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.
Through the Fog 