Fog-Walk Between Worlds

The morning fog came in low, dense, and indifferent.
Fog softens the edges of everything, even pain.
The kind that doesn’t care what you’re carrying.

I’ve walked through despair.
Not the poetic kind.
The real kind,
where waking is punishment.

When every morning asks why stay?
The only answer I could give,
I haven’t tried everything.

Today, I didn’t go out to heal.
I needed to move.
Movement is the only prayer
my body understands.
Too much stillness lets the fog inside.

Out there the wind is cold, clean,
and I felt something shift.
Not joy. Not peace. But presence.
The kind that sneaks in sideways
when you stop trying so hard.

I didn’t find clarity.
I didn’t find hope.
I found the next step.

→ Related: Loving Yourself Enough

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* peer reflections: not medical or therapy advice. *