I’ve burned so many bridges in my life that sometimes I can still smell the smoke. Some were set on fire in anger, some in fear, some in the quiet resignation of knowing I couldn’t stay. I told myself it was survival. I told myself it was the only way forward. But the truth is, even survival leaves scars, and sometimes the flames don’t just destroy the bridge — they leave you stranded on an island of your own making.
When you burn a bridge, people think it’s clean. Dramatic. Final. But it’s never that neat. It’s ashes in your throat. It’s watching the glow fade and realizing you’ve cut yourself off from something you loved. It’s feeling the heat on your back long after you’ve walked away.
I burned bridges with people who tried to save me, with people who loved me, with people who simply saw me too clearly. I burned them because staying meant being seen, and being seen meant being vulnerable, and I wasn’t ready for that. Sometimes I tell myself I had no choice. Sometimes I know that’s a lie.
The problem with burning bridges is that you start to believe you’re safer alone. You convince yourself you don’t need a way back. But there are nights when the silence is loud and the smoke settles and you realize you’ve built a prison out of your own escape routes.
I keep saying I want to change. I keep saying I want connection, healing, love. But the truth is, every time someone reaches out, my first instinct is still to reach for the match.
Burning bridges isn’t freedom. It’s a habit. It’s a sickness. It’s a slow kind of self-destruction dressed up as self-preservation. And one day, if I don’t stop, there won’t be any bridges left to cross.
Through the Fog 