Through the Fog

Tag: personal growth

  • 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 Last Thing I Wanted

    The last thing I wanted

    was another lesson.

    Another reason

    to rebuild myself

    from whatever was left

    after the dust settled.

    I was tired.

    Tired of losing people.

    Tired of losing sleep.

    Tired of waking up

    to the same ache

    wearing a different name.

    I wanted certainty.

    Something I could hold

    without wondering

    when it would leave.

    Something that stayed.

    But life

    has never been generous

    with guarantees.

    It gives you moments.

    People.

    Chances.

    Then asks

    what you learned

    when they were gone.

    And maybe

    that’s why I’m still here—

    not because I mastered

    any of it,

    but because every time

    life knocked me down,

    something stubborn in me

    refused to stay there.

    Even when I wanted to.

    Even when the ground

    felt more familiar

    than standing.

    So here I am.

    Not healed.

    Not finished.

    Not transformed

    into some wiser version

    of myself.

    Just still trying.

    Still carrying hope

    with dirty hands.

    Still believing

    there’s something ahead

    worth walking toward.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe courage

    isn’t feeling strong.

    Maybe it’s taking

    the next step

    when you’re not sure

    you have one left.

  • I’m Lost and Losing

    I’m lost and losing—

    at least that’s what it feels like

    when the nights get long

    and my thoughts start keeping score.

    Counting every mistake.

    Every door that closed.

    Every person

    I couldn’t hold onto.

    The tally grows.

    And some days

    it looks like proof.

    Proof that I’m falling behind,

    that I missed something important,

    that everyone else

    got a map

    I never received.

    But feelings

    are convincing liars.

    They take a hard season

    and call it a hard life.

    They take a setback

    and call it an ending.

    So I sit here

    between what’s true

    and what hurts.

    And the truth is—

    I have lost things.

    People.

    Time.

    Pieces of myself

    I’m still trying to find.

    But losing things

    isn’t the same

    as being lost forever.

    Because even now—

    with doubt in my chest

    and questions in my head—

    I’m still moving.

    Still searching.

    Still showing up

    on days

    I’d rather disappear into sleep.

    Maybe I’m not losing.

    Maybe I’m just

    in the middle of something.

    The part of the story

    that feels like failure

    before it makes sense.

    And maybe being lost

    isn’t proof

    that there’s no way forward.

    Maybe it’s just proof

    that I haven’t found it yet.

  • 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.

  • What the Mirror Knows

    The mirror knows things

    I never say out loud.

    It sees me

    before the smile,

    before the practiced answers,

    before I remember

    who I’m supposed to be today.

    It sees the tired.

    The kind sleep

    doesn’t fix.

    The kind that settles

    behind the eyes

    after carrying too much

    for too long.

    Some mornings

    I barely recognize

    the person staring back.

    Not because they’ve changed—

    because I have.

    Piece by piece.

    By heartbreak.

    By regret.

    By all the things

    I survived

    that never completely left.

    And still—

    the mirror keeps showing up.

    Never judging.

    Never looking away.

    Just reflecting the truth

    whether I’m ready for it

    or not.

    The cracks.

    The strength.

    The damage.

    The healing.

    All of it.

    And maybe

    that’s why I keep looking.

    Not to find perfection.

    Not to find

    the person I used to be.

    But to remind myself

    that after everything—

    I’m still here.

    Still standing.

    Still becoming someone

    the mirror

    hasn’t met yet.

  • 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.

  • Somewhere Between

    I exist

    somewhere between

    letting go

    and holding on.

    Not fully lost,

    not fully found—

    just suspended

    in a moment

    that won’t decide

    what it wants to be.

    I replay things

    I should’ve released,

    hold onto words

    that already faded,

    search for meaning

    in places

    that stopped answering.

    And still—

    there’s a part of me

    that won’t give up.

    A quiet voice

    that says

    this isn’t the end,

    even when everything

    feels like it already passed.

    Maybe I’m not stuck.

    Maybe I’m becoming—

    slowly,

    uncertainly,

    in ways I don’t recognize yet.

    Maybe this in-between

    isn’t something to escape…

    but something

    I have to move through

    to find

    whatever comes next.

  • Who I Thought I Was

    I’m not who I thought I was,

    and I’m terrified I never will be.

    The image I held of myself—

    steady, certain,

    someone who knew where they were going—

    has slipped through my hands

    like water I couldn’t hold onto.

    I look in the mirror

    and don’t recognize the eyes staring back,

    don’t recognize the heaviness

    or the tired shape of my own hope.

    I keep wondering

    how I drifted so far from the person

    I swore I’d become.

    Was it one small choice?

    A hundred little ones?

    Or the weight I carried

    quietly enough that no one noticed

    how much it changed me?

    I’m not who I thought I was,

    but maybe that’s the truth

    I needed to face—

    that growing hurts,

    that becoming someone new

    often feels like losing

    everything you expected to be.

    And yes, I’m terrified

    I never will be that version of me—

    but there’s a small, trembling part

    that wonders

    if maybe who I’m becoming

    is someone worth meeting, too.