Maybe healing starts
the day I stop counting.
Stop counting mistakes.
Stop counting losses.
Stop counting the people
who left.
Stop keeping score
against myself.
Because I’ve spent years
measuring my life
by what went wrong.
The doors that closed.
The chances I wasted.
The versions of me
that didn’t survive
the way I thought they would.
And somehow
the good things
never seem to count the same.
The mornings I got up anyway.
The nights I made it through.
The times I wanted to quit
but didn’t.
Those victories
always felt too small
to keep.
But maybe
I’ve been looking
at the wrong ledger.
Maybe survival
deserves a tally too.
Maybe every day
I stayed
when it would’ve been easier
to disappear into myself
should count for something.
Maybe every wound
I carried
without letting it make me cruel
should count.
Maybe every time
I chose tomorrow
without knowing
what it would bring
should count.
Because if I measure my life
only by what I lost,
I’ll never see
everything I kept.
And despite it all—
I kept going.
I kept hoping.
I kept finding reasons
to stay
even when I couldn’t name them.
Maybe that’s the story.
Not what broke me.
Not what left.
But what remained.
And the day I stop counting
everything I’ve lost
might be the day
I finally see
how much I’ve survived.
Through the Fog 