I met both the happiest
and saddest versions of myself last year—
sometimes in the same breath,
sometimes in the same night.
I met the one who laughed freely,
who believed again without checking the cost,
who felt light enough
to imagine a future
that didn’t scare her.
And I met the one
who sat on the floor too long,
who questioned her worth in silence,
who carried grief
like it was part of her anatomy.
They didn’t recognize each other at first.
One wanted to stay.
One wanted to disappear.
Both were tired of pretending
they didn’t exist.
Last year taught me
that joy and sorrow
aren’t opposites—
they’re neighbors.
They borrow from each other,
shape each other,
prove we’re alive in different languages.
I survived by learning this:
I don’t have to choose one version
to be real.
I can hold them both,
thank them both,
and keep moving.
Because meeting myself—
all of me—
was the hardest
and most honest thing
I’ve ever done.
Through the Fog 