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.
Through the Fog 