Through the Fog

Blog

  • Where Is My Mind?

    Where is my mind?

    I swear

    it was here yesterday—

    before the overthinking,

    before the memories

    started rearranging the room,

    before every quiet moment

    became another place

    for my thoughts to wander.

    I search for it

    in unfinished conversations,

    in songs

    I should’ve stopped listening to,

    in old photographs

    that remember

    more than I want them to.

    Maybe I left it

    in a version of my life

    I never got to keep.

    Maybe it’s still sitting

    at a table

    where I thought forever

    meant forever.

    Or maybe

    it’s buried beneath

    every expectation

    I couldn’t live up to,

    every mistake

    I replay

    like changing the ending

    is still an option.

    Some days

    my head feels

    like a house

    with every light on

    and nobody home.

    Every room

    filled with noise,

    every hallway

    echoing

    with questions

    that don’t have answers.

    But every now and then—

    there’s a moment.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet sunrise.

    A laugh

    I didn’t have to force.

    And for a second,

    everything settles.

    The noise steps back.

    The weight

    loosens its grip.

    Maybe my mind

    was never lost.

    Maybe it was just

    buried beneath

    everything

    I never gave myself

    permission

    to put down.

    So I’ll keep looking.

    Not for the person

    I used to be—

    but for the peace

    I’ve been carrying

    inside me all along,

    waiting

    for the noise

    to finally make room.

  • The Version That Stayed

    I’ve met a lot of versions

    of myself.

    The angry one.

    The broken one.

    The one who swore

    they didn’t care anymore.

    The one who drank

    to quiet the noise.

    The one who chased people

    who were already leaving.

    The one who sat awake

    at three in the morning

    wondering how life

    ended up feeling this heavy.

    Some of them

    I barely recognize now.

    Some of them

    still visit when I’m tired.

    But none of them stayed.

    Not completely.

    Because every version of me

    that thought they were finished,

    was wrong.

    Every version

    that believed the pain

    would last forever,

    was wrong too.

    They survived things

    they never should’ve had to.

    And then they became

    someone else.

    That’s the strange thing

    about living.

    You don’t notice

    you’re changing.

    Not day to day.

    Not while you’re in it.

    Then one morning

    you look back

    and realize the person

    who carried all that hurt

    isn’t the same person

    looking through your eyes now.

    The scars came with me.

    The lessons too.

    But the weight—

    some of it finally stayed behind.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe growth

    isn’t becoming someone new.

    Maybe it’s realizing

    the strongest version of you

    was the one

    who kept showing up

    long enough

    to become anyone at all.

  • The Things That Almost Broke Me

    There are things

    I don’t talk about anymore.

    Not because they stopped hurting.

    Because I’ve carried them

    for so long

    they’ve become part of me.

    Old heartbreaks.

    Old mistakes.

    The kind of memories

    that show up uninvited

    and sit quietly

    in the corner of your mind.

    I used to fight them.

    Argue with the past.

    Replay every choice

    like I could somehow

    change the ending.

    But grief

    doesn’t negotiate.

    And regret

    has never listened to reason.

    So eventually

    I stopped asking why.

    Stopped demanding answers

    from things

    that were already over.

    And something strange happened.

    The pain didn’t disappear.

    It just lost its voice.

    It stopped being

    the loudest thing

    in the room.

    Now it feels more like

    an old scar.

    Something I notice

    when the weather changes.

    Something that reminds me

    where I’ve been

    without deciding

    where I’m going.

    Maybe that’s healing.

    Not forgetting.

    Not moving on.

    Just reaching a point

    where the things

    that almost broke you

    no longer get to decide

    who you are.

    Because I am more

    than my worst days.

    More than my failures.

    More than every chapter

    I thought would be

    the end of the story.

    And maybe that’s what survival is—

    looking at everything

    that tried to destroy you

    and realizing

    it didn’t.

  • The Long Way Home

    I spent years

    looking for home

    in other people.

    In their words.

    Their promises.

    The way they looked at me

    when I still believed

    I could be saved.

    I thought belonging

    was something you found.

    A place.

    A person.

    A feeling you could hold onto

    long enough

    to stop feeling lost.

    But every road

    led somewhere temporary.

    Every answer

    turned into another question.

    And every time

    I built my life

    around something outside myself,

    it left.

    Or changed.

    Or taught me

    that nothing stays exactly

    the way you need it to.

    So I kept wandering.

    Through heartbreak.

    Through bad decisions.

    Through years

    I barely recognize now.

    And somewhere along the way,

    I realized something.

    Maybe home

    was never a destination.

    Maybe it was learning

    how to sit with myself

    without needing to escape.

    Learning how to forgive

    the person I became

    while trying to survive.

    Learning how to stay

    when every instinct

    told me to run.

    It’s not easy.

    Some days

    I still feel like a stranger

    in my own skin.

    Some days

    the past feels louder

    than the future.

    But less often now.

    Because little by little,

    I’m finding my way back.

    Not to who I was.

    To who I am.

    And after all these years,

    that feels a lot like home.

  • Somewhere After Rock Bottom

    I used to think

    rock bottom

    was a place.

    A single moment.

    A line in the sand

    where everything finally stopped getting worse.

    But I was wrong.

    Rock bottom moves.

    Every time I swore

    I couldn’t fall any farther,

    life found another floor.

    Another lesson.

    Another consequence.

    Another version of myself

    I didn’t recognize.

    And the strange thing is—

    I survived all of them.

    Every bottom

    I thought would bury me.

    Every night

    I thought would be the one

    that finally broke me.

    Every morning

    I didn’t want to face.

    I’m still here.

    Not unchanged.

    Not untouched.

    Not stronger

    in the inspirational way

    people like to talk about.

    Just… still here.

    A little more scarred.

    A little more honest.

    A little less convinced

    that pain is forever.

    Because I’ve learned something

    about darkness.

    It always feels endless

    when you’re standing in it.

    It always convinces you

    there’s nothing beyond it.

    And every single time—

    it’s lying.

    The sun comes up.

    The wound closes.

    The thing that felt impossible

    becomes a memory.

    Not a pleasant one.

    But a memory.

    So if I’m standing

    somewhere after rock bottom now,

    I think that’s enough.

    I don’t need to know

    where the road ends.

    I just need to know

    I’m no longer falling.

    And for today,

    that’s a good place to begin.

  • The Day I Stop Counting

    Maybe healing starts

    the day I stop counting.

    Stop counting mistakes.

    Stop counting losses.

    Stop counting the people

    who left.

    Stop keeping score

    against myself.

    Because I’ve spent years

    measuring my life

    by what went wrong.

    The doors that closed.

    The chances I wasted.

    The versions of me

    that didn’t survive

    the way I thought they would.

    And somehow

    the good things

    never seem to count the same.

    The mornings I got up anyway.

    The nights I made it through.

    The times I wanted to quit

    but didn’t.

    Those victories

    always felt too small

    to keep.

    But maybe

    I’ve been looking

    at the wrong ledger.

    Maybe survival

    deserves a tally too.

    Maybe every day

    I stayed

    when it would’ve been easier

    to disappear into myself

    should count for something.

    Maybe every wound

    I carried

    without letting it make me cruel

    should count.

    Maybe every time

    I chose tomorrow

    without knowing

    what it would bring

    should count.

    Because if I measure my life

    only by what I lost,

    I’ll never see

    everything I kept.

    And despite it all—

    I kept going.

    I kept hoping.

    I kept finding reasons

    to stay

    even when I couldn’t name them.

    Maybe that’s the story.

    Not what broke me.

    Not what left.

    But what remained.

    And the day I stop counting

    everything I’ve lost

    might be the day

    I finally see

    how much I’ve survived.

  • How Much Longer?

    How much longer

    do I have to keep telling myself

    it gets better?

    How many more nights

    do I have to survive

    before survival

    starts feeling like living?

    I’m tired.

    Not the kind of tired

    sleep fixes.

    The kind that settles

    in your bones.

    The kind that comes from carrying

    the same hurt

    for so long

    it starts feeling

    like part of your identity.

    People tell you

    to keep going.

    And I do.

    God, I do.

    But some days

    it feels less like courage

    and more like habit.

    Like I’m just showing up

    because I showed up yesterday.

    And the day before that.

    And the day before that.

    Waiting for something

    to finally make sense.

    Waiting for the weight

    to loosen its grip.

    Waiting for life

    to feel like something

    I’m participating in

    instead of enduring.

    But maybe

    that’s the lie.

    Maybe life

    was never waiting

    on the other side

    of my pain.

    Maybe it’s been here

    the whole time—

    buried in small moments

    I was too exhausted

    to notice.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet morning.

    A conversation that lingered.

    A reason to stay

    that didn’t feel like enough

    until later.

    I don’t know.

    I don’t have some beautiful answer.

    Just this:

    I’m still here.

    Still asking the question.

    And maybe

    there’s something hopeful

    about that.

    Because if I were truly done,

    I wouldn’t still be wondering.

    I wouldn’t still be looking

    for a reason.

    So maybe

    for tonight,

    that’s enough.

    Not certainty.

    Not happiness.

    Just the stubborn possibility

    that the story

    isn’t over yet.

  • The Weight of Maybe

    Maybe that’s the hardest word

    I know.

    Maybe you loved me.

    Maybe you didn’t.

    Maybe things would’ve worked

    if the timing was different,

    if we were different,

    if life had been kinder.

    Maybe.

    It’s a word

    with no ending.

    A hallway

    that never reaches a door.

    And I’ve spent years there.

    Walking back and forth

    through old conversations,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of events

    trying to find an answer

    hidden somewhere

    inside the wreckage.

    But maybe

    isn’t an answer.

    Maybe

    is the place we go

    when the truth hurts too much.

    The place between acceptance

    and denial.

    The place where hope

    goes when it doesn’t know

    how to die.

    And I’m tired

    of carrying it.

    Tired of giving possibilities

    more power

    than reality.

    Because reality is this—

    some things happened.

    Some things ended.

    Some people left

    without explaining why.

    And no amount of maybe

    will change it.

    So tonight

    I’m setting it down.

    Not because I understand.

    Not because I’m over it.

    But because uncertainty

    is a heavy thing

    to drag through life.

    And I’ve carried it

    long enough.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe—

    for once—

    I don’t need to know.

  • The Last Thing I Wanted

    The last thing I wanted

    was another lesson.

    Another reason

    to rebuild myself

    from whatever was left

    after the dust settled.

    I was tired.

    Tired of losing people.

    Tired of losing sleep.

    Tired of waking up

    to the same ache

    wearing a different name.

    I wanted certainty.

    Something I could hold

    without wondering

    when it would leave.

    Something that stayed.

    But life

    has never been generous

    with guarantees.

    It gives you moments.

    People.

    Chances.

    Then asks

    what you learned

    when they were gone.

    And maybe

    that’s why I’m still here—

    not because I mastered

    any of it,

    but because every time

    life knocked me down,

    something stubborn in me

    refused to stay there.

    Even when I wanted to.

    Even when the ground

    felt more familiar

    than standing.

    So here I am.

    Not healed.

    Not finished.

    Not transformed

    into some wiser version

    of myself.

    Just still trying.

    Still carrying hope

    with dirty hands.

    Still believing

    there’s something ahead

    worth walking toward.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe courage

    isn’t feeling strong.

    Maybe it’s taking

    the next step

    when you’re not sure

    you have one left.

  • All Out of Borrowed Time

    I think I’m all out

    of borrowed time—

    all the second chances

    I kept spending

    like they’d never run out.

    The warnings came.

    In sleepless nights.

    In empty bottles.

    In promises

    I swore I’d keep tomorrow.

    In the people

    who looked at me

    like they were waiting

    for me to save myself.

    But tomorrow

    kept moving.

    And I kept acting

    like there’d always be

    one more sunrise

    to get it right.

    One more apology.

    One more attempt.

    One more chance

    to become someone

    I could live with.

    Now I stand here

    looking at the wreckage

    of all the things

    I thought I had time for.

    And maybe

    that’s the cruelest lesson—

    how quickly forever

    turns into someday,

    and someday

    turns into almost.

    But I’m not writing this

    as a eulogy.

    I’m writing it

    as a reckoning.

    Because maybe

    being out of borrowed time

    isn’t about dying.

    Maybe it’s about finally realizing

    you can’t keep postponing

    your own life.

    Can’t keep waiting

    for the perfect moment

    to change.

    Can’t keep treating

    your future

    like a guarantee.

    So here I am.

    Late.

    Bruised.

    Honest for once.

    With nothing left

    to borrow.

    Only what’s in front of me.

    Only this breath.

    This day.

    This chance.

    And maybe—

    maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe life begins

    the moment you stop acting

    like you have forever.