I won’t call you broken—
not in the way people mean it,
like you’re something
to be written off.
I see you.
Not just the hands that shake,
not just the nights that blur,
not just the stories
people whisper
when you leave the room.
I see the part of you
that keeps waking up
even when it hurts.
The part
that knows this isn’t who you are
but doesn’t know
how to get back
to where you were.
Because it’s not just the substance—
it’s what it quiets,
what it softens,
what it keeps from spilling over
when everything inside you
feels too loud.
You didn’t choose this
the way they think you did.
You chose relief.
You chose a moment
where the noise stopped.
And it stayed longer
than you meant it to.
But listen—
the fact that you’re still here
means something.
The fact that you’re still feeling
anything at all
means it hasn’t taken
everything from you.
I’m not going to tell you
it’s easy.
I’m not going to promise
you’ll wake up one day
and it’s gone.
But I will say this—
you are not beyond
finding your way back.
Not because you haven’t fallen,
not because you’ve been perfect—
but because something in you
hasn’t given up yet.
And sometimes
that small, stubborn part
is enough
to carry you
one step closer
to breathing
without needing
to disappear first.
Through the Fog 