Through the Fog

Tag: self-compassion

  • Not Forever

    I don’t want

    forever

    to come in an orange bottle.

    Don’t want my mornings

    measured in milligrams,

    my stability

    scheduled between refills,

    my future

    printed in tiny pharmacy text

    I can barely read.

    I know what they say—

    that this is help,

    that this is balance,

    that this is how I stay

    safe

    and here.

    And part of me

    is grateful.

    Because I remember

    what life felt like

    before the quiet

    was possible.

    But another part of me

    keeps whispering:

    Is this the only way?

    Will I ever stand

    without the scaffolding?

    Will healing ever mean

    freedom instead of maintenance?

    I don’t want to fight

    the people trying to help me.

    I don’t want to romanticize

    the chaos I survived.

    I just want to believe

    there is a version of living

    where my body

    knows how to be steady

    on its own.

    Where peace

    isn’t borrowed.

    Where calm

    isn’t counted.

    Where staying alive

    doesn’t feel like

    a prescription.

    Maybe forever

    isn’t the point.

    Maybe the point

    is staying

    long enough

    to grow into someone

    who has choices

    I can’t see yet.

    So for now

    I hold two truths

    at the same time—

    I don’t want this

    to be forever.

    And I still want

    to be here

    long enough

    to find out

    what isn’t.

  • Regret is My Constant Companion

    Regret walks beside me

    like a shadow that never learned

    how to leave when the sun comes up.

    It knows my footsteps,

    matches my breathing,

    whispers the names of moments

    I wish I could touch again

    with gentler hands.

    I carry whole conversations

    that never happened,

    apologies folded small

    inside my chest,

    waiting for a door

    that doesn’t exist anymore.

    Sometimes regret is loud—

    a storm of what if

    crashing against the ribs

    until sleep feels impossible.

    Sometimes it is quiet,

    just a chair pulled out

    at the table of memory,

    sitting across from me

    without speaking,

    and somehow saying everything.

    I used to think regret

    was punishment—

    proof that I had ruined

    the only life I was given.

    But maybe regret is only love

    with nowhere left to go.

    Maybe it stays

    because something in me

    still cares enough

    to wish I had chosen

    more gently.

    And if that’s true,

    then regret is not my enemy.

    It is the part of my heart

    that refuses to become careless.

    The part that still believes

    even broken people

    can learn how to hold the world

    without hurting it.

    And maybe one day

    regret will loosen its grip,

    not because the past changed,

    but because I finally did—

    soft enough

    to forgive the person

    who didn’t know

    how to be me yet.

  • Why Is It So Easy to Fuck Up?

    Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I try, I keep finding new ways to mess things up.

    Not on purpose. I don’t wake up thinking, let’s ruin something today.

    It just happens.

    A word lands wrong.

    A feeling shows up before I can stop it.

    A moment where pain speaks faster than logic ever could.

    Why is it so easy to fuck up

    and so hard to forgive yourself?

    Maybe it’s because deep down, I expect perfection — from me, from everyone.

    Like if I get it right this time, I’ll finally be enough.

    But life doesn’t work like that.

    Healing doesn’t either.

    It’s two steps forward, three back,

    and a quiet voice in between saying, try again tomorrow.

    The truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can with what we know.

    Sometimes trauma speaks louder than intention.

    Sometimes old versions of us resurface when we’re tired and scared

    and just trying to make it through the day.

    But fucking up doesn’t mean we’re broken beyond repair.

    It means we’re human —

    still learning,

    still fumbling,

    still reaching for something better.

    So yeah, it’s easy to fuck up.

    But it’s also easy — if you let it be —

    to start over.