If pressure makes diamonds,
how the hell am I still coal?
I’ve been buried long enough.
Pressed by expectations,
by grief,
by every version of myself
that was supposed to turn out better.
I’ve held the weight.
Didn’t crack loudly.
Didn’t fall apart in a way
anyone noticed.
I just stayed dark,
compressed,
waiting for something miraculous
to happen.
They say pressure builds strength.
They say suffering refines you.
They say one day
you’ll shine.
But nobody talks about the waiting—
how long it takes,
how quiet it is,
how easy it is to believe
you’re not becoming anything at all.
Maybe I’m not broken.
Maybe I’m just unfinished.
Maybe not all pressure polishes—
some of it just teaches you
how to survive underground.
So if I’m still coal,
it’s not because I failed.
It’s because transformation
doesn’t happen on a schedule,
and not every miracle
glitters right away.
Through the Fog 