Through the Fog

Tag: healing journey

  • Wasted Time

    I used to think

    I wasted years.

    On the wrong people.

    The wrong choices.

    The wrong version

    of myself.

    I counted birthdays

    I barely remember.

    Conversations

    that led nowhere.

    Dreams

    I kept postponing

    until they forgot my name.

    I called it

    wasted time.

    But time

    doesn’t disappear.

    It leaves something behind.

    A scar

    that taught me

    where not to bleed.

    A goodbye

    that taught me

    what staying should feel like.

    A mistake

    I stopped repeating.

    Even the years

    I spent lost

    were years

    I learned the sound

    of my own footsteps.

    Would I take them back?

    Some days.

    Some days

    I’d erase entire chapters

    if I could.

    But then I’d lose

    the lessons,

    the strength,

    the quiet understanding

    that came only

    because I lived through them.

    Maybe time

    is only wasted

    if it leaves you unchanged.

    And I didn’t stay

    the same.

    I became someone

    who knows

    that healing

    takes longer

    than hurting.

    That leaving

    can be an act of love.

    That starting over

    isn’t failure—

    it’s faith.

    So maybe

    I didn’t waste my time.

    Maybe I spent it

    becoming someone

    I couldn’t have been

    any other way.

  • Summer Sun

    The summer sun

    never asks permission.

    It spills across the fields,

    warms cracked sidewalks,

    finds its way

    through half-open curtains

    and into rooms

    that forgot what light

    felt like.

    It doesn’t rush.

    It simply arrives.

    Steady.

    Certain.

    The kind of certainty

    I’ve spent years

    looking for

    in people.

    I used to think

    healing would feel dramatic.

    Like lightning.

    Like fireworks.

    But maybe

    it looks more

    like summer.

    Slow mornings.

    Warm air.

    The smell of fresh-cut grass.

    A breeze that reminds you

    the world keeps turning

    whether you’re ready or not.

    There is something comforting

    about a season

    that doesn’t ask you

    to become anyone else.

    It just invites you

    outside.

    To breathe a little deeper.

    To remember

    that not everything beautiful

    has to fight

    to exist.

    So I stand there

    beneath the summer sun,

    letting it rest

    on all the parts of me

    that spent too long

    hidden in the shade.

    And for one quiet moment,

    I stop searching

    for what comes next.

    Because this warmth,

    this breath,

    this ordinary afternoon—

    is enough.

    Maybe happiness

    isn’t always something

    you chase.

    Maybe sometimes

    it simply finds you

    standing still

    beneath the summer sun.

  • The Version That Stayed

    I’ve met a lot of versions

    of myself.

    The angry one.

    The broken one.

    The one who swore

    they didn’t care anymore.

    The one who drank

    to quiet the noise.

    The one who chased people

    who were already leaving.

    The one who sat awake

    at three in the morning

    wondering how life

    ended up feeling this heavy.

    Some of them

    I barely recognize now.

    Some of them

    still visit when I’m tired.

    But none of them stayed.

    Not completely.

    Because every version of me

    that thought they were finished,

    was wrong.

    Every version

    that believed the pain

    would last forever,

    was wrong too.

    They survived things

    they never should’ve had to.

    And then they became

    someone else.

    That’s the strange thing

    about living.

    You don’t notice

    you’re changing.

    Not day to day.

    Not while you’re in it.

    Then one morning

    you look back

    and realize the person

    who carried all that hurt

    isn’t the same person

    looking through your eyes now.

    The scars came with me.

    The lessons too.

    But the weight—

    some of it finally stayed behind.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe growth

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s realizing

    the strongest version of you

    was the one

    who kept showing up

    long enough

    to become anyone at all.

  • The Things That Almost Broke Me

    There are things

    I don’t talk about anymore.

    Not because they stopped hurting.

    Because I’ve carried them

    for so long

    they’ve become part of me.

    Old heartbreaks.

    Old mistakes.

    The kind of memories

    that show up uninvited

    and sit quietly

    in the corner of your mind.

    I used to fight them.

    Argue with the past.

    Replay every choice

    like I could somehow

    change the ending.

    But grief

    doesn’t negotiate.

    And regret

    has never listened to reason.

    So eventually

    I stopped asking why.

    Stopped demanding answers

    from things

    that were already over.

    And something strange happened.

    The pain didn’t disappear.

    It just lost its voice.

    It stopped being

    the loudest thing

    in the room.

    Now it feels more like

    an old scar.

    Something I notice

    when the weather changes.

    Something that reminds me

    where I’ve been

    without deciding

    where I’m going.

    Maybe that’s healing.

    Not forgetting.

    Not moving on.

    Just reaching a point

    where the things

    that almost broke you

    no longer get to decide

    who you are.

    Because I am more

    than my worst days.

    More than my failures.

    More than every chapter

    I thought would be

    the end of the story.

    And maybe that’s what survival is—

    looking at everything

    that tried to destroy you

    and realizing

    it didn’t.

  • The Long Way Home

    I spent years

    looking for home

    in other people.

    In their words.

    Their promises.

    The way they looked at me

    when I still believed

    I could be saved.

    I thought belonging

    was something you found.

    A place.

    A person.

    A feeling you could hold onto

    long enough

    to stop feeling lost.

    But every road

    led somewhere temporary.

    Every answer

    turned into another question.

    And every time

    I built my life

    around something outside myself,

    it left.

    Or changed.

    Or taught me

    that nothing stays exactly

    the way you need it to.

    So I kept wandering.

    Through heartbreak.

    Through bad decisions.

    Through years

    I barely recognize now.

    And somewhere along the way,

    I realized something.

    Maybe home

    was never a destination.

    Maybe it was learning

    how to sit with myself

    without needing to escape.

    Learning how to forgive

    the person I became

    while trying to survive.

    Learning how to stay

    when every instinct

    told me to run.

    It’s not easy.

    Some days

    I still feel like a stranger

    in my own skin.

    Some days

    the past feels louder

    than the future.

    But less often now.

    Because little by little,

    I’m finding my way back.

    Not to who I was.

    To who I am.

    And after all these years,

    that feels a lot like home.

  • The Day I Stop Counting

    Maybe healing starts

    the day I stop counting.

    Stop counting mistakes.

    Stop counting losses.

    Stop counting the people

    who left.

    Stop keeping score

    against myself.

    Because I’ve spent years

    measuring my life

    by what went wrong.

    The doors that closed.

    The chances I wasted.

    The versions of me

    that didn’t survive

    the way I thought they would.

    And somehow

    the good things

    never seem to count the same.

    The mornings I got up anyway.

    The nights I made it through.

    The times I wanted to quit

    but didn’t.

    Those victories

    always felt too small

    to keep.

    But maybe

    I’ve been looking

    at the wrong ledger.

    Maybe survival

    deserves a tally too.

    Maybe every day

    I stayed

    when it would’ve been easier

    to disappear into myself

    should count for something.

    Maybe every wound

    I carried

    without letting it make me cruel

    should count.

    Maybe every time

    I chose tomorrow

    without knowing

    what it would bring

    should count.

    Because if I measure my life

    only by what I lost,

    I’ll never see

    everything I kept.

    And despite it all—

    I kept going.

    I kept hoping.

    I kept finding reasons

    to stay

    even when I couldn’t name them.

    Maybe that’s the story.

    Not what broke me.

    Not what left.

    But what remained.

    And the day I stop counting

    everything I’ve lost

    might be the day

    I finally see

    how much I’ve survived.

  • The Version I Don’t Show

    There’s a version of me

    I don’t introduce people to.

    Not because I’m ashamed.

    Because explaining them

    would take too long.

    They live behind my smile,

    behind the stories I tell,

    behind every “I’m fine”

    that leaves my mouth

    before I’ve had a chance

    to think about it.

    They know things.

    The weight of regret.

    The sound of a heart breaking

    without making a noise.

    The loneliness

    that can exist

    even when you’re surrounded

    by people who care.

    They remember

    every goodbye

    I pretend doesn’t matter anymore.

    Every disappointment

    I claimed I was over.

    Every night

    I spent staring at the ceiling

    trying to convince myself

    tomorrow would feel different.

    And somehow—

    they’re still here.

    Still carrying pieces of me

    I haven’t figured out

    how to put back together.

    But maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s learning

    to stop abandoning

    the versions of yourself

    that suffered in silence.

    Maybe it’s finally sitting beside them

    instead of running.

    Maybe it’s saying,

    I know you’re tired.

    I know you’ve carried this alone.

    But you don’t have to anymore.

    And maybe that’s where it begins—

    not with fixing,

    not with forgetting,

    but with finally

    coming home

    to yourself.

  • What the Mirror Knows

    The mirror knows things

    I never say out loud.

    It sees me

    before the smile,

    before the practiced answers,

    before I remember

    who I’m supposed to be today.

    It sees the tired.

    The kind sleep

    doesn’t fix.

    The kind that settles

    behind the eyes

    after carrying too much

    for too long.

    Some mornings

    I barely recognize

    the person staring back.

    Not because they’ve changed—

    because I have.

    Piece by piece.

    By heartbreak.

    By regret.

    By all the things

    I survived

    that never completely left.

    And still—

    the mirror keeps showing up.

    Never judging.

    Never looking away.

    Just reflecting the truth

    whether I’m ready for it

    or not.

    The cracks.

    The strength.

    The damage.

    The healing.

    All of it.

    And maybe

    that’s why I keep looking.

    Not to find perfection.

    Not to find

    the person I used to be.

    But to remind myself

    that after everything—

    I’m still here.

    Still standing.

    Still becoming someone

    the mirror

    hasn’t met yet.

  • The Places I Hide

    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.

  • Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

    I exist

    somewhere between healing

    and ruin—

    not fully broken,

    not fully okay,

    just carrying both versions

    of myself

    at the same time.

    One side of me

    wants peace.

    Wants quiet mornings,

    steady hands,

    a mind that doesn’t turn

    every small hurt

    into something catastrophic.

    The other side—

    the one built from survival—

    still waits for things to fall apart.

    Still flinches

    at softness.

    Still searches for exits

    in places

    that haven’t given me

    a reason to run.

    And it’s exhausting

    living like that.

    Wanting to trust life again

    while secretly expecting

    it to disappoint me.

    Wanting love

    without believing

    it stays.

    Wanting to heal

    while holding onto pain

    like it’s proof

    I survived something.

    But maybe healing

    was never meant

    to look graceful.

    Maybe it’s messy.

    Slow.

    Two steps forward

    and one memory

    pulling you backward again.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and choosing

    to keep trying anyway.

    Even when the past

    still echoes.

    Even when the weight

    hasn’t fully lifted.

    Because ruin

    would’ve been giving up.

    And I didn’t.

    Not completely.