There are days I wake up already tired.
Before my feet even touch the floor, it feels like I’ve been in battle all night — fighting thoughts that refuse to rest, memories that won’t fade, and voices that whisper I’m not enough.
People talk about “fighting demons” like it’s some poetic metaphor. But there’s nothing poetic about watching yourself slip away while pretending you’re fine. There’s nothing beautiful about surviving on empty, about forcing smiles when your chest feels hollow.
The demons aren’t made of fire and horns. They’re quiet. They’re patient. They look like guilt, grief, self-doubt — they wear the faces of people you loved and the words you wish you could take back.
And some nights, I don’t win.
Some nights, I just lie there, letting the darkness wash over me, telling myself it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not be strong all the time. Fighting doesn’t always mean striking back; sometimes it just means staying here. Breathing through it.
Because the truth is, I’m still here.
Even with the scars. Even when my mind turns against me.
Even when the demons come knocking again — I open the door, look them in the eye, and whisper, “Not tonight.”
Through the Fog 