Through the Fog

Tag: identity

  • Somewhere Between

    I always felt like I was

    in between—

    something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Never fully arriving.

    Never fully leaving.

    Just existing

    in the space

    between who I was

    and who I wanted to become.

    I knew the roads.

    I recognized the faces.

    But even in familiar places,

    I carried the feeling

    that I was only passing through.

    Like everyone else

    had roots,

    and I only had directions.

    I spent years

    thinking I was searching

    for a place.

    A city.

    A person.

    A life

    that would finally make me feel

    like I belonged.

    But no matter

    how far I ran,

    I took the distance

    with me.

    Because it wasn’t miles

    I was trying to cross.

    It was something inside me.

    A quiet emptiness

    that kept whispering,

    Almost.

    Not here.

    Keep going.

    So I did.

    Until one day

    I realized

    maybe I wasn’t meant

    to find home.

    Maybe I was meant

    to build it.

    Piece by piece.

    From forgiveness.

    From healing.

    From learning

    to stop running

    from the person

    I kept leaving behind.

    I always felt like I was

    between something like home

    and somewhere far away.

    Maybe that’s what becoming feels like.

    Not lost.

    Just traveling

    the long way

    back to yourself.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Slow Erosion of Self

    It didn’t happen all at once.

    No single moment

    I could point to and say,

    there—

    that’s where I lost myself.

    It was quieter than that.

    More like water

    touching stone

    day after patient day,

    until the edges

    forgot

    how to be sharp.

    I started letting small things go—

    opinions

    that felt too heavy to defend,

    dreams

    that needed more space

    than the room allowed,

    pieces of laughter

    that sounded wrong

    in the wrong silence.

    Nothing dramatic.

    Nothing anyone would notice.

    Just the slow trade

    of truth for peace,

    of voice for calm,

    of self

    for staying.

    I became easy.

    Agreeable.

    Low-maintenance

    in all the ways

    that make a person

    hard to find again.

    And the strangest part

    was how normal it felt.

    How erosion

    can look like love

    when you’re standing

    inside it.

    Until one day

    I reached for myself

    out of habit—

    and touched

    only absence.

    No anger.

    No clear grief.

    Just a quiet question

    echoing through

    a hollow place:

    When did I disappear?

    I wish I could say

    this is the part

    where everything returns

    bright and certain.

    But truth is slower.

    Healing begins

    not with becoming whole,

    but with noticing

    what’s missing.

    With naming

    the emptiness

    instead of decorating it.

    With the fragile decision

    to believe

    a self can be rebuilt

    from fragments

    no one else

    thought were worth keeping.

    So now

    I gather pieces—

    a boundary here,

    a memory there,

    one honest word

    spoken softly

    into open air.

    It isn’t dramatic.

    It isn’t fast.

    But erosion

    took time.

    And maybe

    returning

    will too.

  • Wildfire

    Maybe it’s just the way

    your heart leans toward comfort—

    toward quiet things,

    easy truths,

    places that don’t feel like risk

    or revelation.

    And that’s all right.

    Not every soul

    is meant to wander into the flames,

    not every pair of hands

    is steady enough

    to hold something burning.

    Some hearts want gentle—

    the kind of calm

    that doesn’t shake their edges,

    the kind of love

    that never asks them

    to grow,

    to change,

    to rise beyond who they were yesterday.

    Some hearts

    weren’t made

    to love a wildfire—

    a woman who loves fiercely,

    breaks honestly,

    and glows even

    in her darkest moments.

    A wildfire is a force—

    unapologetic,

    uncontained,

    the kind of heat

    that leaves you touched forever

    even if you only stood close

    for a moment.

    She doesn’t smolder quietly.

    She burns bright

    because she has to,

    because something in her

    was never meant

    to be small.

    And if you could not stay—

    if the fire felt too much,

    too honest,

    too alive—

    that’s all right.

    Not every story

    is written for the flames.

    But remember this:

    what you left behind

    will still rise,

    still blaze,

    still turn her own scars

    into something golden.

    Because that’s what fire does.

    It survives,

    it transforms,

    it becomes.

  • What I’d Leave Behind

    I would paint the walls

    with every beautiful thing I am

    and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —

    layered thick,

    no clean lines,

    no apology for the mess.

    Joy smeared beside regret,

    love dripping into shame,

    gold pressed hard

    against the bruised colors

    no one likes to look at too long.

    I wouldn’t fix the edges.

    I wouldn’t soften the truth.

    There would be laughter

    caught mid-breath,

    and grief so old

    it’s learned how to sit quietly.

    There would be nights

    I survived out of spite,

    and mornings

    I stayed for no good reason at all.

    It wouldn’t be pretty.

    It would be mine.

    A room that says:

    this person felt deeply,

    broke often,

    kept going anyway.

    A testament to contradictions —

    light bleeding into dark,

    dark refusing to erase the light.

    If anyone stood there long enough,

    they’d see it wasn’t destruction

    I was trying to leave behind —

    it was proof.

    Proof that I was here.

    That I contained multitudes.

    That even the terrible things

    never managed

    to erase the beautiful ones.

  • What Have I Become

    What have I become, my sweetest friend,

    when even your silence sounds like judgment?

    When you look at me

    like I’m something you remember

    but don’t recognize anymore.

    I’m made of aftermath now

    of things that didn’t kill me

    but stayed anyway.

    I learned how to survive by shrinking,

    by numbing the sharp edges

    until nothing cut

    and nothing healed.

    I speak in half-truths.

    I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.

    I carry my worst thoughts

    like contraband

    hidden, heavy, always with me.

    I wasn’t born this hollow.

    I was worn down.

    Sandpapered by time,

    by love that took more than it gave,

    by nights that taught me

    how easy it is to disappear

    without going anywhere.

    If you’re still calling me friend,

    don’t ask me to be better.

    Don’t ask me to go back.

    That person didn’t survive this.

    This is what’s left

    quieter, darker,

    harder to love,

    still breathing

    like that’s supposed to mean something.