This morning, I didn’t rise like fire. I didn’t feel light or sharp. Instead, I woke up inside a fog. A slow, heavy kind of silence. Like my whole being was wrapped in clouds I couldn’t name.

There were things I “should” do. But I couldn’t move in straight lines. So I stopped. And I asked:

“What do you need from me today, Soul?”

And she whispered back:

“Slow down.”

She didn’t shout. She didn’t push. She just… asked me to soften. To step away from the noise. To breathe without fixing anything.

Because sometimes the fog isn’t confusion — It’s protection. It’s the way the soul says:

“Not yet.
Not now.
Rest here a while.
You don’t need to know everything today.”

So today I walk slower. I let the fog hold me. I let the questions stay unanswered. Because maybe the softness is the medicine I needed all along.