch
from my own ribs.
Every breath burns.
Every thought bruises.
And the only language my pain speaks
is urgency.
I hate that I understand it.
I hate that it calls to me
in a voice that sounds like mine.
I hate the part of me that listens.
But I don’t give in.
I just sit there, shaking,
hands curled into fists,
fighting a battle
no one sees
and no one applauds.
And when the wave finally breaks,
when the urge loosens its grip,
I’m left exhausted,
hollowed out,
alive —
but barely.
Tell me again it’s “just a phase.”
Tell me again to “think positive.”
Tell me again that I’m “strong.”
I’m not strong.
I’m surviving myself
one night at a time.
I think one day
you have to decide
you can’t drown in it anymore.
The sorrow, the memories, the mistakes—
they’ve dragged you under long enough,
teaching you how to hold your breath
instead of how to breathe.
There comes a moment
when your spirit aches for the surface,
for a chance to feel light again,
even if you’re not sure you deserve it.
When the exhaustion becomes louder
than the pain you’ve grown used to,
and something inside you whispers,
“You can’t stay here. Not like this.”
Healing doesn’t happen in an instant.
You rise slowly, shakily,
pushing through the heaviness
that once felt like home.
And with every inch upward,
you learn that surviving is not surrender—
it’s choosing yourself
even when you’re not sure how.
Because you weren’t made
to spend your life underwater.
Somewhere above the surface,
there’s air with your name on it—
and you’re allowed to breathe again.
Through the Fog 