I think about you
in the quiet moments—
not the loud ones
where everyone’s watching,
but the in-between
where it’s just me
and the weight of who I am.
I wonder
if this is what you hoped for.
If the person I’m becoming
is someone
you’d recognize with pride
or with worry
you wouldn’t say out loud.
I carry your voice with me—
in the way I second-guess,
in the way I try again,
in the way I don’t quit
even when I want to.
You taught me
how to stand up straight,
how to be kind
even when it’s not returned,
how to hold onto something good
in a world
that doesn’t always give it back.
But you didn’t teach me
how to feel like I’m enough.
So I chase it—
in work,
in love,
in the way I keep pushing
like there’s a version of me
just ahead
that finally gets it right.
I want to make you proud.
Not in the ways people measure—
not in titles or applause—
but in the quiet knowing
that I didn’t give up on myself.
That I kept going
when it got hard.
That I stayed
when it would’ve been easier
to walk away.
And maybe
that’s what you wanted all along—
not perfection,
not some polished version of me—
just someone
who kept trying
to be better
than the person they were
yesterday.
I don’t know
if I’m there yet.
But I’m still trying.
And I hope
that somewhere
in all of this becoming—
that counts.
Through the Fog 