There are places I hide
that no one knows about—
not rooms,
not addresses,
not somewhere you could find
with a map.
I mean the places
inside myself.
The quiet corners
where I keep old heartbreaks,
old mistakes,
old versions of me
that never learned
how to let go.
I visit them more often
than I should.
When the night gets long.
When the house gets quiet.
When a memory
catches me off guard
and suddenly
I’m years behind myself again.
That’s the thing about healing—
people think it’s a straight road.
It isn’t.
It’s circling back
to wounds you thought were closed
and finding out
they still know your name.
It’s carrying ghosts
without inviting them
to stay.
And some days
I get tired.
Tired of being strong.
Tired of rebuilding.
Tired of learning
the same lessons
in different disguises.
But even then—
even in the places I hide—
there’s a part of me
that keeps the light on.
A stubborn little thing
that refuses
to abandon itself.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe healing
isn’t about never hiding.
Maybe it’s about
finding your way back out
every single time.
Through the Fog 