Through the Fog

Tag: grief

  • Made for the Grey

    Maybe just maybe I’m not meant for happiness.

    I don’t mean that in a dramatic, attention-seeking way. It’s just… there are people who seem to glide through life with ease — who laugh without effort, who wake up without dread, who find peace in the simplest things. And then there’s me, constantly trying to piece together fragments of myself that never quite fit.

    I’ve spent so long chasing happiness like it’s a finish line — something I could reach if I just worked hard enough, healed deep enough, or loved fully enough. But every time I get close, it slips through my fingers. Maybe happiness was never meant to stay. Maybe it’s supposed to be fleeting, just enough to remind me I’m still human before it fades back into the fog.

    Sometimes I wonder if my life is more about endurance than joy — surviving the weight, carrying the ache, learning to live with the quiet ache of “almost.” Maybe that’s okay. Maybe my story isn’t about finding happiness, but about learning how to exist without it.

    There’s a strange peace in that thought — not comfort, but acceptance. The kind that whispers, you’re still here, and maybe that’s enough.

  • I Called, But There Was No Answer

    I called, but there was no answer—

    just the hollow ring

    of my own hope bouncing back at me.

    The line stayed open,

    silent as an empty room

    where your name still hangs in the air.

    I rehearsed what I would’ve said,

    every apology, every truth,

    but silence swallowed them whole.

    Maybe you were busy living,

    or maybe you were learning

    how to forget the sound of my voice.

    I let the phone fall to my side,

    realizing some distances

    aren’t measured in miles—

    they’re measured in unanswered calls.

  • What Have I Become

    What have I become, my sweetest friend,

    when even your silence sounds like judgment?

    When you look at me

    like I’m something you remember

    but don’t recognize anymore.

    I’m made of aftermath now

    of things that didn’t kill me

    but stayed anyway.

    I learned how to survive by shrinking,

    by numbing the sharp edges

    until nothing cut

    and nothing healed.

    I speak in half-truths.

    I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.

    I carry my worst thoughts

    like contraband

    hidden, heavy, always with me.

    I wasn’t born this hollow.

    I was worn down.

    Sandpapered by time,

    by love that took more than it gave,

    by nights that taught me

    how easy it is to disappear

    without going anywhere.

    If you’re still calling me friend,

    don’t ask me to be better.

    Don’t ask me to go back.

    That person didn’t survive this.

    This is what’s left

    quieter, darker,

    harder to love,

    still breathing

    like that’s supposed to mean something.

  • Misunderstood Strength

    Strength, we thought,

    was not leaving.

    It was holding the line

    while it cut us.

    It was loyalty without limits.

    It was silence

    that looked like grace.

    Now we know

    strength sometimes sounds like no,

    sometimes looks like distance,

    sometimes feels like grief

    for who we used to be.

  • The Ocean, Palm Trees, and Regrets

    The ocean keeps breathing

    like nothing has ever been broken.

    Waves arrive, waves leave,

    each one pretending it isn’t carrying

    someone else’s grief back out to sea.

    I watch them anyway,

    hoping they’ll take something from me

    without asking what it costs.

    Palm trees sway overhead,

    carefree and rooted,

    as if they’ve never questioned

    where they belong.

    They don’t ache for other lives.

    They don’t replay moments

    they should’ve handled differently.

    They just exist—

    and I envy them for that.

    The air is warm,

    salt clinging to my skin,

    sunlight making everything look

    forgiven.

    From a distance,

    this place looks like healing.

    Like peace.

    Like the kind of postcard

    people think fixes you.

    But regrets travel well.

    They pack light.

    They follow you barefoot through sand,

    show up uninvited

    between sips of something cold,

    whispering names

    the ocean can’t drown out.

    I think about the words

    I didn’t say soon enough,

    the moments I let slip

    because I was afraid

    of what choosing would cost me.

    I think about how easy it is

    to mistake beauty for closure,

    movement for growth.

    The ocean keeps rolling in,

    unbothered by my spirals.

    The palm trees keep dancing,

    unaware of the weight

    I’m carrying under calm skin.

    And I stand here—

    sun-soaked, smiling for strangers,

    learning that sometimes regret

    doesn’t mean you chose wrong.

    Sometimes it just means

    you cared deeply,

    and the tide hadn’t turned yet.

  • Resentment, Unfinished

    When resentment rides high

    but emotions won’t grow,

    I feel everything

    and nothing

    in the same breath.

    Anger sharpens its teeth,

    paces my ribs,

    while feeling stays stunted—

    rootbound,

    afraid of the light.

    I want to care louder.

    I want to rage cleaner.

    Instead I exist in this in-between

    where hurt ferments

    but never transforms.

    It’s exhausting—

    carrying so much weight

    with nowhere for it to bloom.

    Just bitterness circling itself,

    calling that motion

    progress.

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.

  • No Place for the Weary

    Photo Credit-Leon-Pascal Jc

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose,

    the table cold,

    the night mean,

    and luck looking at me sideways

    like it knew exactly who I was.

    This ain’t no place

    for the weary kind —

    not for hearts that bruise easy,

    not for hands that shake

    when the stakes get high.

    Out here, pain is currency,

    and everyone’s broke

    before the first drink hits the glass.

    I’ve gambled with ghosts,

    traded my future for a flicker,

    dared the darkness

    to take its best shot.

    And every time,

    the world leans in close

    and whispers through its teeth,

    you sure you’re built for this?

    But I keep rolling,

    keep breathing through the smoke,

    keep standing in rooms

    that were never meant to soften for me.

    Because somewhere in the rubble

    of all I’ve survived,

    there’s a fire that won’t burn out,

    a stubbornness that refuses

    to bow to the night.

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose —

    and maybe that’s the trick of it:

    when the world wants you broken,

    staying on your feet

    is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.

  • Wave of Sorrow

    It hits out of nowhere —

    that wave of sorrow.

    One minute I’m fine,

    the next I’m drowning in feelings

    I didn’t ask for.

    I don’t even know what triggers it.

    A memory.

    A song.

    A thought I didn’t catch in time.

    Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

    All I know is that it comes fast,

    cold and heavy,

    like the ocean pulling me under

    before I can take a breath.

    And I hate that I can’t control it.

    I hate that something so old,

    or so small,

    or so invisible

    can still crash over me

    and leave me standing there soaked in sadness

    for reasons I can’t explain.

    But the wave always passes.

    It always does.

    Even if it leaves me tired,

    or quiet,

    or a little more worn down than before.

    And when it does,

    I remind myself

    that surviving the tide

    still counts as strength.