How much longer
do I have to keep telling myself
it gets better?
How many more nights
do I have to survive
before survival
starts feeling like living?
I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired
sleep fixes.
The kind that settles
in your bones.
The kind that comes from carrying
the same hurt
for so long
it starts feeling
like part of your identity.
People tell you
to keep going.
And I do.
God, I do.
But some days
it feels less like courage
and more like habit.
Like I’m just showing up
because I showed up yesterday.
And the day before that.
And the day before that.
Waiting for something
to finally make sense.
Waiting for the weight
to loosen its grip.
Waiting for life
to feel like something
I’m participating in
instead of enduring.
But maybe
that’s the lie.
Maybe life
was never waiting
on the other side
of my pain.
Maybe it’s been here
the whole time—
buried in small moments
I was too exhausted
to notice.
A deep breath.
A quiet morning.
A conversation that lingered.
A reason to stay
that didn’t feel like enough
until later.
I don’t know.
I don’t have some beautiful answer.
Just this:
I’m still here.
Still asking the question.
And maybe
there’s something hopeful
about that.
Because if I were truly done,
I wouldn’t still be wondering.
I wouldn’t still be looking
for a reason.
So maybe
for tonight,
that’s enough.
Not certainty.
Not happiness.
Just the stubborn possibility
that the story
isn’t over yet.
Through the Fog 