Through the Fog

Tag: breath_of_fresh_air

  • Getting Clean

    The hardest part of getting clean

    isn’t the cravings.

    It’s the apologies.

    The ones you owe

    to people who loved you

    while you were slowly vanishing.

    The ones you owe

    to past versions of yourself

    you barely recognize anymore.

    It’s learning how to say

    “I’m sorry”

    and not expect relief in return.

    Learning how to say

    “I’m trying”

    when trust still feels fragile

    and unfinished.

    Some apologies are met with grace.

    Some are met with silence.

    Some come back years later

    in quiet moments

    when you finally understand

    the weight of what was broken.

    Getting clean means standing there—

    in the middle of what you ruined—

    with nothing to hide behind.

    Knowing regret can’t undo damage,

    it can only mean you see it now.

    And maybe the bravest apology

    isn’t words at all,

    but staying.

    Doing better.

    Letting time believe you

    before anyone else does.

  • Learning to Stay

    I used to look for myself

    in other people’s hands,

    measure my worth

    by how tightly they held on.

    But I am learning—

    slowly, unevenly—

    how to stay

    when the room gets quiet,

    how to sit with my own heart

    without asking it to be smaller.

    I speak to myself now

    the way I once begged others to.

    Gently.

    With patience.

    With the understanding

    that healing isn’t linear

    and neither am I.

    I forgive the versions of me

    that didn’t know better,

    that chose survival over softness,

    that loved fiercely

    without knowing how to be safe.

    I am not perfect,

    but I am present.

    And today,

    that is enough.

    I am learning to be someone

    I don’t have to run from—

    someone I can come home to

    and rest.

  • The Fortress

    Photo Credit: Daniel Mačura

    A fortress built around your heart—

    stone laid from old betrayals,

    walls raised higher with every almost-love

    that taught you not to lean too hard.

    You call it strength.

    I see how lonely it gets up there,

    guarding something that only ever wanted

    to be held.

    I don’t want to tear it down.

    I know those walls saved you once.

    I’d rather sit outside them,

    patient, unarmed,

    hoping one day you’ll open a gate

    and realize not everyone

    came to lay siege.

  • 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.

  • The Day You Choose Yourself

    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.