Part 4: A Journey Through the Fog

Fibromyalgia, had taken over every part of Sarah’s life. Through the fog, she barely recognized herself. She wondered, who have I become, what happened to me, will I ever be my old self. She began to hate herself, she felt like a burden to all those around her. Even in her darkest moments, Sarah clung to love like a lifeline, believing that, somehow, she’d find her way through this. It wasn’t just for her—it was for them. For the family who stood by her through the fog, who saw the real Sarah even when she couldn’t see herself. That, she promised herself, was worth fighting for.

The days seemed to blur together, each one a strange mix of triumph and defeat. Some mornings, Sarah would wake up feeling almost like herself—like the old Sarah, who could juggle a hundred things at once while keeping a smile on her face. On those rare mornings, she’d throw open the curtains with the enthusiasm of a sitcom mom and declare, “Rise and shine, everybody! Breakfast is hot!” The smell of pancakes would fill the air, and for a moment, she’d feel victorious, like she’d wrestled her life back from the clutches of the fog.

But if her family lingered too long upstairs, she’d mutter under her breath, “If they don’t get down here in 30 seconds, I’m eating all of this myself.” Because honestly, cooking wasn’t just cooking anymore—it was a battle. Every movement, every decision to stand, stir, or flip was a victory she wished someone would cheer for. If only they knew.

By afternoon, though, the fog often crept back in, heavy and unrelenting. Folding laundry would leave her leaning against the couch like she’d just run a marathon. Even watching her kids play outside—a simple joy—felt bittersweet. She’d wave at them from the porch, a cheerleader for their happiness, while secretly aching to be more than just a spectator.

Then came game night. Oh, how she dreaded game night. But the kids loved it, and Sarah loved them, so she’d dig deep, plastering on her best “fun mom” smile. “Let’s break a world record tonight!” she’d announce with faux enthusiasm as they dragged out the Monopoly board. But the truth was, by the time she sat on the floor, her energy was already running on fumes.

Hannah, her eldest, was deep into strategizing. “Mom, you have to buy Boardwalk. It’s the key to winning!”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Sure, let me just pull some energy out of my… oh wait, I don’t have any!” she joked, but only half-heartedly. Reaching for the game pieces felt like climbing Mount Everest.

When Hannah laughed at her comment, Sarah couldn’t help but smile. “Fine,” she said, pretending to consider. “I’ll buy Boardwalk, but you have to promise to share your rent money when I’m bankrupt.” That earned a round of giggles, and for a moment, the fog lifted.

It was these moments—these fleeting bursts of laughter—that reminded her why she kept going. Her kids didn’t see her pain; they saw their mom. And in their joy, Sarah found flickers of her own.

But the nights… oh, the nights were something else entirely. Once the house grew quiet, the weight she carried all day would settle in her chest. She’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a ghost trapped in her own life. Scrolling through her phone brought temporary relief—funny memes from friends, heartwarming quotes—but they couldn’t erase the ache in her body or the heaviness in her soul.

Sometimes she’d snap at her husband over something trivial, like the dishes. It wasn’t about the dishes; it was about everything. The unspoken grief of losing the person she used to be. But no matter how many times she lashed out, he stayed. On her worst days, he’d crawl into bed beside her with a book and read aloud until she dozed off. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re just faking this to get out of chores,” he’d tease, earning a weak chuckle.