Through the Fog

Tag: Healing in Progress

  • Somewhere After Rock Bottom

    I used to think

    rock bottom

    was a place.

    A single moment.

    A line in the sand

    where everything finally stopped getting worse.

    But I was wrong.

    Rock bottom moves.

    Every time I swore

    I couldn’t fall any farther,

    life found another floor.

    Another lesson.

    Another consequence.

    Another version of myself

    I didn’t recognize.

    And the strange thing is—

    I survived all of them.

    Every bottom

    I thought would bury me.

    Every night

    I thought would be the one

    that finally broke me.

    Every morning

    I didn’t want to face.

    I’m still here.

    Not unchanged.

    Not untouched.

    Not stronger

    in the inspirational way

    people like to talk about.

    Just… still here.

    A little more scarred.

    A little more honest.

    A little less convinced

    that pain is forever.

    Because I’ve learned something

    about darkness.

    It always feels endless

    when you’re standing in it.

    It always convinces you

    there’s nothing beyond it.

    And every single time—

    it’s lying.

    The sun comes up.

    The wound closes.

    The thing that felt impossible

    becomes a memory.

    Not a pleasant one.

    But a memory.

    So if I’m standing

    somewhere after rock bottom now,

    I think that’s enough.

    I don’t need to know

    where the road ends.

    I just need to know

    I’m no longer falling.

    And for today,

    that’s a good place to begin.

  • I’m Lost and Losing

    I’m lost and losing—

    at least that’s what it feels like

    when the nights get long

    and my thoughts start keeping score.

    Counting every mistake.

    Every door that closed.

    Every person

    I couldn’t hold onto.

    The tally grows.

    And some days

    it looks like proof.

    Proof that I’m falling behind,

    that I missed something important,

    that everyone else

    got a map

    I never received.

    But feelings

    are convincing liars.

    They take a hard season

    and call it a hard life.

    They take a setback

    and call it an ending.

    So I sit here

    between what’s true

    and what hurts.

    And the truth is—

    I have lost things.

    People.

    Time.

    Pieces of myself

    I’m still trying to find.

    But losing things

    isn’t the same

    as being lost forever.

    Because even now—

    with doubt in my chest

    and questions in my head—

    I’m still moving.

    Still searching.

    Still showing up

    on days

    I’d rather disappear into sleep.

    Maybe I’m not losing.

    Maybe I’m just

    in the middle of something.

    The part of the story

    that feels like failure

    before it makes sense.

    And maybe being lost

    isn’t proof

    that there’s no way forward.

    Maybe it’s just proof

    that I haven’t found it yet.

  • Stuck Between Here and There

    I’ve been living

    stuck between here and there—

    between who I was

    and who I’m trying to become,

    between letting go

    and still looking back.

    Nothing feels settled.

    The past still pulls at me

    like it wants another chance,

    while the future stands distant,

    blurred out

    like something I’m not sure

    I’ll ever reach.

    So I exist in the middle.

    Half-healed.

    Half-hoping.

    Halfway out of places

    that no longer fit me

    but still feel familiar enough

    to miss.

    And maybe

    that’s why it hurts so much—

    because becoming

    isn’t clean.

    It’s uncomfortable.

    Lonely.

    A constant tug-of-war

    between comfort

    and growth.

    Some days

    I want to run backward—

    toward old habits,

    old people,

    old versions of myself

    that at least knew

    what to expect.

    But something in me

    keeps moving forward anyway.

    Even slowly.

    Even scared.

    Because deep down

    I know

    I can’t stay suspended forever.

    Eventually

    I’ll have to choose

    what parts of me

    come with me

    and what parts

    have to be left behind.

    Until then—

    I’ll keep standing

    in this in-between place,

    trying to believe

    that lost

    and becoming

    sometimes look

    exactly the same.

  • I’ll Be Okay

    I keep telling myself

    I’ll be okay—

    like it’s something

    I can decide

    and not something

    I have to live through first.

    Like saying it enough times

    will turn it into truth

    before I’m ready to believe it.

    Some days

    it almost works.

    I move through the hours

    without falling apart,

    without letting the weight

    pull me under.

    I answer questions,

    smile when I’m supposed to,

    pretend this version of me

    is steady.

    But “almost”

    isn’t the same

    as okay.

    It’s quieter than that—

    a careful balance

    between holding it together

    and feeling it slip.

    And still—

    I don’t give up on it.

    On the idea

    that one day

    those words

    won’t feel borrowed.

    That I won’t have to convince myself

    of something

    I already am.

    Maybe okay

    isn’t a destination.

    Maybe it’s this—

    showing up

    even when I don’t feel right,

    staying

    even when leaving

    would be easier.

    Maybe it’s not about

    feeling whole.

    Maybe it’s about

    not disappearing

    in the process

    of trying to be.

  • To the One Still Fighting

    I won’t call you broken—

    not in the way people mean it,

    like you’re something

    to be written off.

    I see you.

    Not just the hands that shake,

    not just the nights that blur,

    not just the stories

    people whisper

    when you leave the room.

    I see the part of you

    that keeps waking up

    even when it hurts.

    The part

    that knows this isn’t who you are

    but doesn’t know

    how to get back

    to where you were.

    Because it’s not just the substance—

    it’s what it quiets,

    what it softens,

    what it keeps from spilling over

    when everything inside you

    feels too loud.

    You didn’t choose this

    the way they think you did.

    You chose relief.

    You chose a moment

    where the noise stopped.

    And it stayed longer

    than you meant it to.

    But listen—

    the fact that you’re still here

    means something.

    The fact that you’re still feeling

    anything at all

    means it hasn’t taken

    everything from you.

    I’m not going to tell you

    it’s easy.

    I’m not going to promise

    you’ll wake up one day

    and it’s gone.

    But I will say this—

    you are not beyond

    finding your way back.

    Not because you haven’t fallen,

    not because you’ve been perfect—

    but because something in you

    hasn’t given up yet.

    And sometimes

    that small, stubborn part

    is enough

    to carry you

    one step closer

    to breathing

    without needing

    to disappear first.

  • For a Better Day

    Some days, survival is the only goal.

    Not happiness. Not peace. Just getting through the next hour without breaking.

    I tell myself it’s okay to start small — to breathe, to rest, to exist quietly until the storm passes. Healing doesn’t happen all at once; it happens in moments you don’t even notice until later. The days you choose to keep going, even when you don’t know why.

    I’ve learned that not every sunrise feels like a beginning. Some just feel like another chance — to try again, to forgive myself, to believe that one day this weight will feel lighter.

    I don’t know when “better” starts.

    But I’m still here, still fighting for it, even when I don’t see it yet.

    Maybe that’s what faith really is —

    not knowing what tomorrow holds, but trying anyway.

    For a better day.

    For the version of me who still believes there’s something worth reaching for.

  • Stuck

    I’m stuck here—

    in this space between

    who I was

    and who I fought to become.

    And I’m scared.

    Not of falling apart loudly.

    Not of breaking in some obvious way.

    I’m scared of the quiet slide.

    The subtle shift.

    The old voice clearing its throat

    inside my head.

    I remember her.

    The version of me

    that didn’t care

    what burned

    as long as I felt something.

    The one who mistook chaos

    for control.

    Who called self-destruction

    freedom.

    Who wore damage

    like armor.

    I buried her.

    Or maybe I just

    outgrew her.

    But sometimes

    when I feel cornered,

    when life presses too close

    to my ribs,

    I feel her move.

    Not gone.

    Just waiting.

    I don’t want to lose control.

    I don’t want to wake up

    one morning

    recognizing the hunger

    in my own hands again.

    I worked too hard

    to soften.

    Too hard to breathe

    before reacting.

    Too hard to choose quiet

    over fire.

    Being stuck

    is better than being reckless.

    Stillness

    is better than self-sabotage.

    If this is the space

    between breaking

    and becoming—

    then I will stand here.

    Shaking.

    But standing.

    Because the fact

    that I’m afraid

    of going back

    means I already know

    I don’t belong there anymore.