Through the Fog

Tag: finding yourself

  • 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.