When the Fog Never Lifts

People love to say “this will pass.”
As if time is a magic eraser. As if enough mornings will eventually burn the haze away.

But what if it doesn’t?

What if the fog never lifts?

There are days when it’s thick and suffocating, when even breathing feels like effort. Other days it thins just enough to function. You can work, talk, smile on cue. From the outside, it looks like progress. From the inside, it still feels muted. Distant. Like life is happening several rooms away.

You wake up hoping today will be different, not better—just clearer. You’re not asking for joy. You’d settle for feeling something without having to strain for it. But the fog is already there when you open your eyes, settled in like it owns the place.

You go through the motions because that’s what responsible adults do. You show up. You handle obligations. You say “I’m okay” because explaining the truth would take more energy than you have. And honestly, you’re not sure how to put it into words anyway. How do you explain a weight that doesn’t crush you, just slows everything down?

And the worst thought creeps in quietly:
What if this is just how it is now?

Not rock bottom. Not crisis. Just endless gray.

People mistake stability for healing. They see you surviving and assume you’re fine. But survival without meaning is exhausting. Existing without relief starts to feel like punishment, even when nothing “bad” is happening.

And that is where I am, just surviving.