“Walking Through Fog”

Podcasting is a rhythm Teresa and I have learned over seven years, a rhythm that once required us to sit shoulder‑to‑shoulder planning every post, every caption, every blog. Eventually, as we grew more confident in our work, we realized that dividing responsibilities made more sense for our lives and our sanity. So now, each week, one of us takes the reins.

I’m usually the one who works ahead. I like the comfort of knowing that if life throws me a curveball, and it often does, at least this one thing is handled. Being “ahead of the game” lets me breathe easier. But not this week. It’s Sunday, the deadline is today, and I’m nowhere near ready.

Teresa offered to take it on for me, but I declined. Not because I’m trying to be a hero, but because sometimes the only way through a storm is to keep walking. One foot in front of the other. I repeat that to myself all day long. Still, everything feels heavier, like I’m wearing one of those weighted vests that makes even the smallest movement feel like a chore. My thoughts are slow, foggy, disconnected.

Growing up, all the girls had diaries. I tried, truly tried, to be one of them. I’d get a new diary, feel excited, vow to write faithfully, and last maybe a week. I didn’t see the point. I was living my life; why write it down?

Now journaling is the grown‑up version of that childhood ritual. Teresa swears by it. Guests on Earrings Off talk about how journaling saved them, grounded them, revealed breakthroughs. I’ve bought beautiful journals over the years, written for a week, and abandoned them. I’ve never been a diary girl, and I’m not a journaling woman. But here’s what has been consistent: when something seismic happens in my life, I write. I have pieces from years ago that I revisit sometimes. They soothe me. They remind me I survived things I once thought I wouldn’t.

I hope this writing will do the same someday. So forgive me as I bring you into the hardest chapter I’ve had to face in a long time.

My beloved sister, Ce‑Ce, died unexpectedly two weeks ago. She called me every day. I spoke to her the night before and she was fine. And then she wasn’t. And then she was gone. No warning. No goodbye. No chance to tell her what a phenomenal big sister she was or how unimaginable life feels without her.

My world has been rocked in a way I can barely articulate.

Losing a sibling is unlike any other grief. It rearranges you. Siblings are witnesses to our becoming, the only people who know the full story of who we were before the world got to us. They remember our childhood dreams, our heartbreaks, our embarrassments, our triumphs. They hold the history of our becoming in a way no one else can.

When a sibling dies, it feels as if an entire chapter of your life disappears with them. A mirror shatters. A language you both spoke fluently goes silent. You lose not just the person, but the version of yourself that only they knew.

I won’t go into more detail. It’s enough that I’ve written this down, because for me, writing it makes it real. Writing it means I can stop waiting for her daily call. Writing it means I can begin, slowly, painfully, to carry this new reality.

So today's blog really is for me. I write it in the hope that one day these words will soothe me too.

Lou