Through the Fog

Tag: emotional growth

  • Learning to Swim

    At first,

    I thought I was drowning.

    Arms wild,

    lungs burning,

    heart panicking

    at the weight of it all.

    I fought the water—

    kicked against it,

    pushed,

    thrashed

    like survival meant

    winning.

    But water doesn’t fight back.

    It just holds you

    or lets you sink.

    No one told me

    how much of this

    was learning to stop

    fighting what I’m in.

    So I slowed.

    Not all at once—

    just enough

    to notice

    that the surface

    was closer

    than I thought.

    That if I leaned back

    instead of forward,

    if I trusted

    even a little—

    I wouldn’t disappear.

    I wouldn’t fall

    through the bottom

    of something

    that doesn’t have one.

    I’d float.

    Awkward at first.

    Unsteady.

    Unsure

    if I could trust it to last.

    But it held me.

    And maybe

    that’s what this is—

    not learning

    how to escape the water,

    but learning

    how to stay in it

    without losing myself.

    Learning

    that survival

    doesn’t always look like struggle.

    Sometimes

    it looks like surrender—

    like letting something

    carry you

    until you remember

    how to move

    without fear.

  • Find My Way Home

    I keep thinking

    home is a place—

    a doorway I’ll recognize,

    a feeling that settles

    the second I step inside.

    But everywhere I go

    feels temporary,

    like I’m passing through

    something that was never

    meant to keep me.

    I’ve chased it in people—

    in the way they said my name,

    in the spaces they made for me,

    in the moments

    I thought I finally belonged.

    But people leave.

    Or change.

    Or become something

    I can’t stay inside of anymore.

    And suddenly

    I’m standing there again—

    hands empty,

    heart full of something

    that doesn’t know where to go.

    So I start over.

    New places.

    New faces.

    New versions of myself

    I hope will finally feel right.

    But the truth is—

    I’ve been looking outward

    for something

    that was never out there.

    Because home

    isn’t a person.

    It isn’t a place

    that can disappear on me.

    It’s something quieter than that.

    Something I have to build

    inside myself—

    piece by piece,

    through every mistake,

    every loss,

    every time I didn’t think

    I’d make it through.

    Maybe finding my way home

    isn’t about arriving.

    Maybe it’s about learning

    to stay

    with myself

    long enough

    to feel like

    I never left.

  • Get What I Deserve

    I used to think

    getting what I deserve

    meant punishment.

    Like life was keeping score

    in some quiet ledger—

    every mistake inked in permanent,

    every failure waiting

    to be returned to me

    with interest.

    So I braced for it.

    For the fall.

    For the loss.

    For the moment

    everything I touched

    would finally reflect back

    what I believed about myself.

    Not enough.

    Too much.

    Hard to hold.

    Easy to leave.

    I called that honesty.

    I called that accountability.

    But it was just

    familiar cruelty

    wearing my voice.

    Because the truth is—

    I’ve already paid

    for things I didn’t deserve.

    Stayed too long

    where I was shrinking.

    Apologized

    for taking up space.

    Carried weight

    that was never mine.

    And still,

    some part of me

    thought balance meant

    more suffering.

    Like peace

    had to be earned

    through exhaustion.

    But maybe

    getting what I deserve

    isn’t about pain at all.

    Maybe it looks like

    rest without guilt.

    Love without proving.

    Being met

    without begging to be understood.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and not immediately

    putting myself on trial.

    Maybe it’s this—

    learning that I am not a debt

    waiting to be collected.

    And for the first time,

    when I say

    “I want what I deserve,”

    I don’t mean consequences.

    I mean

    something gentle

    finally staying.

  • Nothing But the Best

    I used to take

    whatever was given—

    half-answers,

    half-effort,

    half-love dressed up

    like it was enough.

    I told myself

    it was patience,

    that waiting meant loyalty,

    that settling

    was just another word

    for understanding.

    But I learned—

    the hard way—

    that you can give your whole heart

    to something

    that never planned

    to meet you halfway.

    And it will still take.

    So I stopped.

    Stopped explaining

    why I deserve more.

    Stopped shrinking

    to make room

    for people

    who never made space for me.

    Because love

    isn’t supposed to feel

    like convincing.

    It isn’t supposed to feel

    like earning.

    It shows up.

    It stays.

    It chooses you

    without hesitation.

    And now—

    I don’t want almost.

    I don’t want someday.

    I don’t want potential

    that never turns real.

    I want something steady.

    Something sure.

    Something that doesn’t

    leave me guessing

    where I stand.

    Nothing but the best—

    not because I’m perfect,

    but because I finally learned

    I don’t have to be

    to deserve it.