Writing Through the Fog

You know the season has turned when the rain begins — not a passing shower, but the kind that settles in, grey and unrelenting. For me, it marks more than the end of summer. It’s the beginning of a quieter, heavier stretch of the year — one that brings deeper fatigue, fewer spoons, and a kind of stillness that’s both unwelcome and oddly familiar.

Autumn is often romanticized: cozy jumpers, candlelight, the slow drift toward festive cheer. And while I understand the appeal, I also know what’s rarely said — that for many of us living with invisible illness, this season can be brutal. The cold seeps in. The light fades. Our bodies ache more. Our energy dwindles. And yet, the world keeps moving as if nothing has changed.

But something does change — at least for me. As the outside world quiets, I find myself turning inward. And in that turning, I return to writing.

Summer pulls me outward. I chase the sun, soak up what warmth I can, and often lose the structure and focus that writing requires. But when the rain comes, I retreat. I rest. I write. Not always easily, and not always consistently — but with a kind of honesty that only this season seems to allow.

Writing becomes a way to process the invisible. To name what’s hard to explain. To feel less alone in a world that often doesn’t see what we carry.

So here’s to this season — not because it’s easy, but because it’s real. I’ll be sharing more here on The Unseen Me, alongside my other blog rosieglobal.com, and slowly working toward something that feels both daunting and necessary: a book. I don’t know yet what shape it will take, but I know it begins here — with words, with truth, with you.Thank you for reading. I hope these reflections offer a little light, a little recognition, or simply a place to rest.

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