For a long time, I thought I was just lazy. Or broken.
I pushed myself through college, jobs, relationships with others, and responsibilities with a deep undercurrent of exhaustion I couldn’t explain. No matter how much sleep I got, I woke up tired. My body ached like I had run marathons in my sleep. My brain felt like static. I was often dizzy, nauseous, and disoriented - like I was floating above my own life, trying to catch up with everyone around me.
It took years to get a proper diagnosis. Years of going to doctors, making appointments, getting bloodwork, going to the doctor again - and on and on. Being told maybe it was “just anxiety” or “stress,” or worse - being dismissed entirely. “Have you tried diet and exercise?” Yes! “Have you considered it may be pressure from work?” Yes! “Have you done this? Have you considered that?” Yes! At times, even I began to believe that maybe I was just overreacting. Maybe it really was all in my head. That’s what it felt like - like I was quietly losing my mind, and no one else could see it happening.
The truth was far more complex. I was living with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (ME/CFS) - a condition that affects nearly every part of my body and mind. But I didn’t know that for a long time. What I did know was that every day felt like a battle between pretending I was okay and surviving the aftermath when I wasn’t.
There’s a particular kind of shame that comes with chronic illness - especially one that’s invisible. I wrestled with feelings of failure, inadequacy, and guilt. I watched others around me live “normal” lives while mine felt fractured by symptoms I couldn’t explain. Pain, fatigue, brain fog, anxiety, depression - they all blended together into a blur that was both physical and emotional.
It wasn’t until I began naming what was happening - and fighting to be heard - that things started to change. I learned to advocate for myself. I connected the dots between my physical symptoms and my mental health. I saw how deeply intertwined they were. I researched and researched and finally found the right doctor who would listen to me fully. Not dismiss me. Not judge me. Hear me. And she began to help me understand that none of this made me lazy, or weak, or broken. It made me human.
My educational background in psychology and art therapy helped me frame my experience through a different lens. And I have spent over two years working as an Expressive Therapist, guiding others through healing - and now, I had to turn those tools inward. Self-compassion became a lifeline. So did creativity. So did acceptance.
Acceptance, for me, has been about reclaiming a life I didn’t choose, but one I’ve learned to own. It's about learning how to live with the fog, not waiting for it to clear - because it won’t. It's finding purpose in the pause, strength in the stillness, and meaning in the mess. It’s the reason FogLight exists.
I created this space because I never want anyone else to feel as alone, confused, or broken as I did during those silent years of trying to figure it all out. If you’re still searching for answers, I see you. If you’re newly diagnosed, I’ve been where you are. And if you’ve been carrying your story quietly for too long - this space is for you, too.
You are not lazy. You are not crazy. You are simply lost in a fog - but I promise you, you are not alone.
