I think one day
you have to decide
you can’t drown in it anymore.
The sorrow, the memories, the mistakes—
they’ve dragged you under long enough,
teaching you how to hold your breath
instead of how to breathe.
There comes a moment
when your spirit aches for the surface,
for a chance to feel light again,
even if you’re not sure you deserve it.
When the exhaustion becomes louder
than the pain you’ve grown used to,
and something inside you whispers,
“You can’t stay here. Not like this.”
Healing doesn’t happen in an instant.
You rise slowly, shakily,
pushing through the heaviness
that once felt like home.
And with every inch upward,
you learn that surviving is not surrender—
it’s choosing yourself
even when you’re not sure how.
Because you weren’t made
to spend your life underwater.
Somewhere above the surface,
there’s air with your name on it—
and you’re allowed to breathe again.
Through the Fog 