Through the Fog

Tag: life

  • Experience, Misnamed

    What made us think we were wise—

    was it the way we survived

    without stopping to ask

    what it was costing us?

    We confused endurance with understanding,

    mistook scars for proof,

    called repetition experience

    and believed pain automatically meant growth.

    We spoke with certainty

    before we learned how little we knew.

    Loved like permanence was guaranteed.

    Spent time like it couldn’t betray us.

    We thought being strong meant staying,

    that knowing better would come later,

    that consequences were lessons

    meant for someone else.

    But wisdom didn’t arrive in confidence—

    it came quietly,

    through loss,

    through regret,

    through the ache of realizing

    we would choose differently now.

    Maybe we weren’t wise.

    Maybe we were just brave enough

    to keep going

    without instructions.

  • Getting Clean

    The hardest part of getting clean

    isn’t the cravings.

    It’s the apologies.

    The ones you owe

    to people who loved you

    while you were slowly vanishing.

    The ones you owe

    to past versions of yourself

    you barely recognize anymore.

    It’s learning how to say

    “I’m sorry”

    and not expect relief in return.

    Learning how to say

    “I’m trying”

    when trust still feels fragile

    and unfinished.

    Some apologies are met with grace.

    Some are met with silence.

    Some come back years later

    in quiet moments

    when you finally understand

    the weight of what was broken.

    Getting clean means standing there—

    in the middle of what you ruined—

    with nothing to hide behind.

    Knowing regret can’t undo damage,

    it can only mean you see it now.

    And maybe the bravest apology

    isn’t words at all,

    but staying.

    Doing better.

    Letting time believe you

    before anyone else does.

  • The Weight With No Name

    It’s the shade that arrives without footsteps,

    the presence you feel before you even know it’s there.

    It slips beneath the skin,

    quiet as breath,

    cold as a truth you’ve been avoiding.

    It doesn’t shout.

    It doesn’t rush.

    It settles —

    patient, deliberate —

    like it’s claiming territory it always believed was its own.

    It blurs the edges of everything you thought you understood,

    turning familiar rooms into hollow shapes,

    turning your own thoughts into echoes

    you can’t quite trace back to their source.

    It’s the weight that bends your spine

    even when you’re standing still,

    the chill that lingers in your chest

    long after you try to shake it out.

    It doesn’t threaten.

    It doesn’t need to.

    Its power is in the quiet —

    in the way it convinces you

    that nothing outside it is real,

    that the world beyond its reach

    is fading,

    unreliable,

    distant.

    And you believe it,

    because you’ve been here before.

    Because its voice sounds

    dangerously similar

    to your own.

  • Self Destruction

    I don’t destroy myself loudly.

    There are no explosions,

    no dramatic exits.

    Just a slow erosion—

    choice by choice,

    silence by silence.

    I wear it like a habit.

    Like something familiar

    I reach for when I don’t know

    what else to do with my hands.

    Old patterns feel safer

    than unfamiliar hope.

    I sabotage gently.

    Miss the calls that might save me.

    Stay where I know I’ll be hurt

    because at least it’s predictable.

    Pain I recognize

    feels easier than healing

    I don’t trust.

    I tell myself I’m in control.

    That I could stop anytime.

    That this isn’t destruction,

    it’s coping.

    But the mirror keeps count

    of what I’m losing

    even when I refuse to.

    Some days it looks like recklessness.

    Other days it looks like discipline—

    like denying myself rest,

    joy, softness,

    as if I haven’t earned them yet.

    That’s the trick of it.

    Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.

    Sometimes it convinces you

    you deserve the damage.

    I don’t hate myself—

    that’s the lie people expect.

    I just don’t know

    how to be gentle

    without feeling exposed.

    So I choose what hurts

    before something else can.

    And still, somewhere under the ruin,

    there’s a part of me

    that notices the harm,

    that flinches,

    that wants out.

    That part is quiet.

    But it’s not gone.

  • When the Glass is Empty

    You only smile like that

    when you’re drinkin—

    that loose, half-forgotten grin

    that shows up

    after the edges blur.

    It’s not happiness.

    It’s relief pretending to be joy.

    A borrowed light

    that flickers just long enough

    to make everyone believe you’re okay.

    Your eyes give it away.

    They don’t soften—

    they drift.

    Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

    and left the rest behind to cope.

    I’ve seen that smile disappear

    as fast as it arrives,

    leave you emptier than before,

    like laughter echoing in a room

    no one stays in.

    You wear it well, though.

    Convincing.

    Almost beautiful.

    The kind of smile that makes people think

    the problem is solved.

    But I know better.

    That smile only shows up

    when the ache is muted,

    when the truth is diluted,

    when feeling less

    feels safer

    than feeling everything.

    And when the glass is empty,

    so is the room.

  • Change

    I want to change everything—

    not out of hate for who I was,

    but out of love for who

    I’m finally brave enough

    to become.

    I’m tired of surviving days

    that were meant to be lived.

    Tired of shrinking myself

    to fit places that never felt like home.

    So I’ll start small—

    a thought, a boundary, a choice.

    And one by one,

    the life I’ve been carrying

    will learn how to let me go.

    I don’t need to burn it all down.

    I just need to stop building

    on what was breaking me.

  • Learning to Stay

    I used to look for myself

    in other people’s hands,

    measure my worth

    by how tightly they held on.

    But I am learning—

    slowly, unevenly—

    how to stay

    when the room gets quiet,

    how to sit with my own heart

    without asking it to be smaller.

    I speak to myself now

    the way I once begged others to.

    Gently.

    With patience.

    With the understanding

    that healing isn’t linear

    and neither am I.

    I forgive the versions of me

    that didn’t know better,

    that chose survival over softness,

    that loved fiercely

    without knowing how to be safe.

    I am not perfect,

    but I am present.

    And today,

    that is enough.

    I am learning to be someone

    I don’t have to run from—

    someone I can come home to

    and rest.

  • The World Wouldn’t Stop Turning

    I didn’t move,

    but the world wouldn’t stop turning.

    Time kept its pace

    while I stood still inside myself,

    watching everything pass

    like I wasn’t part of it anymore.

    The sky seemed blue

    or maybe that was just my emotion

    projecting something softer

    onto a day that didn’t earn it.

    Funny how feelings can repaint reality

    and call it truth.

    I tried so hard to be cool about it,

    to play it off like nothing touched me,

    nursing a half-empty bottle

    or is it half full?

    I could never decide

    if I was losing something

    or still clinging to it.

    I drank for the pause,

    for the quiet between thoughts,

    for the moment where I didn’t have to name

    what was breaking underneath my calm.

    The world kept spinning.

    The sky kept pretending.

    And I sat there measuring my life

    in sips and seconds,

    wondering when stillness

    started feeling heavier

    than motion ever did.

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.