Through the Fog

Tag: survival mode

  • Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

    I exist

    somewhere between healing

    and ruin—

    not fully broken,

    not fully okay,

    just carrying both versions

    of myself

    at the same time.

    One side of me

    wants peace.

    Wants quiet mornings,

    steady hands,

    a mind that doesn’t turn

    every small hurt

    into something catastrophic.

    The other side—

    the one built from survival—

    still waits for things to fall apart.

    Still flinches

    at softness.

    Still searches for exits

    in places

    that haven’t given me

    a reason to run.

    And it’s exhausting

    living like that.

    Wanting to trust life again

    while secretly expecting

    it to disappoint me.

    Wanting love

    without believing

    it stays.

    Wanting to heal

    while holding onto pain

    like it’s proof

    I survived something.

    But maybe healing

    was never meant

    to look graceful.

    Maybe it’s messy.

    Slow.

    Two steps forward

    and one memory

    pulling you backward again.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and choosing

    to keep trying anyway.

    Even when the past

    still echoes.

    Even when the weight

    hasn’t fully lifted.

    Because ruin

    would’ve been giving up.

    And I didn’t.

    Not completely.

  • Still Here

    Some days

    I move like a question

    no one bothered to answer—

    half-formed,

    half-finished,

    carrying pieces of myself

    that don’t quite fit anymore.

    I’ve tried to outrun it—

    the weight,

    the noise,

    the quiet kind of ache

    that doesn’t scream

    but never really leaves.

    But it follows.

    In the pauses.

    In the way I hesitate

    before saying I’m okay.

    In the way I’ve learned

    to sit with silence

    like it’s something

    I deserve.

    And still—

    I wake up.

    Still—

    I breathe

    even when it feels

    like effort.

    Still—

    some small part of me

    keeps reaching

    for something softer

    than what I’ve known.

    I don’t always believe

    in better.

    But I believe

    in this—

    that I’m still here,

    still standing

    in the middle of it all,

    and maybe

    that means

    something hasn’t given up on me yet.

  • Hanging on Hope

    I don’t hold hope

    like something certain.

    I hold it

    like the edge of a cliff—

    fingers raw,

    arms shaking,

    refusing to let go

    even when the wind

    tries to reason with me.

    Hope isn’t bright.

    It isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t always feel

    like faith.

    Sometimes

    it feels like defiance.

    Like saying

    not yet

    to the dark.

    Like choosing

    one more breath

    when the weight in my chest

    argues otherwise.

    There are days

    it thins to a thread—

    barely visible,

    barely strong enough

    to carry my name.

    But I’ve learned something

    about threads.

    They tangle.

    They knot.

    They hold

    more than they look like they can.

    I am hanging on hope

    not because I’m fearless,

    not because I’m sure,

    but because I’ve seen

    what happens

    when I let go.

    And I am not ready

    to fall back

    into the version of me

    that mistook surrender

    for peace.

    So I grip it—

    this quiet, stubborn thing.

    Even if it frays.

    Even if it burns my palms.

    Even if all I have

    is the smallest whisper

    that tomorrow

    might not feel

    like today.

    Sometimes survival

    isn’t a leap of faith.

    Sometimes

    it’s just

    refusing

    to unclench

    your hands.

  • Running in Place

    I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,

    like one wrong move will collapse

    every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.

    So I lock myself inside my head—

    bolt the doors,

    pace the floors,

    run in place until my lungs burn

    and call it preparation.

    I don’t freeze because I don’t care.

    I freeze because I care too much.

    Because every decision feels loaded,

    every choice feels permanent,

    every step forward feels like a gamble

    I can’t afford to lose.

    My mind turns into a track meet—

    thoughts sprinting,

    worst-case scenarios stretching,

    my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic

    while my life stays exactly where it is.

    I analyze.

    I overthink.

    I tear every option apart

    until nothing feels safe enough to touch.

    I tell myself I’m being careful,

    that caution is wisdom,

    that staying still is strategy.

    But really—

    I’m terrified.

    Terrified of messing it up.

    Terrified of proving every fear right.

    Terrified that trying and failing

    will hurt worse than never trying at all.

    So I run in place.

    Sweat, strain, panic—

    no distance covered.

    Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,

    momentum without movement,

    noise without progress.

    I scream inside my head

    while the world keeps going,

    unaware that I’m fighting a war

    no one can see

    and losing ground by standing still.

    I’m angry at the pressure.

    Angry at myself.

    Angry that wanting something badly

    can paralyze you just as easily

    as not wanting anything at all.

    And maybe the cruelest part

    is knowing this isn’t living—

    it’s containment.

    It’s fear disguised as discipline.

    It’s survival mode

    with nowhere to go.

    I don’t need another plan.

    I don’t need another rehearsal.

    I need the courage to stop running in place

    and accept that movement—

    real movement—

    will always feel dangerous

    to someone who’s been hurt before.

    But I’m so damn tired

    of sprinting nowhere,

    of locking myself away

    from the very life

    I’m trying so hard

    not to lose. 

  • Autopilot

    Photo Credit: Olesya Yemets

    My days keep blurring together,

    nothing is happening,

    but everything is happening.

    I wake up, I move, I breathe—

    do what I’m supposed to do.

    Smile when it’s expected.

    Hold it together long enough

    to get through the day.

    Time feels soft now,

    like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

    Mornings turn into evenings

    before I notice I was even here.

    I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

    Carrying things I don’t know

    how to set down yet.

    Waiting for something to make sense,

    or maybe just waiting

    to feel like me again.

    So the days blur.

    They pass quietly,

    hand in hand,

    like they’re trying to be gentle

    with what I’m surviving.