Through the Fog

Tag: emotional pain

  • Sometimes We’re Broken and We Don’t Know Why

    Sometimes we’re broken

    and we don’t know why—

    there’s no moment to point to,

    no sharp edge we tripped over,

    no memory that explains

    the heaviness we wake up with.

    Some wounds aren’t from events,

    but from seasons.

    From slow storms

    that soaked us through

    before we even realized

    we were standing in the rain.

    Sometimes the sadness

    isn’t loud or dramatic—

    it’s quiet,

    a small tear in the soul

    that widens over time

    until the light slips through

    and we mistake it for emptiness.

    We say we’re fine

    because nothing “bad” happened,

    but our hearts ache anyway,

    caught between the person we were

    and the one we’re trying to become.

    And maybe that’s the truth—

    maybe being broken

    doesn’t always have a reason.

    Maybe sometimes

    the heart just gets tired

    from carrying everything alone.

    But even then,

    even in that quiet unraveling,

    you’re not beyond repair.

    You’re just learning yourself

    in the hardest way—

    piece by fragile piece,

    pain by honest pain.

    And one day,

    the why won’t matter

    as much as the fact

    that you made it through

    without needing an answer.

  • Borrowed Happiness

    I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

    where the edges blurred

    and the ache softened just enough

    to feel like relief.

    For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

    the full weight of myself.

    Laughter came easier,

    memories felt kinder,

    and the world loosened its grip.

    In that fog, pain was distant—

    muted, negotiable,

    something I could outrun

    with another swallow,

    another borrowed sense of peace.

    I mistook numbness for healing

    and silence for rest.

    But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

    Clear-headed and heavy,

    left alone with everything

    I tried not to feel.

    The truth waits patiently

    for sobriety,

    for morning light,

    for the moment pretending runs out.

    There’s no romance in the aftermath—

    only the echo of what I avoided

    and the knowing that happiness

    built on escape

    never survives the night.

    I was happy for an hour, yes.

    But misery has a longer memory.

    And now I’m standing in it,

    fully awake,

    trying to learn how to live

    without needing to disappear

    to feel okay.

  • Pain

    Trying to live while in pain

    is a quiet kind of bravery—

    waking up with the same heaviness

    and choosing to move anyway.

    It’s breathing through the ache,

    holding yourself together

    with trembling hands,

    pretending the world isn’t sharp

    even when it cuts.

    It’s walking forward

    with a heartbeat that feels bruised,

    hoping one day the weight will lift,

    hoping one day you’ll feel more alive

    than broken.

    And even when no one sees it,

    every step you take

    is a victory

    you don’t give yourself

    enough credit for.