Some days
I carry the weight of everything—
every mistake,
every goodbye,
every version of myself
I wish I could forget.
Not because I want to.
Because it follows me.
In quiet moments.
In songs I didn’t expect.
In the pause
between one thought
and the next.
I tell myself
to put it down.
As if grief
is something you can leave
on a table
and walk away from.
But some things
cling to your hands.
Some memories
learn your shape
so well
they fit inside you
like they were always meant
to live there.
And maybe
that’s what growing older is—
not learning how to forget,
but learning how to carry
what stays.
The regrets.
The losses.
The people
who became stories
instead of futures.
Still—
I keep moving.
Not because the weight
gets lighter.
But because somewhere along the way
I got stronger
than the things
trying to drag me down.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe survival
isn’t the absence of burden—
maybe it’s learning
how to walk forward
with it anyway.
Through the Fog 