A Journey Through the Fog, “The Wind Knows My Name.” Part 7

Previously in Part 6:

Sarah found brief stillness in small things a glitter filled volcano, a meme about cats, and a kite that refused to fly until it did. Through it all, the fog lingered, but joy kept finding its way through the cracks.

The sun rose like it had something to prove. Sarah watched it from the living room window, wrapped in a robe that had seen too many laundry days and a throw blanket that somehow always smelled like lavender and tiredness.

Last night, she slept. Not deeply, not uninterrupted, but sleep came, and in this house, that counted as a victory.

The pain hadn’t left, of course. It rarely did. It simply moved to a different seat. Today, it had taken up residence behind her eyes and in the meat of her shoulders. That “hangover from nowhere” feeling was back. But still, she’d woken up before the kids, and for a moment, that felt like power.

She shuffled into the kitchen and brewed her revenge on fatigue: coffee. No cold foam experiments today. She wasn’t brave enough to relive the dairy massacre from Part 6.

Today, she just needed silence. Not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that feels like healing.

And then the world remembered she was awake.

“Mom! Huda says glitter is edible and I know that’s wrong but she said you let her eat it yesterday and now she’s trying to eat her volcano!”

Sarah blinked. Took a sip. “Okay… one problem at a time.”

By 10 a.m., the day was unraveling in that special way only weekends can. The glitter was still very much a part of the kitchen. Somehow it had migrated to the hallway, her slippers, and bafflingly the cat, who they did not own.

She’d lost track of whether she’d eaten breakfast or just chewed ibuprofen and hope. The fog was thick. Her joints stiff. Her brain stuck in molasses.

So she escaped.

No grand trip. Just outside. She slipped on her coat over pajamas and walked down the street. Her body felt like she was dragging someone else’s weight. Every step said, go home, but something stronger whispered, just a little further.

At the corner, she passed an elderly woman watering a stubborn rose bush. “Your plant’s defiant,” Sarah said.

The woman smiled, “So am I.”

They laughed, and just like that, Sarah felt seen.

She found herself at the coffee shop. The good one. The one with the velvet chairs and baristas who treated foam like a spiritual experience.

The bell above the door sang its usual jingle as she entered. Her limbs ached, her thoughts foggy, but for a moment, the smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon buns lifted everything.

She ordered a latte. The real kind. The kind where the milk wasn’t judgmental, and someone else knew how to steam it right.

When she sat down, her body sighed. Not just from relief, but from being out in the world. Among people. Among purpose.

At the next table, a couple was arguing about their wedding playlist. She found herself quietly rooting for the bride. A child near the window drew dinosaurs on the foggy glass. A man beside her scribbled into a notebook with the intensity of someone either writing poetry or budgeting his grocery bill. Either way, it was beautiful.

Sarah pulled out her phone and typed one sentence into her notes app:

“The fog doesn’t lift with force. It parts for the quietest moments.”

Back home, she was greeted by a chaotic symphony: Huda singing, Hannah narrating the cat’s inner life, and Adam burning something that smelled like ambition and frozen pizza.

She laughed.

Laughed because it was messy. Because it was hers. Because she made it through the morning without crumbling. Because glitter, foam, joint pain, and unbrushed hair were all part of her love language now.

That night, she tucked the kids in with the same old story, the one about the fog princess who used broken pieces to build bridges. But tonight, she added a new part.

“She met someone who couldn’t see the fog but trusted her when she said it was real.”

Huda whispered, “Like you?”

Sarah kissed her forehead. “Exactly like me.”

💌 If this chapter spoke to you…

If you felt seen in the stiffness, the humor, the fog…

If you’ve ever cried over cold foam or held your breath through a pain flare,

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Until Part 8,

May your fog part gently and your foam behave. 🙂

— Sarah