Through The Fog

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…

The summer sun never asks permission. It spills across the fields, warms cracked sidewalks, finds its way through half-open curtains and into rooms that forgot what light felt like. It doesn’t rush. It simply arrives. Steady. Certain. The kind of certainty I’ve spent years looking for in people. I used to think healing would feel dramatic. Like lightning. Like fireworks. But…

I always felt like I was in between— something like home and somewhere far away. Never fully arriving. Never fully leaving. Just existing in the space between who I was and who I wanted to become. I knew the roads. I recognized the faces. But even in familiar places, I carried the feeling that I was only passing through. Like everyone else had roots, and I only had directions. I…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

I’m lost and losing— at least that’s what it feels like when the nights get long and my thoughts start keeping score. Counting every mistake. Every door that closed. Every person I couldn’t hold onto. The tally grows. And some days it looks like proof. Proof that I’m falling behind, that I missed something important, that everyone else got a map I never received. But feelings are…

There’s a version of me I don’t introduce people to. Not because I’m ashamed. Because explaining them would take too long. They live behind my smile, behind the stories I tell, behind every “I’m fine” that leaves my mouth before I’ve had a chance to think about it. They know things. The weight of regret. The sound of a heart breaking without making a noise. The loneliness that can…

Some things leave. People. Promises. Versions of yourself you thought would last forever. They slip away quietly, without asking permission, without caring how badly you wanted them to stay. I used to chase them. Used to run after endings like I could change their minds, like enough love, enough effort, enough pain could make something remain. But loss has never listened to…

The mirror knows things I never say out loud. It sees me before the smile, before the practiced answers, before I remember who I’m supposed to be today. It sees the tired. The kind sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that settles behind the eyes after carrying too much for too long. Some mornings I barely recognize the person staring back. Not because they’ve changed— because I…