Through the Fog

Tag: letting go

  • 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 Weight of Maybe

    Maybe that’s the hardest word

    I know.

    Maybe you loved me.

    Maybe you didn’t.

    Maybe things would’ve worked

    if the timing was different,

    if we were different,

    if life had been kinder.

    Maybe.

    It’s a word

    with no ending.

    A hallway

    that never reaches a door.

    And I’ve spent years there.

    Walking back and forth

    through old conversations,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of events

    trying to find an answer

    hidden somewhere

    inside the wreckage.

    But maybe

    isn’t an answer.

    Maybe

    is the place we go

    when the truth hurts too much.

    The place between acceptance

    and denial.

    The place where hope

    goes when it doesn’t know

    how to die.

    And I’m tired

    of carrying it.

    Tired of giving possibilities

    more power

    than reality.

    Because reality is this—

    some things happened.

    Some things ended.

    Some people left

    without explaining why.

    And no amount of maybe

    will change it.

    So tonight

    I’m setting it down.

    Not because I understand.

    Not because I’m over it.

    But because uncertainty

    is a heavy thing

    to drag through life.

    And I’ve carried it

    long enough.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe—

    for once—

    I don’t need to know.

  • The Things That Stay

    Some things leave.

    People.

    Promises.

    Versions of yourself

    you thought would last forever.

    They slip away quietly,

    without asking permission,

    without caring

    how badly you wanted them to stay.

    I used to chase them.

    Used to run after endings

    like I could change their minds,

    like enough love,

    enough effort,

    enough pain

    could make something remain.

    But loss

    has never listened to bargaining.

    It takes what it takes.

    And eventually

    you get tired

    of chasing ghosts

    through doors

    that only open one way.

    So you stop.

    Not because it hurts less.

    Because you finally understand

    that some things

    aren’t meant to be carried forever.

    Still—

    not everything leaves.

    The lessons stay.

    The scars.

    The songs that remind you

    of who you were.

    The strength you never wanted

    but somehow earned.

    And maybe

    that’s the strange gift of surviving—

    realizing that while life

    takes more than its share,

    it leaves something behind too.

    A wiser heart.

    A deeper soul.

    A quieter understanding

    of what truly matters.

    So let the leaving happen.

    Let the endings end.

    Trust that what belongs to you

    isn’t always the thing that stays—

    sometimes it’s the person

    you become

    after it’s gone.

  • Stuck Between Here and There

    I’ve been living

    stuck between here and there—

    between who I was

    and who I’m trying to become,

    between letting go

    and still looking back.

    Nothing feels settled.

    The past still pulls at me

    like it wants another chance,

    while the future stands distant,

    blurred out

    like something I’m not sure

    I’ll ever reach.

    So I exist in the middle.

    Half-healed.

    Half-hoping.

    Halfway out of places

    that no longer fit me

    but still feel familiar enough

    to miss.

    And maybe

    that’s why it hurts so much—

    because becoming

    isn’t clean.

    It’s uncomfortable.

    Lonely.

    A constant tug-of-war

    between comfort

    and growth.

    Some days

    I want to run backward—

    toward old habits,

    old people,

    old versions of myself

    that at least knew

    what to expect.

    But something in me

    keeps moving forward anyway.

    Even slowly.

    Even scared.

    Because deep down

    I know

    I can’t stay suspended forever.

    Eventually

    I’ll have to choose

    what parts of me

    come with me

    and what parts

    have to be left behind.

    Until then—

    I’ll keep standing

    in this in-between place,

    trying to believe

    that lost

    and becoming

    sometimes look

    exactly the same.

  • I Don’t Blame You

    I don’t blame you—

    that’s the part

    that surprises even me.

    After everything,

    after the quiet ways

    things unraveled

    without ever fully breaking,

    I expected anger

    to be louder.

    Cleaner.

    Something I could hold

    and point to

    and say

    that’s what I feel.

    But it isn’t.

    It’s softer than that.

    More complicated.

    The kind of understanding

    that doesn’t bring relief—

    just a different kind of ache.

    Because I see it now.

    The distance

    you didn’t know how to name.

    The hesitation

    you tried to hide.

    The way you stayed

    just long enough

    to convince both of us

    it might still work.

    You didn’t mean

    to hurt me.

    You just didn’t know

    how to love me

    the way I needed.

    And I didn’t know

    how to ask for less

    without losing myself.

    So we stood there—

    meeting halfway

    in a place

    that was never enough

    for either of us.

    And somehow

    that was worse

    than anything loud.

    No betrayal.

    No explosion.

    Just two people

    trying their best

    and still getting it wrong.

    So no—

    I don’t blame you.

    But I won’t pretend

    it didn’t cost me something.

    Because understanding

    doesn’t erase the damage.

    It just makes it harder

    to hate you for it.

  • I Miss the Idea of You

    Maybe I miss your lovin’—

    or maybe I miss

    who I was

    when it felt like enough.

    It’s hard to tell

    what part of you stayed

    and what part of me

    never really left.

    Because it wasn’t just you—

    it was the way

    everything softened

    when you were near,

    the way the world

    felt less heavy

    for a while.

    Maybe I don’t miss you

    the way I think I do.

    Maybe I miss

    the quiet in my chest

    when I didn’t have to question

    where I stood.

    The way your name

    used to feel certain

    instead of distant,

    instead of something

    I turn over in my mind

    like it might change shape.

    I catch myself sometimes—

    reaching for something

    that isn’t there anymore,

    like memory

    still believes

    it can touch you.

    And maybe

    that’s the truth of it—

    I don’t miss

    what it became.

    I miss

    what it was

    before it broke,

    before it turned

    into something

    I had to let go of.

    So yeah—

    maybe I miss your lovin’.

    Or maybe

    I just miss

    the version of us

    that didn’t know

    it wouldn’t last.

  • If You Were Dead or Still Alive

    If you were dead

    I think I’d know how to grieve you.

    There’d be an ending—

    a line I could point to

    and say

    that’s where you stopped existing

    in my world.

    I’d cry

    in ways that made sense.

    I’d miss you

    in ways people understand.

    There would be flowers.

    Silence.

    A kind of permission

    to let you go.

    But you’re not dead.

    You’re somewhere—

    breathing,

    living a life

    that doesn’t include me.

    And that’s the part

    no one prepares you for.

    How do you mourn

    someone who still wakes up?

    Who still laughs,

    still says your name maybe—

    just not the way they used to?

    You exist

    just far enough away

    to feel unreachable,

    just close enough

    to keep hurting.

    There’s no ceremony

    for this kind of loss.

    No clear ending.

    No final goodbye.

    Just the slow, quiet ache

    of learning

    that someone can be alive

    and still be gone.

  • Whatever Makes You Happy

    Whatever makes you happy—

    even if it isn’t me.

    Even if my name slowly fades

    from the places you once said it softly,

    like it mattered.

    I’ll stand back and watch you choose a life

    that doesn’t include my hands,

    my voice,

    my late-night honesty.

    I’ll pretend it doesn’t bruise

    to see you light up

    in a room I no longer enter.

    I wanted to be the place you rested,

    not the lesson you learned from.

    I wanted to be the reason you stayed,

    not the reason you grew brave enough to leave.

    But wanting has never been the same

    as being enough.

    So I’ll love you in the quiet ways—

    the ways that don’t ask for proof

    or promises.

    I’ll love you like distance loves memory:

    without interruption,

    without reward.

    If happiness finds you somewhere else,

    I won’t chase it down

    and beg it to look like me.

    I’ll swallow the ache,

    fold it neatly into my ribs,

    and call it grace.

    Just know—

    letting you go isn’t easy,

    and it isn’t clean.

    It’s choosing your peace

    over my longing,

    over the version of us

    I carried longer than I should have.

    Whatever makes you happy—

    I hope it holds you gently.

    I hope it sees you the way I did.

    And if you ever wonder

    why I disappeared so quietly,

    it’s because loving you meant knowing

    when to step out of the way.

  • Leave

    Leave—

    before the walls remember my name,

    before the floorboards learn the sound

    of my shaking hands.

    Leave—

    while there’s still a part of me

    that believes I’m worth staying for,

    before the shadows start whispering

    everything I’ve tried to forget.

    I can’t promise I won’t miss you.

    I can’t promise I won’t ache

    in places you never even touched.

    But I won’t ask you to hold on

    to someone who keeps slipping

    through their own fingers.

    So go,

    while the door still opens,

    while the sky outside

    still carries a little color.

    Leave—

    not because I don’t care,

    but because I do.

    And because sometimes

    loving me

    means walking away

    before the darkness drags you down too.

  • The Dying Day

    The day doesn’t end all at once.

    It weakens.

    Light thinning at the edges,

    hours learning how to let go.

    I watch it die quietly—

    no drama,

    no final words—

    just shadows stretching

    like they’re tired too.

    The dying day carries

    everything I didn’t finish:

    conversations I rehearsed,

    apologies I swallowed,

    hope I meant to believe in

    a little harder.

    Night arrives

    like an understanding,

    not cruel,

    just honest about what remains.

    I sit with the dark

    and take inventory—

    what hurt,

    what survived,

    what I’ll try again tomorrow

    if morning is kind.

    The dying day doesn’t judge me.

    It just leaves.

    And somehow,

    that feels like permission

    to rest

    without explaining myself.