Through the Fog

Tag: self_acceptance

  • Meeting Myself

    I met both the happiest

    and saddest versions of myself last year—

    sometimes in the same breath,

    sometimes in the same night.

    I met the one who laughed freely,

    who believed again without checking the cost,

    who felt light enough

    to imagine a future

    that didn’t scare her.

    And I met the one

    who sat on the floor too long,

    who questioned her worth in silence,

    who carried grief

    like it was part of her anatomy.

    They didn’t recognize each other at first.

    One wanted to stay.

    One wanted to disappear.

    Both were tired of pretending

    they didn’t exist.

    Last year taught me

    that joy and sorrow

    aren’t opposites—

    they’re neighbors.

    They borrow from each other,

    shape each other,

    prove we’re alive in different languages.

    I survived by learning this:

    I don’t have to choose one version

    to be real.

    I can hold them both,

    thank them both,

    and keep moving.

    Because meeting myself—

    all of me—

    was the hardest

    and most honest thing

    I’ve ever done.

  • Hard on Myself

    I’m hard on myself

    in ways no one ever sees.

    I hold myself to standards

    I never asked anyone else to reach,

    carrying expectations

    that feel heavier than my own skin.

    People tell me to be gentle,

    to breathe,

    to give myself grace—

    for grace has been here all along.

    In a heart that remembers everything,

    In a mind that keeps score

    even when no one’s playing.

    I pick myself apart

    before the world ever gets the chance,

    as if hurting myself first

    will soften the blow

    of being human.

    I overthink,

    over-apologize,

    over-analyze every word

    I should’ve said differently.

    Every choice, every stumble

    feels like proof

    that I’m too much

    and not enough

    all at once.

    But I’m trying.

    Trying to loosen the grip,

    to unclench the jaw,

    to stop treating my heart

    like a battlefield.

    Trying to remember that growth

    isn’t supposed to be perfect—

    that healing is messy,

    and learning to love myself

    might look like failure

    before it looks like freedom.

    One day,

    I hope I look back

    and see someone who deserved

    so much more kindness

    than she ever gave herself.

    Until then,

    I’m learning—slowly—

    that softness isn’t weakness,

    and I don’t have to break

    to deserve peace.