Through the Fog

Tag: finding yourself

  • In That Moment

    In that moment,

    I was free.

    Not healed.

    Not saved.

    Not suddenly made whole.

    Just free.

    Free from the noise

    that had followed me

    into every quiet room.

    Free from wondering

    who loved me,

    who was leaving,

    who I had disappointed,

    and who I needed to become

    to make them stay.

    For once,

    I wasn’t trying to survive tomorrow.

    I wasn’t dragging yesterday

    behind me like a body

    I didn’t know how to bury.

    There was only that moment.

    The air in my lungs.

    The ground beneath me.

    My heart beating

    without asking permission

    from anyone else.

    And maybe that’s what freedom was—

    not some beautiful life

    waiting on the other side

    of everything I’d been through.

    Maybe it was simply

    forgetting to be afraid

    for a little while.

    Forgetting the version of me

    I’d spent years apologizing for.

    Forgetting every mistake

    I’d carved into my own name.

    I didn’t belong to my past.

    I didn’t belong to my pain.

    I didn’t belong to anyone

    who had ever convinced me

    that love meant captivity.

    I belonged to myself.

    God,

    I had forgotten

    what that felt like.

    There was no grand revelation.

    No choir of angels.

    No sudden understanding

    of why any of it happened.

    I just existed.

    And for once,

    existing didn’t feel

    like something I had to endure.

    I wanted nothing.

    I owed nothing.

    I was chasing no one.

    I was begging no one

    to choose me.

    I wasn’t standing at the edge

    of somebody else’s life

    hoping they’d make room.

    I had my own.

    Maybe the moment didn’t last.

    Maybe freedom rarely does

    when you’re still learning

    how to live inside it.

    Eventually,

    the noise came back.

    The memories.

    The fear.

    The questions.

    Life reached for me again.

    But it couldn’t take away

    what I had already learned:

    somewhere underneath

    everything that happened to me,

    there is still a woman

    who belongs entirely

    to herself.

    I met her that day.

    Only briefly.

    But I know she’s there now.

    And sometimes

    when everything gets heavy again,

    I close my eyes

    and remember—

    there was a moment

    when nothing owned me.

    Not my past.

    Not my mistakes.

    Not my fear.

    Not another person’s love.

    Nothing.

    In that moment,

    I was free.

  • Somewhere Between

    I always felt like I was

    in between—

    something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Never fully arriving.

    Never fully leaving.

    Just existing

    in the space

    between who I was

    and who I wanted to become.

    I knew the roads.

    I recognized the faces.

    But even in familiar places,

    I carried the feeling

    that I was only passing through.

    Like everyone else

    had roots,

    and I only had directions.

    I spent years

    thinking I was searching

    for a place.

    A city.

    A person.

    A life

    that would finally make me feel

    like I belonged.

    But no matter

    how far I ran,

    I took the distance

    with me.

    Because it wasn’t miles

    I was trying to cross.

    It was something inside me.

    A quiet emptiness

    that kept whispering,

    Almost.

    Not here.

    Keep going.

    So I did.

    Until one day

    I realized

    maybe I wasn’t meant

    to find home.

    Maybe I was meant

    to build it.

    Piece by piece.

    From forgiveness.

    From healing.

    From learning

    to stop running

    from the person

    I kept leaving behind.

    I always felt like I was

    between something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Maybe that’s what becoming feels like.

    Not lost.

    Just traveling

    the long way

    back to yourself.

  • The Long Way Home

    I spent years

    looking for home

    in other people.

    In their words.

    Their promises.

    The way they looked at me

    when I still believed

    I could be saved.

    I thought belonging

    was something you found.

    A place.

    A person.

    A feeling you could hold onto

    long enough

    to stop feeling lost.

    But every road

    led somewhere temporary.

    Every answer

    turned into another question.

    And every time

    I built my life

    around something outside myself,

    it left.

    Or changed.

    Or taught me

    that nothing stays exactly

    the way you need it to.

    So I kept wandering.

    Through heartbreak.

    Through bad decisions.

    Through years

    I barely recognize now.

    And somewhere along the way,

    I realized something.

    Maybe home

    was never a destination.

    Maybe it was learning

    how to sit with myself

    without needing to escape.

    Learning how to forgive

    the person I became

    while trying to survive.

    Learning how to stay

    when every instinct

    told me to run.

    It’s not easy.

    Some days

    I still feel like a stranger

    in my own skin.

    Some days

    the past feels louder

    than the future.

    But less often now.

    Because little by little,

    I’m finding my way back.

    Not to who I was.

    To who I am.

    And after all these years,

    that feels a lot like home.

  • Find My Way Home

    I keep thinking

    home is a place—

    a doorway I’ll recognize,

    a feeling that settles

    the second I step inside.

    But everywhere I go

    feels temporary,

    like I’m passing through

    something that was never

    meant to keep me.

    I’ve chased it in people—

    in the way they said my name,

    in the spaces they made for me,

    in the moments

    I thought I finally belonged.

    But people leave.

    Or change.

    Or become something

    I can’t stay inside of anymore.

    And suddenly

    I’m standing there again—

    hands empty,

    heart full of something

    that doesn’t know where to go.

    So I start over.

    New places.

    New faces.

    New versions of myself

    I hope will finally feel right.

    But the truth is—

    I’ve been looking outward

    for something

    that was never out there.

    Because home

    isn’t a person.

    It isn’t a place

    that can disappear on me.

    It’s something quieter than that.

    Something I have to build

    inside myself—

    piece by piece,

    through every mistake,

    every loss,

    every time I didn’t think

    I’d make it through.

    Maybe finding my way home

    isn’t about arriving.

    Maybe it’s about learning

    to stay

    with myself

    long enough

    to feel like

    I never left.