Through the Fog

Tag: loneliness

  • Missing You

    I didn’t think being away would feel like this —

    like living in a pause.

    The world keeps spinning,

    and I’m somewhere outside of it,

    trying to remember how to breathe again.

    They say this is where healing happens,

    but no one tells you that healing can feel

    a lot like breaking in private.

    Like tearing down the parts of yourself

    you built just to survive.

    I miss you in the quiet moments —

    in the slow mornings when the walls hum softly,

    in the long nights where time forgets how to move.

    It’s not just your voice I miss,

    it’s the way your presence steadied me,

    the way your silence felt like understanding.

    Some days, I want to tell you everything —

    how it hurts to be here,

    how it’s lonely even surrounded by people,

    how I’m learning to sit with the pieces of myself

    I used to keep buried.

    But I know I’m here for a reason.

    I know I have to face the dark before I can find the light again.

    Still, I carry you with me —

    in every small step, every shaky breath,

    every promise that I’ll come back whole.

    Missing you isn’t weakness.

    It’s proof that I’m still capable of love,

    even while learning how to love myself again.

  • Sometimes We’re Broken and We Don’t Know Why

    Sometimes we’re broken

    and we don’t know why—

    there’s no moment to point to,

    no sharp edge we tripped over,

    no memory that explains

    the heaviness we wake up with.

    Some wounds aren’t from events,

    but from seasons.

    From slow storms

    that soaked us through

    before we even realized

    we were standing in the rain.

    Sometimes the sadness

    isn’t loud or dramatic—

    it’s quiet,

    a small tear in the soul

    that widens over time

    until the light slips through

    and we mistake it for emptiness.

    We say we’re fine

    because nothing “bad” happened,

    but our hearts ache anyway,

    caught between the person we were

    and the one we’re trying to become.

    And maybe that’s the truth—

    maybe being broken

    doesn’t always have a reason.

    Maybe sometimes

    the heart just gets tired

    from carrying everything alone.

    But even then,

    even in that quiet unraveling,

    you’re not beyond repair.

    You’re just learning yourself

    in the hardest way—

    piece by fragile piece,

    pain by honest pain.

    And one day,

    the why won’t matter

    as much as the fact

    that you made it through

    without needing an answer.

  • When the Nights Get Heavy

    Dear God, please—

    I’m trying to hold myself together

    with hands that won’t stop shaking.

    The nights get long,

    the thoughts get heavy,

    and the world feels too sharp

    for a heart this soft.

    Dear God, please—

    quiet the noise in my head

    before it swallows the parts of me

    I’m still trying to save.

    I’ve been running from shadows

    that look too much like my past,

    and I’m tired of losing sleep

    to memories that won’t stay buried.

    Dear God, please—

    remind me I’m not alone

    when I’m convinced I am.

    Remind me You see something in me

    I’ve never been brave enough to believe.

    Hold me when I fall apart,

    even if all I bring You

    is the wreckage of another long night.

    Dear God, please—

    don’t let go.

    Not now.

    Not when I’m this close

    to breaking or becoming—

    I don’t even know which anymore.

    Just stay.

    Just guide.

    Just breathe with me

    until I can breathe again.

    Dear God, please.

  • Twice as Hard

    Love is tough—

    it asks you to show up

    even when you’re scared,

    to stay open

    when closing would hurt less.

    Love risks rejection.

    Misunderstanding.

    The quiet fear

    that giving your heart away

    means losing parts of yourself.

    But loneliness—

    loneliness is twice as hard.

    It doesn’t argue with you.

    It doesn’t leave suddenly.

    It just settles in,

    fills the space where voices used to be,

    teaches the walls your name.

    Loneliness makes everything heavier.

    Decisions.

    Nights.

    The sound of your own thoughts

    when there’s no one to interrupt them.

    At least love gives something back—

    warmth,

    connection,

    the chance to be known,

    even if it doesn’t last.

    Loneliness gives nothing.

    It only takes.

    Time.

    Energy.

    The belief that you matter to someone

    outside your own head.

    So yes, love is difficult.

    Messy.

    Risky.

    But loneliness is harder—

    because there’s no one to hold your hand

    through it,

    no one to remind you

    you’re still here,

    still seen,

    still worth choosing.

  • 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.

  • No Place for the Weary

    Photo Credit-Leon-Pascal Jc

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose,

    the table cold,

    the night mean,

    and luck looking at me sideways

    like it knew exactly who I was.

    This ain’t no place

    for the weary kind —

    not for hearts that bruise easy,

    not for hands that shake

    when the stakes get high.

    Out here, pain is currency,

    and everyone’s broke

    before the first drink hits the glass.

    I’ve gambled with ghosts,

    traded my future for a flicker,

    dared the darkness

    to take its best shot.

    And every time,

    the world leans in close

    and whispers through its teeth,

    you sure you’re built for this?

    But I keep rolling,

    keep breathing through the smoke,

    keep standing in rooms

    that were never meant to soften for me.

    Because somewhere in the rubble

    of all I’ve survived,

    there’s a fire that won’t burn out,

    a stubbornness that refuses

    to bow to the night.

    I rolled them 7’s

    with nothing to lose —

    and maybe that’s the trick of it:

    when the world wants you broken,

    staying on your feet

    is the boldest bet you’ll ever make.

  • Rage, Tiredness, and Everything Between

    I don’t even know where to start tonight.

    Everything feels too loud and too heavy, like the whole fucking world is pressing down on my chest and I’m supposed to just breathe through it.

    I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.

    I’m tired of acting like I fit anywhere, like I’m some puzzle piece with a place waiting for me. Most days it feels like I’m forcing myself into corners that were never meant for me.

    There’s this anger inside me I can’t explain—

    anger at the world, at myself, at everything I can’t control.

    It sits under my skin, buzzing, burning, making me want to scream just to hear something break besides me.

    And underneath the anger?

    I think there’s just exhaustion.

    A deep, bone-level tiredness from trying so hard for so long.

    Trying to be okay.

    Trying to care.

    Trying to convince myself I belong somewhere, anywhere.

    Tonight I don’t have answers.

    I don’t have hope or clarity or some neat lesson to wrap around this pain.

    I just have honesty—

    and the honesty is that it hurts.

    And I’m still here, somehow, sitting in it, writing it out because something in me refuses to let this be the final word.

    Maybe tomorrow will feel different.

    Maybe it won’t.

    But right now, this is where I am—

    not pretending, not polished, just me trying to breathe through the weight.

  • Imposter Syndrome

    I walk into rooms

    and wonder how long it’ll take

    before someone realizes

    I don’t belong here.

    My smile feels staged,

    my confidence borrowed,

    my voice a shaky echo

    of someone I wish I were.

    They say I’m strong,

    capable,

    brave—

    but all I hear is the doubt

    scratching at the back of my mind,

    whispering that I’m faking it,

    fooling them,

    lucky more than worthy.

    I carry praise like it’s fragile,

    like it might shatter

    the moment I look at it too closely.

    Every compliment feels like a mistake

    with my name on it.

    And yet—

    I keep showing up,

    heart pounding,

    hands trembling,

    hoping no one sees

    the cracks beneath my skin.

    Maybe I’m not an imposter at all…

    maybe I’m just someone

    who’s been fighting so long

    I forgot what it feels like

    to trust myself.

    Maybe the real fraud

    is the voice that tells me

    I’m not enough.

  • Nothing Left to Fix

    I don’t want to be saved.

    Not tonight.

    Not by hope,

    not by promises that sound like recycled air.

    I’m not broken in a way

    that healing can touch.

    I’m worn down,

    thinned out,

    tired in a way sleep can’t reach.

    People say “keep fighting”

    like the bleeding hasn’t already happened.

    Like there’s some victory in dragging myself

    through another day

    that feels exactly like the last one.

    I don’t want answers.

    I don’t want light.

    I just want the noise in my head

    to stop scraping against my thoughts.

    If numbness is all I get,

    I’ll take it.

    At least it doesn’t hurt

    to feel nothing.

    And maybe someday,

    when the world isn’t this heavy,

    I’ll want more than breathing.

    But tonight—

    I’m just here.

    Not living.

    Not dying.

    Just here.

  • I Wish You Were Here

    I wish you were here—

    not just in memory,

    not in dreams that vanish with the dawn,

    but here, breathing beside me.

    The nights are longer without you.

    The walls remember your laughter,

    but they don’t echo it right anymore.

    I keep reaching for a ghost

    that won’t reach back.

    Some days, I almost hear your voice,

    soft as wind against my skin,

    and I turn too quickly,

    forgetting—

    it’s just the world moving on without you.

    You should’ve seen the sunrise today.

    It broke through the clouds like hope

    pretending to be light.

    I stood there wishing

    you could’ve felt it too.

    I wish you were here—

    not because I need saving,

    but because some moments

    are too heavy to hold alone.