Through the Fog

Tag: self-reflection

  • The Things I Carry

    I carry things

    nobody can see.

    Old conversations.

    Unfinished apologies.

    The names of people

    I still think about

    when the world gets quiet.

    I carry the weight

    of who I used to be,

    and the fear

    that maybe I haven’t changed

    as much as I think.

    Some days

    I feel like I’m doing better.

    I wake up.

    Make coffee.

    Answer messages.

    Laugh at something stupid.

    And for a little while,

    life feels almost normal.

    Then something small

    catches me off guard.

    A song.

    A smell.

    A memory

    I didn’t ask for.

    And suddenly

    I’m standing in a version

    of my life

    I thought I’d already left.

    That’s the part

    nobody really explains.

    You can move forward

    and still miss

    what’s behind you.

    You can know

    something was bad for you

    and still grieve

    the good parts.

    You can forgive yourself

    and still wish

    you’d done things differently.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t about becoming

    someone who never hurts.

    Maybe it’s learning

    how to carry the hurt

    without letting it

    make every decision.

    I’m not there yet.

    I still get angry.

    Still overthink.

    Still have days

    when I look at myself

    and wonder

    what the fuck

    I’m doing with my life.

    But I’m trying.

    Not in some beautiful,

    inspirational way.

    Just the ordinary kind.

    Getting up.

    Doing the next thing.

    Choosing not to make

    a bad day

    into a bad life.

    And maybe

    that’s enough for now.

    Maybe I don’t have to

    put everything down

    all at once.

    Maybe I can carry

    what I haven’t healed from

    and still make room

    for something good.

  • Alone

    Photo by Noah Silliman

    I know how to be alone.

    Maybe too well.

    I know how to fill a room

    with noise

    so I don’t notice

    there’s nobody in it.

    How to leave the television on

    just to hear another voice.

    How to stare at my phone

    without actually having

    anyone I want to call.

    I’ve learned

    that loneliness

    isn’t always about

    having no one.

    Sometimes

    it’s lying beside someone

    and feeling miles away.

    Sometimes

    it’s being surrounded

    by people who know your name

    but don’t know

    what’s happening inside you.

    Sometimes

    it’s realizing

    you’ve spent so much time

    making yourself easy

    for everyone else to handle

    that nobody knows

    the difficult parts of you

    at all.

    And maybe that’s why

    being alone hurts differently now.

    Because when everything

    gets quiet,

    there’s no performance.

    No smile to hold up.

    No conversation

    to hide inside.

    Just me.

    And all the things

    I’ve been avoiding.

    The regrets.

    The people I miss

    but shouldn’t reach for.

    The life I thought

    I’d have by now.

    The version of myself

    I keep trying

    to find my way back to.

    Some nights

    the silence feels peaceful.

    Other nights

    it feels like proof

    that everyone eventually leaves.

    I’m still learning

    the difference.

    Still learning

    that solitude

    isn’t rejection.

    That an empty room

    doesn’t mean

    I’m unwanted.

    That being alone

    doesn’t have to mean

    I’ve been abandoned.

    Maybe there is something

    to be found here.

    In the quiet.

    In finally hearing

    my own voice

    without everyone else’s

    mixed into it.

    Maybe I spent so long

    being terrified

    of ending up alone

    that I never considered

    I might need

    to meet myself there.

    So tonight

    I’ll sit with the silence.

    Not pretending

    it doesn’t hurt.

    Not pretending

    I don’t wish

    someone were here.

    Just reminding myself—

    alone

    and unloved

    were never

    the same thing.

  • Wasted Time

    I used to think

    I wasted years.

    On the wrong people.

    The wrong choices.

    The wrong version

    of myself.

    I counted birthdays

    I barely remember.

    Conversations

    that led nowhere.

    Dreams

    I kept postponing

    until they forgot my name.

    I called it

    wasted time.

    But time

    doesn’t disappear.

    It leaves something behind.

    A scar

    that taught me

    where not to bleed.

    A goodbye

    that taught me

    what staying should feel like.

    A mistake

    I stopped repeating.

    Even the years

    I spent lost

    were years

    I learned the sound

    of my own footsteps.

    Would I take them back?

    Some days.

    Some days

    I’d erase entire chapters

    if I could.

    But then I’d lose

    the lessons,

    the strength,

    the quiet understanding

    that came only

    because I lived through them.

    Maybe time

    is only wasted

    if it leaves you unchanged.

    And I didn’t stay

    the same.

    I became someone

    who knows

    that healing

    takes longer

    than hurting.

    That leaving

    can be an act of love.

    That starting over

    isn’t failure—

    it’s faith.

    So maybe

    I didn’t waste my time.

    Maybe I spent it

    becoming someone

    I couldn’t have been

    any other way.

  • Where Is My Mind?

    Where is my mind?

    I swear

    it was here yesterday—

    before the overthinking,

    before the memories

    started rearranging the room,

    before every quiet moment

    became another place

    for my thoughts to wander.

    I search for it

    in unfinished conversations,

    in songs

    I should’ve stopped listening to,

    in old photographs

    that remember

    more than I want them to.

    Maybe I left it

    in a version of my life

    I never got to keep.

    Maybe it’s still sitting

    at a table

    where I thought forever

    meant forever.

    Or maybe

    it’s buried beneath

    every expectation

    I couldn’t live up to,

    every mistake

    I replay

    like changing the ending

    is still an option.

    Some days

    my head feels

    like a house

    with every light on

    and nobody home.

    Every room

    filled with noise,

    every hallway

    echoing

    with questions

    that don’t have answers.

    But every now and then—

    there’s a moment.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet sunrise.

    A laugh

    I didn’t have to force.

    And for a second,

    everything settles.

    The noise steps back.

    The weight

    loosens its grip.

    Maybe my mind

    was never lost.

    Maybe it was just

    buried beneath

    everything

    I never gave myself

    permission

    to put down.

    So I’ll keep looking.

    Not for the person

    I used to be—

    but for the peace

    I’ve been carrying

    inside me all along,

    waiting

    for the noise

    to finally make room.

  • The Version That Stayed

    I’ve met a lot of versions

    of myself.

    The angry one.

    The broken one.

    The one who swore

    they didn’t care anymore.

    The one who drank

    to quiet the noise.

    The one who chased people

    who were already leaving.

    The one who sat awake

    at three in the morning

    wondering how life

    ended up feeling this heavy.

    Some of them

    I barely recognize now.

    Some of them

    still visit when I’m tired.

    But none of them stayed.

    Not completely.

    Because every version of me

    that thought they were finished,

    was wrong.

    Every version

    that believed the pain

    would last forever,

    was wrong too.

    They survived things

    they never should’ve had to.

    And then they became

    someone else.

    That’s the strange thing

    about living.

    You don’t notice

    you’re changing.

    Not day to day.

    Not while you’re in it.

    Then one morning

    you look back

    and realize the person

    who carried all that hurt

    isn’t the same person

    looking through your eyes now.

    The scars came with me.

    The lessons too.

    But the weight—

    some of it finally stayed behind.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe growth

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s realizing

    the strongest version of you

    was the one

    who kept showing up

    long enough

    to become anyone at all.

  • The Day I Stop Counting

    Maybe healing starts

    the day I stop counting.

    Stop counting mistakes.

    Stop counting losses.

    Stop counting the people

    who left.

    Stop keeping score

    against myself.

    Because I’ve spent years

    measuring my life

    by what went wrong.

    The doors that closed.

    The chances I wasted.

    The versions of me

    that didn’t survive

    the way I thought they would.

    And somehow

    the good things

    never seem to count the same.

    The mornings I got up anyway.

    The nights I made it through.

    The times I wanted to quit

    but didn’t.

    Those victories

    always felt too small

    to keep.

    But maybe

    I’ve been looking

    at the wrong ledger.

    Maybe survival

    deserves a tally too.

    Maybe every day

    I stayed

    when it would’ve been easier

    to disappear into myself

    should count for something.

    Maybe every wound

    I carried

    without letting it make me cruel

    should count.

    Maybe every time

    I chose tomorrow

    without knowing

    what it would bring

    should count.

    Because if I measure my life

    only by what I lost,

    I’ll never see

    everything I kept.

    And despite it all—

    I kept going.

    I kept hoping.

    I kept finding reasons

    to stay

    even when I couldn’t name them.

    Maybe that’s the story.

    Not what broke me.

    Not what left.

    But what remained.

    And the day I stop counting

    everything I’ve lost

    might be the day

    I finally see

    how much I’ve survived.

  • The Version I Don’t Show

    There’s a version of me

    I don’t introduce people to.

    Not because I’m ashamed.

    Because explaining them

    would take too long.

    They live behind my smile,

    behind the stories I tell,

    behind every “I’m fine”

    that leaves my mouth

    before I’ve had a chance

    to think about it.

    They know things.

    The weight of regret.

    The sound of a heart breaking

    without making a noise.

    The loneliness

    that can exist

    even when you’re surrounded

    by people who care.

    They remember

    every goodbye

    I pretend doesn’t matter anymore.

    Every disappointment

    I claimed I was over.

    Every night

    I spent staring at the ceiling

    trying to convince myself

    tomorrow would feel different.

    And somehow—

    they’re still here.

    Still carrying pieces of me

    I haven’t figured out

    how to put back together.

    But maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s learning

    to stop abandoning

    the versions of yourself

    that suffered in silence.

    Maybe it’s finally sitting beside them

    instead of running.

    Maybe it’s saying,

    I know you’re tired.

    I know you’ve carried this alone.

    But you don’t have to anymore.

    And maybe that’s where it begins—

    not with fixing,

    not with forgetting,

    but with finally

    coming home

    to yourself.

  • What the Mirror Knows

    The mirror knows things

    I never say out loud.

    It sees me

    before the smile,

    before the practiced answers,

    before I remember

    who I’m supposed to be today.

    It sees the tired.

    The kind sleep

    doesn’t fix.

    The kind that settles

    behind the eyes

    after carrying too much

    for too long.

    Some mornings

    I barely recognize

    the person staring back.

    Not because they’ve changed—

    because I have.

    Piece by piece.

    By heartbreak.

    By regret.

    By all the things

    I survived

    that never completely left.

    And still—

    the mirror keeps showing up.

    Never judging.

    Never looking away.

    Just reflecting the truth

    whether I’m ready for it

    or not.

    The cracks.

    The strength.

    The damage.

    The healing.

    All of it.

    And maybe

    that’s why I keep looking.

    Not to find perfection.

    Not to find

    the person I used to be.

    But to remind myself

    that after everything—

    I’m still here.

    Still standing.

    Still becoming someone

    the mirror

    hasn’t met yet.

  • The Places I Hide

    There are places I hide

    that no one knows about—

    not rooms,

    not addresses,

    not somewhere you could find

    with a map.

    I mean the places

    inside myself.

    The quiet corners

    where I keep old heartbreaks,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of me

    that never learned

    how to let go.

    I visit them more often

    than I should.

    When the night gets long.

    When the house gets quiet.

    When a memory

    catches me off guard

    and suddenly

    I’m years behind myself again.

    That’s the thing about healing—

    people think it’s a straight road.

    It isn’t.

    It’s circling back

    to wounds you thought were closed

    and finding out

    they still know your name.

    It’s carrying ghosts

    without inviting them

    to stay.

    And some days

    I get tired.

    Tired of being strong.

    Tired of rebuilding.

    Tired of learning

    the same lessons

    in different disguises.

    But even then—

    even in the places I hide—

    there’s a part of me

    that keeps the light on.

    A stubborn little thing

    that refuses

    to abandon itself.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe healing

    isn’t about never hiding.

    Maybe it’s about

    finding your way back out

    every single time.

  • Depths

    There are parts of me no one has ever seen,

    places too deep for language,

    too fragile for light.

    I’ve buried pieces of myself there—

    names, faces,

    entire versions of who I used to be.

    Some nights, the silence rises

    like a tide around my ribs.

    It pulls me under memories

    that still know how to breathe without me.

    I’ve learned that healing

    isn’t a clean thing.

    It’s jagged,

    like glass under skin—

    you stop bleeding,

    but you never forget where it cut.

    And yet,

    somehow, in the middle of all this ache,

    something gentle still grows.

    A small, stubborn hope

    that maybe the breaking

    was never meant to destroy me—

    only to show me

    how deep I could love,

    how deeply I could feel,

    and still come back whole.