Monday Musings; When the Fog Settles In

 

This morning finds me foggy.

Not lazy. Not unmotivated. Just… foggy. My mind is all over the place, my thoughts scattering faster than I can catch them, and my to-do list is mocking me quietly from the corner of my phone.

And while it is tempting to blame age, hormones, the cold weather — all very valid — I know, deep inside, that it is more than that. I am 46. And forgive me, dear reader, if someone once told you that ladies should not mention their age. Personally, I could not care less. My age is not a limitation — it is a declaration. I have seen enough, carried enough, become enough — and now I am just walking through the fire, wearing my crown slightly tilted.

But back to the fog.

At the center of it is a child. My granddaughter. Precious, curious, and far too aware.
She keeps repeating that her school was burnt down. It was not. But she knows enough to understand that somewhere, someone’s school was. She wants to watch shouting videos anytime I open one. She asks who died. She wants to know who the police shot. And I — strong, sharp, composed me — I have no easy answers. Because how do you protect innocence in a country that is constantly burning, breaking, bleeding?

And while her questions echo in my ears, my phone buzzes. Another message about a young person I know who has gone quiet. Quiet usually means something. Depression. Stress. Shame. Struggle. And so I follow up. Gently. Lovingly. Strategically. Because in this life, you cannot just assume they are okay. You have to check in.

And then my body reminds me — we are not 25 anymore. I am right in the thick of perimenopause, and my cycle is more unpredictable than Nairobi weather. One month she shows up like clockwork, the next she disappears then roars in uninvited. All the apps I have used to track her have failed me. I mark my calendar like a faithful planner — but she does not care; She does not RSVP.

Then there is that house in the bundus. Still unfinished. Still holding its breath. A possible stream of income that could lift a few weights off my shoulders — but right now, it just stares at me in quiet judgment.

Add to that the partnerships I am managing, the doors I am still knocking on, the hustle I am growing — one that stretches my faith like never before. Some days I believe I am building something sacred. Other days I wonder if I am delusional.

So yes. Today I am foggy.
But I am not broken. I am not giving up. I am not lost.

I am a woman who is carrying her own body, her bloodline, her calling, and her country — all at once. And some days, that looks like clarity. Other days, it looks like fog.

But the crown stays on. Even when the mirror is blurry.

Njeri