Our family recently spent a few days in northern Minnesota, where Mother Nature is putting on an incredible display—trees painted in fiery reds and deep golds, cold nights that make you cozy up, warm, sunlit days, and every morning blanketed in a steady fog. Dan and I have somehow found ourselves as the emerging elders of the group. This shift still catches me off guard—how did we get here? I often feel ill-equipped for this role, yet I’m also eager to embrace it, welcoming the wisdom that comes with age.
One particular morning, the fog was incredibly thick, wrapping everything in an almost magical veil of mystery. As I watched, a woman paddled her kayak through the mist, and I couldn’t help but be captivated by the scene. She seemed to glide forward with no visibility, just trusting each stroke, moving one paddle after the other. The fog was so dense, I imagined she could barely see a few feet ahead of her.
Grief often feels like that—like moving through a dense fog. Sometimes we might look like we have it all together, but in truth, much of the journey after loss is simply about moving forward without knowing exactly where we are headed. It's about trusting ourselves enough to take one more stroke, to move through the mist, even when the path is unclear. The fog limits our vision, and all we can do is make the next small, manageable movement—one paddle, then another, steering toward something that feels like peace, trusting that in time, the fog will lift.
As we packed up, ready to head home, I felt another wave of grief rolling in—sudden, unexpected. I stepped away, took a walk through the trees, and let myself cry. Grief has a way of sneaking up on us, just when we think we have it all figured out. One moment, I was having the best time with my family, enjoying the laughter and connection, and the next, I was overwhelmed by an aching sadness that hadn’t visited in a while.
In that moment, I remembered: just put one paddle in front of the next. There’s no need to see the entire path or understand why the fog is here now. Just sit in it, dwell in it—embrace the mysteriously beautiful fog.
As I sat with those uncomfortable emotions, I felt my heart longing for just one more vacation with my parents. We traveled to so many places together, and they would have loved experiencing this magical place. I also found myself grieving the passing of time with my son—how he took me out in his canoe and we paddled until we were both exhausted. As much as I love the relationship we have now that he’s grown, I still long for those days of his childhood, those simpler moments that I would cherish even more deeply if I could live them again with the wisdom I have now. And, of course, I was struck by the realization that I am now an emerging elder in my family. Most days, I find this role empowering. There’s a sense of freedom in middle age, a release of expectations, but there are also moments, like this one, when I just longed to be someone’s kid again, to be held in the security of knowing someone else is steering the boat.
In our culture, we often shy away from these emotions. We have a pervasive idea that we should always be striving for "good vibes only"—to always be cheerful, always be positive. Anything else can feel like a failure, an unwelcome detour from how things “should” be. But grief doesn't fit into that mold, and neither does life. Grief doesn’t follow our timelines or expectations, and it certainly doesn’t wait for “a convenient time” to show up. The truth is, life is full of contradictions—joy and sorrow exist side by side. We might be experiencing something beautiful, like a family trip filled with laughter, and still be swept up in a sudden longing for something or someone we have lost.
These emotions don’t mean we’re doing something wrong. They simply mean we’re human. We are wired to experience it all—joy, sorrow, longing, and gratitude, often all mixed together. And maybe, just maybe, there’s something profoundly beautiful in that messiness. We want joy, and we want comfort, but real life is so much richer than just the highlights.
Sitting with our grief, dwelling in the fog, is one of the hardest things we can do, especially in a culture that tells us to move on, to look for the silver lining, or to be “strong.” But there’s something deeply important about allowing ourselves to feel our emotions without rushing to change them. When we sit in the fog, when we let the sadness, confusion, and pain be exactly what they are, we give ourselves permission to be authentic. We let go of the pressure to be "okay" all the time and honor the truth of our own hearts. This act—of simply being present with whatever comes—can be a kind of healing in itself.
Sitting with the fog is not about wallowing in our pain or refusing to move forward. It’s about acknowledging that some parts of our journey are unclear, that some parts are heavy, and that it’s okay to not have all the answers. It’s about understanding that grief comes in waves and cycles, that it will sometimes catch us by surprise, and that this is normal. You can be joyful and grieving at the same time. You can be laughing and also longing. You can be present with your loved ones and still feel the absence of those who aren’t there. All of these experiences are valid, and they are all part of what it means to live fully.
So if you find yourself in the midst of the fog, remember that it’s okay to just put one paddle in front of the other. It’s okay if the only thing you can see is what’s immediately in front of you. There is no need to rush, no need to have it all figured out. Trust that, in time, the fog will lift, and until then, let yourself be curious about it, sit with it, feel it. Befriend it, even.
Fall is the season of grief—a time of release, relief, and remembering. If you find yourself surrounded by fog, know that it’s part of the process. It’s okay to simply move through it, one small step at a time, trusting that you’re exactly where you need to be.
And if you need a light in that fog, know that I am here. I hope you’ll consider me a lighthouse in the fog of grief—a beacon to help you find your way back to yourself as you navigate the mysteries of loss. The journey is not always clear, but you are not alone.
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