What made us think we were wise—
was it the way we survived
without stopping to ask
what it was costing us?
We confused endurance with understanding,
mistook scars for proof,
called repetition experience
and believed pain automatically meant growth.
We spoke with certainty
before we learned how little we knew.
Loved like permanence was guaranteed.
Spent time like it couldn’t betray us.
We thought being strong meant staying,
that knowing better would come later,
that consequences were lessons
meant for someone else.
But wisdom didn’t arrive in confidence—
it came quietly,
through loss,
through regret,
through the ache of realizing
we would choose differently now.
Maybe we weren’t wise.
Maybe we were just brave enough
to keep going
without instructions.
Through the Fog 