I Parent Through the Fog.

Parenting in the fog means I don’t always see the path. I navigate by feel, by instinct, by prayer, by memory. Some days I’m steady. Other days, I’m a lighthouse flickering in and out of view.

I parent through trauma echoes. Through unfinished healing. Through the ache of wanting to give more than I have.

There are days I feel like I’m failing. When I forget the appointment. When I snap too quickly. When I cry in the bathroom and hope no one hears.

But I also parent through love that refuses to dim. Through laughter that breaks through the haze. Through tiny rituals, warm socks, forehead kisses, whispered blessings.

I parent by showing up. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m unsure. Even when the fog is thick and I can’t see the next step.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe presence is the miracle. Not perfection. Not clarity. Just the quiet promise: “I’m here.”

I’ve learned to trust the fog. To let it teach me softness. To let it slow me down. To let it remind me that love doesn’t need a map, it just needs a pulse.

I may not always see clearly, but I love fiercely. That is my compass.