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.
Through the Fog 