They say pressure makes diamonds—
like it’s a promise,
like if you endure enough
something beautiful
is guaranteed.
Like all this weight
means something.
But I’ve been under it—
the expectations,
the breaking points,
the nights that felt like
they’d cave in on me
if I breathed too wrong.
And I’m still here
feeling like coal.
Still rough.
Still dark in places
I can’t quite polish away.
Still carrying the marks
of everything that pressed down
and didn’t turn me
into something people admire.
So what’s the difference?
Is it time?
Is it pressure?
Or is it the way
some things break
before they ever get the chance
to become anything else?
Because no one talks about that—
how pressure
doesn’t always transform.
Sometimes
it just weighs.
Sometimes
it just leaves you
exactly where you started—
only more aware
of how much you can carry
without changing at all.
But maybe—
maybe being coal
isn’t failure.
Maybe it means
I haven’t hardened
into something unbreakable,
haven’t lost the parts of me
that still feel,
that still bend
instead of shatter.
Maybe I’m not finished.
Not polished.
Not perfect.
Not what they promised
I’d become.
But still here.
Still holding
the same fire
that made them believe
in diamonds
in the first place.
Through the Fog 