I’m lost and losing—
at least that’s what it feels like
when the nights get long
and my thoughts start keeping score.
Counting every mistake.
Every door that closed.
Every person
I couldn’t hold onto.
The tally grows.
And some days
it looks like proof.
Proof that I’m falling behind,
that I missed something important,
that everyone else
got a map
I never received.
But feelings
are convincing liars.
They take a hard season
and call it a hard life.
They take a setback
and call it an ending.
So I sit here
between what’s true
and what hurts.
And the truth is—
I have lost things.
People.
Time.
Pieces of myself
I’m still trying to find.
But losing things
isn’t the same
as being lost forever.
Because even now—
with doubt in my chest
and questions in my head—
I’m still moving.
Still searching.
Still showing up
on days
I’d rather disappear into sleep.
Maybe I’m not losing.
Maybe I’m just
in the middle of something.
The part of the story
that feels like failure
before it makes sense.
And maybe being lost
isn’t proof
that there’s no way forward.
Maybe it’s just proof
that I haven’t found it yet.
Through the Fog 