Through the Fog

Tag: self-doubt

  • Still Coal

    They say pressure makes diamonds—

    like it’s a promise,

    like if you endure enough

    something beautiful

    is guaranteed.

    Like all this weight

    means something.

    But I’ve been under it—

    the expectations,

    the breaking points,

    the nights that felt like

    they’d cave in on me

    if I breathed too wrong.

    And I’m still here

    feeling like coal.

    Still rough.

    Still dark in places

    I can’t quite polish away.

    Still carrying the marks

    of everything that pressed down

    and didn’t turn me

    into something people admire.

    So what’s the difference?

    Is it time?

    Is it pressure?

    Or is it the way

    some things break

    before they ever get the chance

    to become anything else?

    Because no one talks about that—

    how pressure

    doesn’t always transform.

    Sometimes

    it just weighs.

    Sometimes

    it just leaves you

    exactly where you started—

    only more aware

    of how much you can carry

    without changing at all.

    But maybe—

    maybe being coal

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it means

    I haven’t hardened

    into something unbreakable,

    haven’t lost the parts of me

    that still feel,

    that still bend

    instead of shatter.

    Maybe I’m not finished.

    Not polished.

    Not perfect.

    Not what they promised

    I’d become.

    But still here.

    Still holding

    the same fire

    that made them believe

    in diamonds

    in the first place.

  • A Fucking Liability

    There’s a certain kind of shame

    that comes with getting older

    and realizing

    you still don’t have it figured out.

    Like—

    wasn’t I supposed to be stable by now?

    Grounded?

    Proud of the person staring back at me

    in the mirror?

    Instead—

    some mornings I wake up

    and it feels like I’m just

    a grown child

    wearing adult skin.

    Still making the same mistakes.

    Still learning lessons

    I should’ve mastered

    years ago.

    I’m 35 years old—

    and still a fucking liability.

    Not just to other people—

    to myself.

    And it’s not loud anymore.

    That’s the thing.

    It used to be chaos.

    Reckless.

    Obvious.

    Now?

    It’s quiet.

    It’s forgetting to eat.

    It’s isolating.

    It’s replaying conversations

    like they’re crimes

    I need to confess to.

    It’s sitting in a room

    with my own thoughts

    and realizing

    I don’t know how to turn them off.

    I tell myself—

    “you should be better by now.”

    But “better” feels like a word

    that belongs

    to other people.

    People who figured it out.

    People who don’t wake up

    feeling like they’re already behind

    in a race

    they never signed up for.

    And I’m tired.

    God, I’m tired.

    Tired of surviving.

    Tired of explaining

    why I’m still not okay.

    Why things that look simple

    feel impossible.

    Tired of pretending

    I’m not drowning

    just because

    I learned how to stay quiet

    while it’s happening.

    Because everyone else

    looks like they’re swimming just fine.

    And me?

    I’m just…

    trying not to sink

    in front of them.

    But here’s the part

    I don’t say out loud—

    Somewhere,

    deep under all of this—

    I still want to believe

    I can be more than this.

    That maybe

    “liability”

    doesn’t mean

    worthless.

    Maybe it just means

    unfinished.

    Still in progress.

    Still carrying things

    I never asked to hold.

    Still trying—

    even when I don’t know

    what I’m trying for anymore.

    So yeah—

    I’m 35

    and still a fucking liability.

    But I’m also

    still here.

    And maybe—

    just maybe—

    that counts

    for something.

  • Still Coal

    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.