Through the Fog

Tag: letting go

  • In That Moment

    In that moment,

    I was free.

    Not healed.

    Not saved.

    Not suddenly made whole.

    Just free.

    Free from the noise

    that had followed me

    into every quiet room.

    Free from wondering

    who loved me,

    who was leaving,

    who I had disappointed,

    and who I needed to become

    to make them stay.

    For once,

    I wasn’t trying to survive tomorrow.

    I wasn’t dragging yesterday

    behind me like a body

    I didn’t know how to bury.

    There was only that moment.

    The air in my lungs.

    The ground beneath me.

    My heart beating

    without asking permission

    from anyone else.

    And maybe that’s what freedom was—

    not some beautiful life

    waiting on the other side

    of everything I’d been through.

    Maybe it was simply

    forgetting to be afraid

    for a little while.

    Forgetting the version of me

    I’d spent years apologizing for.

    Forgetting every mistake

    I’d carved into my own name.

    I didn’t belong to my past.

    I didn’t belong to my pain.

    I didn’t belong to anyone

    who had ever convinced me

    that love meant captivity.

    I belonged to myself.

    God,

    I had forgotten

    what that felt like.

    There was no grand revelation.

    No choir of angels.

    No sudden understanding

    of why any of it happened.

    I just existed.

    And for once,

    existing didn’t feel

    like something I had to endure.

    I wanted nothing.

    I owed nothing.

    I was chasing no one.

    I was begging no one

    to choose me.

    I wasn’t standing at the edge

    of somebody else’s life

    hoping they’d make room.

    I had my own.

    Maybe the moment didn’t last.

    Maybe freedom rarely does

    when you’re still learning

    how to live inside it.

    Eventually,

    the noise came back.

    The memories.

    The fear.

    The questions.

    Life reached for me again.

    But it couldn’t take away

    what I had already learned:

    somewhere underneath

    everything that happened to me,

    there is still a woman

    who belongs entirely

    to herself.

    I met her that day.

    Only briefly.

    But I know she’s there now.

    And sometimes

    when everything gets heavy again,

    I close my eyes

    and remember—

    there was a moment

    when nothing owned me.

    Not my past.

    Not my mistakes.

    Not my fear.

    Not another person’s love.

    Nothing.

    In that moment,

    I was free.

  • I Still Think About You

    I still think about you.

    More than I should.

    Less than I used to.

    I guess that’s progress.

    You show up

    in stupid places—

    songs I didn’t choose,

    roads I’ve driven

    a hundred times,

    the middle of conversations

    that have absolutely

    nothing to do with you.

    And suddenly

    there you are.

    Not really.

    Just the version of you

    my memory refuses

    to throw away.

    Sometimes I wonder

    if you think about me too.

    If my name ever crosses

    your mind unexpectedly.

    If you ever reach

    for your phone

    before remembering

    we don’t do that anymore.

    I hate wondering.

    Because wondering

    is just hope

    wearing clothes

    it thinks I won’t recognize.

    And I recognize it.

    Every fucking time.

    The truth is,

    I don’t even know

    what I want from you anymore.

    I don’t know

    if I’d come back.

    I don’t know

    if I’d answer.

    I don’t know

    if hearing your voice

    would heal something

    or tear open everything

    I’ve worked so hard

    to close.

    I only know

    that I still think about you.

    And maybe that’s allowed.

    Maybe moving on

    doesn’t mean forgetting.

    Maybe someone can matter

    without belonging

    in your life anymore.

    Maybe I can miss you

    without reaching for you.

    Love what happened

    without asking

    for it to happen again.

    Remember you

    without turning the memory

    into an invitation.

    So yes—

    I still think about you.

    Sometimes softly.

    Sometimes angrily.

    Sometimes with an ache

    I can’t quite explain.

    But I don’t mistake

    thinking about you

    for needing you anymore.

    And maybe that’s

    how I know

    I’m finally letting go—

    you still cross my mind,

    but you don’t get

    to take me with you.

  • Save Your Time While It’s Cheap

    Save your time

    while it’s cheap—

    before regret

    puts interest on it.

    Before someday

    becomes five years ago

    and you’re standing there

    wondering how the hell

    you let that much life

    get away from you.

    I spent mine

    like I had an endless supply.

    On people

    who couldn’t decide

    if they wanted me.

    On arguments

    that changed nothing.

    On proving myself

    to people

    who had already decided

    who I was.

    I wasted whole nights

    replaying conversations

    that were over.

    Whole mornings

    recovering from choices

    I knew better than to make.

    Whole years

    waiting for something

    to change

    while doing everything possible

    to stay exactly where I was.

    Time felt cheap then.

    Another weekend.

    Another drink.

    Another chance.

    Another I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

    Tomorrow seemed endless

    until I started noticing

    how many of them

    were behind me.

    That’s the fucking trick.

    You never know

    what your time costs

    while you’re spending it.

    You find out later—

    when someone is gone.

    When the opportunity closes.

    When you finally become ready

    for a life

    that no longer exists.

    And suddenly

    you’d pay anything

    for one ordinary afternoon

    you barely noticed

    while you had it.

    So save your time

    while it’s cheap.

    Spend it

    on people who stay.

    On mornings

    you’ll remember.

    On becoming someone

    you don’t constantly

    need to escape from.

    Say what matters.

    Leave what hurts.

    Love while it’s here.

    Start before you’re ready.

    Because eventually

    time gets expensive.

    And regret

    has never given

    a fucking refund.

  • 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.