Through the Fog with Love

We Know Each Other By Heart

Tag: relationships

  • Asking, When I’d Rather Give



    Sometimes the most difficult thing isn’t the caregiving — it’s asking for help. This post is for anyone learning to ask, not because they want to, but because they have to.
    ———————————————————————————————–

    I’ve always preferred to give.

    It’s in my DNA , in the way I was raised, in how I live, and how I love. I like to show up with something in hand: a cake, a meal, a warm gesture, a practical solution. I like being the one who helps, not the one who needs help.

    But life, as it so often does, has asked me to grow in ways I never expected.

    These days, I spend my late nights doing the quiet work when he is finally asleep and I can catch my breath. That’s when I research, think clearly, and write. I study government websites, read between the lines of policy documents, and craft careful emails — because someone I love depends on me. And even though I don’t like asking, I do it. Because I must.

    That doesn’t mean it’s easy. It can feel humbling. It can feel exposing. But it has also been an invitation to courage.

    You see, navigating the system isn’t just about ticking boxes. It’s about learning a whole new language , the right words, the right framing, the right timing. It’s listening carefully not only to what’s said, but to what’s not. It’s knowing that help exists, but often hides behind unclear forms and closed doors.

    So I’ve made it my quiet mission to learn how to open those doors. Not just for us, but perhaps, one day, for others too.

    And even in the hardest moments, I’ve been met with goodness. With neighbours who just show up. With friends who don’t ask what I need, but simply do. With practical kindness that arrives without fanfare. With the community that rose for me when I needed it most.

    That’s the part I hold on to when things feel heavy. The deep reminder that I’m not alone in this. That grace is often tucked into the smallest acts — a message, a meal, a shared silence.

    I’m learning, too, that asking isn’t weakness. It’s strength wrapped in vulnerability. It’s the quiet bravery of someone who refuses to give up.

    So yes — I’ll keep writing those emails. I’ll keep staying up late and chasing clarity in a system not designed for ease.

    Because there’s a kind of hope that lives in persistence. And because love makes you braver than you ever thought you could be.

  • To the One I Still Love, Even When It Hurts

    There are days I don’t recognise you. Not in your words, not in your eyes, not in the way you look at me like I’m the stranger.

    And I try—I really try—to remind myself that it’s not you, it’s the illness. But when the harshness cuts through, when your voice rises and your eyes narrow, It feels like I’m standing across from someone who no longer knows how to love me.

    And it breaks me.

    Because I remember the man who used to make me laugh,who used to protect me, who looked at me like I was the best thing he’d ever found.

    I still see him sometimes—in the quiet moments, in the flicker of a smile,in the way your hand still searches for mine in sleep. But those moments feel fewer now.And I miss you. I miss you so much it feels like a grief that doesn’t end.

    Sometimes, I resent this journey.I resent that I’m the one carrying the weight, that I have to stay calm when I feel like screaming, that I have to be strong when all I want is someone to say, “Let me take care of you for once.”

    But still, I stay. Not out of duty. Not just because of vows spoken years ago. I stay because love—real love—isn’t about ease or comfort.It’s about presence.

    And I promised you I would be here, even if you forgot who I was.

    So I will hold your hand when it trembles. I will soothe your anger, even when I’m hurting too. I will walk beside you, even when it feels like you’ve turned against me. Because deep down, I know you’re still in there, lost in the fog.

    But I also need to remember me.That I matter too. That my pain is real. That I’m allowed to cry, to ache, to question.And that none of this makes me weak — it just means I’m tired.

    So tonight, I’m writing this for me.To release the guilt. To honour the struggle. To remind myself that I’m still here.

    And I’m doing my best. Even on the days it feels like love is a battlefield. Even when it feels like I’ve lost you, one piece at a time.

    I’m still here.And somehow, I still love you.

  • When He Wants To Go Home

    Tonight was one of those nights—those increasingly frequent nights—when he said he wanted to go home.

    No matter how many times I told him he was already home, it didn’t stick. I tried to sound calm, gentle, reassuring — but nothing I said reached him. He just kept repeating it. Like my words vanished before they ever reached him.

    Eventually, I tucked him into bed, exhausted from the cycle. I knew he’d get up again. So I turned off the lights and I went back to the lounge. I couldn’t take hearing it again. Sure enough, he came out twice, looking for me. I watched him from the home cameras I had installed to keep an eye on him.

    Each time he wandered out, I stayed hidden—quiet, angry at myself for needing to hide. For not having enough patience. I sat there in the dark, steeped in guilt. Frustrated with myself more than with him. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. And here I was—too worn down to meet him with compassion in that moment.

    And then I remembered something he once told me:When he was a young boy, his mum was very ill and had to be in the hospital. He was left with his grandparents and spent many nights alone in a back room, listening to the rain on the roof, longing for his mother.

    And I thought—maybe that’s how he feels now. Alone. Confused. Longing for a sense of safety he can’t quite name.

    I couldn’t let him go to sleep like that. I couldn’t let him carry that confusion by himself. So I crept back into bed and held him. At first, he didn’t know I was his wife. But he knew I was someone who cared.That was enough to settle him. His breathing softened, His body relaxed.

    Then I turned on the light—and he recognised me. The relief on his face undid me.

    Moments like these wash away a whole day’s worth of frustration.

    Because no matter how tired I am, no matter how many times I lose my temper—I will not let him feel alone in the dark.

    As long as I’m here,even if he forgets who I am,he will never forget how it feels to be loved.