Driving this morning the fog was thick. I could hardly see 100 feet in front of me. Some other cars appeared to speed right by me. But I had to reduce my speed. I saw car tracks that had slid off the road. I had to proceed with caution. I felt my body tensing up. The road ahead was not clear. It was grey, it was dismal, it was heavy. And I didn’t know how long it would last.

And I was brought back to my early grief after my husband died. I lived in a fog that first year. Just moving through the motions of life. I couldn’t think like I used to think. I wondered what had happened to my brain. My memory was poor. Tasks that used to be simple felt extremely difficult. And my body felt the tension of the situation.

In the fog I could not see what was ahead. Or truthfully, what I imagined was ahead in the recesses of my brain were frightening images. So without realizing it I proceeded slowly and with extreme caution.

I saw others who had gone a similar route and derailed. I was unsure how to remain safe while moving forward.

Life felt flat. Life was the color grey. I couldn’t feel. I could barely move.

I had to work to believe that the sun would shine somewhere down the road if I would just keep driving slowly. Somewhere deep inside me was a belief that the sun would shine again. So I kept going one moment at a time, then one day at a time.

I proceeded with caution, but I proceeded, and that was the key.