Through the Fog

Tag: proud

  • No One Determines Our Worth

    Photo Credit-Aleksey Kuprikov

    No one determines our worth—

    not the ones who doubted us,

    not the ones who left,

    not the ones who tried to shrink us

    into something quieter

    so they could feel louder.

    We are not defined

    by the people who couldn’t see us.

    We are not measured

    by the moments that broke us.

    We are not small

    just because someone else

    was afraid of our size.

    Our worth was carved into us

    long before the world decided

    to name our scars.

    It lives in our survival,

    in our softness,

    in the way we rise again

    even when the ground trembles.

    No one determines our worth—

    we do.

    We rewrite the story,

    we choose the truth,

    we decide who we are

    and who we refuse

    to ever be again.

    And if anyone tries

    to tell you otherwise,

    let them talk.

    Let them underestimate.

    Let them watch you grow

    into everything they swore

    you’d never become.

    Because here’s the secret

    they never wanted us to know:

    our worth is ours.

    Untouched.

    Unbroken.

    Undeniable.

    And we don’t need permission

    to rise.

  • Voice of Addiction

    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.

  • Proud of Me

    I used to wait for someone else

    to tell me I was doing enough—

    like pride only counted

    if it came from outside of me.

    But I’ve lived too many battles

    nobody saw,

    survived nights

    no one clapped for,

    and healed wounds

    that never got applause.

    So now, being proud

    means something different.

    It means I don’t need an audience

    to honor my effort.

    It means I can look in the mirror—

    tired, messy, scarred—

    and say,

    “You didn’t quit.

    That’s worth something.”

    I’m proud of the way I keep breathing

    even when it feels like drowning.

    Proud of the things I had to unlearn

    just to stay alive.

    Proud of the softness I never let the world steal,

    even when it tried.

    Pride, to me,

    isn’t perfection.

    It’s proof.

    Proof that I’m still here,

    still trying,

    still building a life

    I don’t want to escape from.

    And maybe nobody else sees it,

    maybe nobody else says it—

    but I do.

    And that’s enough now.

    That counts.

    I’m proud of me.

    And that’s the first voice I’m choosing to believe.