Through the Fog

Tag: Healing in Progress

  • 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.