Through the Fog

Tag: healing

  • This Foolish Life I’ve Lived

    This foolish life I’ve lived

    was loud with mistakes,

    heavy with lessons I didn’t want to learn

    until they bruised me into listening.

    I ran toward things that burned,

    called it passion,

    called it freedom,

    anything but fear.

    I loved too hard,

    stayed too long,

    believed in people

    the way you believe in miracles—

    recklessly,

    with my eyes closed.

    I’ve mistaken survival for strength,

    chaos for meaning,

    pain for proof

    that I was alive.

    But even in all that foolishness,

    I was searching—

    for quiet,

    for truth,

    for a reason to soften my grip

    on everything that hurt me.

    Maybe this life wasn’t foolish at all.

    Maybe it was just honest.

    And maybe every wrong turn

    was teaching me

    how to finally choose

    something gentle.

  • Misunderstood Strength

    Strength, we thought,

    was not leaving.

    It was holding the line

    while it cut us.

    It was loyalty without limits.

    It was silence

    that looked like grace.

    Now we know

    strength sometimes sounds like no,

    sometimes looks like distance,

    sometimes feels like grief

    for who we used to be.

  • After the Fact

    Nothing teaches you faster

    than the sentence

    I wouldn’t do that again.

    It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—

    just more aware

    of the cost.

    Awareness isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t brag.

    It just changes how you choose

    when no one is watching.

  • The Ocean, Palm Trees, and Regrets

    The ocean keeps breathing

    like nothing has ever been broken.

    Waves arrive, waves leave,

    each one pretending it isn’t carrying

    someone else’s grief back out to sea.

    I watch them anyway,

    hoping they’ll take something from me

    without asking what it costs.

    Palm trees sway overhead,

    carefree and rooted,

    as if they’ve never questioned

    where they belong.

    They don’t ache for other lives.

    They don’t replay moments

    they should’ve handled differently.

    They just exist—

    and I envy them for that.

    The air is warm,

    salt clinging to my skin,

    sunlight making everything look

    forgiven.

    From a distance,

    this place looks like healing.

    Like peace.

    Like the kind of postcard

    people think fixes you.

    But regrets travel well.

    They pack light.

    They follow you barefoot through sand,

    show up uninvited

    between sips of something cold,

    whispering names

    the ocean can’t drown out.

    I think about the words

    I didn’t say soon enough,

    the moments I let slip

    because I was afraid

    of what choosing would cost me.

    I think about how easy it is

    to mistake beauty for closure,

    movement for growth.

    The ocean keeps rolling in,

    unbothered by my spirals.

    The palm trees keep dancing,

    unaware of the weight

    I’m carrying under calm skin.

    And I stand here—

    sun-soaked, smiling for strangers,

    learning that sometimes regret

    doesn’t mean you chose wrong.

    Sometimes it just means

    you cared deeply,

    and the tide hadn’t turned yet.