The fog 

Earlier this week, the city was covered with a dense fog. So thick it felt like we were swimming in it. As I drove the streets I couldn’t help but think of the early days and months after Fareed passed away. I was in utter shock and grief was all so new to me. I sometimes think our minds shut down in those early days so we don’t have to process anything more. It allows our brain the space it needs to process the trauma. That emptiness felt like fog. What once was white empty space to process, laugh, play, and dream felt densely full but empty at the same time. I felt like a shell of myself, zombie like. I remember even trying to google when the horrible haze would leave. I couldn’t feel anything intensely, the fog was filling the white space. And as normal as the fog is, when it sits and hovers, and makes your vision blurry, you can’t help but wish it gone. I don’t know what type of loss or trauma you have experienced, but I do know this. The Fog always lifts. I remember the first time I smiled again. I remember the first friend who distinctly told me that the emptiness was finally leaving, that color was returning to my soul. And I won’t lie, the fog lasted a long time. It took months, and months for it to slowly fade but it did. I remember the first time I dreamed of the future. Or could laugh without grief guilt. I remember long prayers on fog filled nights where I just prayed for life to feel normal again. Loss changed me, it made me a better person. The fog taught me what mattered. And while I don’t think I will ever feel “normal”, I can promise you this… The fog always lifts. 

If your in it, wading, just trying to catch your breathe; pray. Some of the most crucial life change came in that fog. Where I could only see and process what was right ahead, what was most important. And if the fog feels like it’s smothering you and will never end, reach out your hand. There are many who have sat in it and are willing to wait with you while it lingers.

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