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.
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.
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.
Everyone you meet
has something to teach you—
even the ones who stay a moment,
even the ones who leave too soon.
Some will show you kindness,
soft as sunlight on tired skin.
Some will show you strength,
quiet and unspoken,
the kind born from surviving.
Others will show you pain—
not to break you,
but to uncover the places
you still need to heal.
Some will teach you patience,
some will teach you boundaries,
and a few rare souls
will teach you love
in a way you never knew existed.
Every person is a chapter,
every encounter a line—
and whether you keep them
or let them go,
they shape you
in ways you won’t see
until later.
Everyone you meet
has something to teach you—
and sometimes
the lesson
is simply
who you’re becoming.
I would paint the walls
with every beautiful thing I am
and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —
layered thick,
no clean lines,
no apology for the mess.
Joy smeared beside regret,
love dripping into shame,
gold pressed hard
against the bruised colors
no one likes to look at too long.
I wouldn’t fix the edges.
I wouldn’t soften the truth.
There would be laughter
caught mid-breath,
and grief so old
it’s learned how to sit quietly.
There would be nights
I survived out of spite,
and mornings
I stayed for no good reason at all.
It wouldn’t be pretty.
It would be mine.
A room that says:
this person felt deeply,
broke often,
kept going anyway.
A testament to contradictions —
light bleeding into dark,
dark refusing to erase the light.
If anyone stood there long enough,
they’d see it wasn’t destruction
I was trying to leave behind —
it was proof.
Proof that I was here.
That I contained multitudes.
That even the terrible things
never managed
to erase the beautiful ones.
The universe will never give you peace
in something you were never meant to settle in.
It’s why the wrong places feel heavy,
why the wrong people feel loud,
why your chest tightens
every time you try to force yourself
into a life that doesn’t fit.
Discomfort is direction.
Restlessness is truth.
That ache you feel?
It’s your soul refusing to shrink
just to make a moment feel easier.
You weren’t created for a half-life,
for almost-right,
for good enough.
The universe isn’t punishing you —
it’s pulling you out.
It’s nudging you forward.
It’s reminding you that peace
isn’t found in settling,
it’s found in becoming.
In the early hours of morning,
when the world is barely awake
and the sky is holding its breath,
I find a quiet I can’t touch
at any other time of day.
The air feels softer then—
like it knows my name,
like it recognizes the weight
I carried through the night.
Streetlights hum their sleepy glow,
and shadows stretch long and gentle,
not to scare me,
but to remind me I’m not alone.
My thoughts move slower,
unrushed, unjudged,
wandering the dim edges of dawn
where everything feels honest.
In the early hours of morning,
I’m not trying to be anything—
not brave, not healed,
not whole.
I’m just a heartbeat
listening to the world exhale,
waiting for the sun
to rise over the parts of me
I’m still learning to love.
You can always find me where the skies are blue.
Where the world feels a little lighter,
where the weight on my chest loosens its grip
just long enough for me to breathe like I used to.
I go where the quiet lives.
Where the sun breaks through the clouds
and warms the parts of me I keep hidden.
Where the wind carries my worries
a little farther than I can reach.
If I disappear,
I’m not running—
I’m just searching
for the version of myself
that doesn’t hurt so much.
So if you’re looking for me,
look where the skies open wide,
where the world feels kind,
where the color returns to my soul.
That’s where I go
when I need to remember
that I’m still capable
of something brighter
than the storms I’ve survived.
I don’t know when it happened—
when the heaviness became
its own kind of home.
When the silence tasted strange
unless it carried a little ache.
Some days I wake up light,
breathing easier,
and instead of feeling grateful,
I flinch.
Like joy is a trick
and peace is just the calm
before the next collapse.
I look around for the darkness
the way other people look for keys—
worried I misplaced it,
worried its absence means
something worse is coming.
It’s messed up, I know.
But when you live in the storm long enough,
sunlight feels like danger.
Happiness feels like a costume
you’re afraid to wear too long,
in case someone rips it off
and calls you out for pretending.
I’m trying to relearn myself,
trying to believe that ease
doesn’t mean I’m slipping,
that softness isn’t a symptom,
that feeling okay
doesn’t mean something’s wrong.
But truth is—
sometimes I only feel real
when I’m hurting.
And I’m still figuring out
how to change that
without losing who I am.
You whisper like you know me,
like you built me,
like I wouldn’t be standing here
without you holding my hand.
But listen closely—
I’m not yours anymore.
I hear you in the quiet moments,
trying to slip back into my breath,
telling me you can make it easier,
that you can take the weight off my shoulders.
But you never carried anything
except pieces of me
you stole.
You say you miss me.
I don’t doubt it.
Parasites always miss the body
they drain.
You say I was better with you—
no, I was quieter,
numb,
half-alive,
a shadow of the person
you were killing slowly.
You were never comfort.
You were a cage.
So let me be clear:
I don’t need you
to feel less.
I’m learning how to feel
and still survive.
You can whisper all you want—
but I’m done mistaking your voice
for my own.
This time,
I walk away.
This time,
I choose breath over burning,
light over lies,
life over you.
Through the Fog 