No One Tells You About The Fog


No one tells you about The Fog. No one warns you of the clouds. No one digs really deep down into that darkness. Probably because it’s a scary place to be. Or maybe because they’re still in The Fog themselves. Some probably think no one else has been in The Fog or will be in The Fog like them so silent they stay. Whatever the reason… no one tells you about The Fog.

The Fog is heavy. It’s thick and suffocating. It’s absolutely everywhere you look. It’s in the eyes of your newborn. In the touch of your husband. It’s in the grocery aisle. The car ride. It’s in the voice of your toddler. And in the reflection in the mirror. The Fog is everywhere. It weighs on every bone in your body like a brace - holding you up and holding you back at the same time.

What you used to love doesn’t really light you up anymore. The Fog makes it difficult. Your laugh might still be there but it’s muffled. The Fog does that to you. Maybe you get some relief when you sleep, but you’re met with exhaust as soon as your eyes open to the baby’s midnight cry. 

“It’s sleep deprivation,” they say.
“You’re just adjusting.”
“Take a shower, you’ll feel better then.”
“Go on a date, that’ll fix it.”

And you nod your head. “Yeah, I’m just sleep deprived. I just need a date with my husband. Then I’ll feel more like me.”

So you get a full night’s sleep. And maybe go to dinner with him. You even start to shower every day. 

But The Fog is still there.

You briefly mention to your friend about The Fog, fumbling with how to explain it. And she acknowledges it but doesn’t ask any questions. You think maybe you’re the only one. So you don’t mention it again. Except your friend is shocked, because she thought she was the only one too. You both look awkwardly at the babies between you and silently vow to never mention it again.

The Fog. That’s what it does. It clouds your vision. It hides your need for vulnerability and convinces you that inside The Fog is better than out. “Don’t tell anyone about me,” says The Fog. “Don’t talk about how you feel inside The Fog, because then you might realize others are here too.” The Fog wants you isolated because that’s how it thrives. That’s how it wins.

But Light starts to break through. Maybe through a song. Or a message. Or a friend who notices you’ve changed. Maybe it’s the way your toddler hugs your legs one day that catches you off guard. Or the way your husband brushes up next to you. Somehow The Fog was a little thin in one of those moments, and you saw Light. You saw something else besides The Fog and it was beautiful. It was so beautiful you couldn’t stop looking for it. For a brief moment, The Fog doesn’t seem that enticing. It doesn’t seem like where you want to be. So you start looking for the Light wherever you can find it. 

You start to see it in your baby’s grin.
You see it in your toddler’s giggle.
You notice it pouring in through your living room.
You see it in the changing leaves.

Suddenly you start to see Light everywhere. And it’s such a beautiful sight. Once you’ve seen it, you can’t stop seeing it. The Fog is starting to lift and it’s like you’ve just regained sight after being blind for so long. You start to laugh and hug and smile and enjoy and get excited again.

It’s been so long.

You get together with your friend again, and things seem different. The space between you isn’t so far apart as it was before. You see the Light coming back to her eyes. And she sees it in yours. And you realize that maybe she was in The Fog too. Maybe for a long time. You grab her hand and say, “I’m glad you’re back.” And she looks at you with tears in her eyes and says, “I’ve missed you.”

You think to yourself, “I’ve missed me too.”