The Word Was Still in There

The Fragrance That Stayed

An old woman was walking along a quiet country road when she noticed an earthen wine jar resting beside the path.

She bent to pick it up.

Years before, it had held fine wine. Travelers had carried it from vineyard to table until, at last, every drop had been poured away. Now the jar appeared to be of little value. Empty vessels are easily overlooked.

Still, before setting it aside, the old woman lifted it to her face.

She drew in a long, slow breath. The wine was gone. Yet its fragrance remained.

The rich scent lingered within the clay as though the jar quietly remembered everything it had once held. Smiling to herself, the old woman admired how something invisible could remain long after the visible thing had disappeared.

Then she continued on her way, carrying with her the pleasant surprise of an empty jar that was not quite empty after all.

The Missing Word

There are days when I understand exactly how that old jar must have felt.

Someone asks a simple question. I know the answer.

Not think I know it. I know it.

The name of a neighbor. The title of a movie I've watched five times. The word I've used my entire adult life.

But instead of arriving when I reach for it, the thought seems to disappear behind a closed door.

I stand there, smiling awkwardly while my mind searches room after room.

Sometimes the word arrives thirty seconds later. Sometimes thirty minutes. Occasionally, it appears while I'm brushing my teeth that night, as if my brain had been quietly working on it all along.

Fibromyalgia brain fog has a peculiar way of making intelligent people feel unintelligent.

Not because we've stopped knowing.

Because we can no longer predict when knowing will be available.

The House With Flickering Lights

One of the hardest parts of fibro fog isn't forgetting.

It's what we begin believing about ourselves because we forgot.

After enough unfinished sentences and misplaced keys, it's easy to wonder whether something deeper is happening.

"Maybe I'm getting lazy."

"Maybe I'm losing my mind."

"Maybe I'm just not as sharp anymore."

Those thoughts carry far more weight than the missing word itself.

Most of us built our confidence over decades. We learned complicated jobs, raised children, solved problems, balanced households, remembered birthdays, organized vacations, paid bills, comforted friends, and navigated lives that required remarkable intelligence every single day.

Then one illness arrives and suddenly we begin questioning everything we once knew about ourselves.

That is a heavy burden for one forgotten grocery item.

The Roads Grow Harder

Researchers have learned that many people living with fibromyalgia experience genuine changes in attention, working memory, processing speed, and word retrieval. Pain competes for the brain's attention. Poor sleep interferes with memory consolidation. Fatigue slows the smooth communication between different parts of the brain.

None of this means intelligence has disappeared. 

Imagine a beautiful old house during a storm. Every room is still there. The books remain on their shelves. The family photographs still hang on the walls.

Only the electricity keeps flickering. Sometimes the lights are bright. Sometimes they're dim. Sometimes one hallway goes dark for a while before quietly coming back.

Fibro fog often works much the same way.

The knowledge hasn't necessarily left.

Access has simply become less dependable.

What The Jar Remembered

That is why I keep returning to the old woman's wine jar. She never mistakes an empty jar for a worthless one. She notices what still remains.

Perhaps we could offer ourselves the same kindness.

Perhaps the forgotten word is not proof that we're becoming less intelligent. Perhaps needing another moment isn't evidence that we've somehow failed. Perhaps our minds are carrying heavier work than anyone else can see.

I've begun giving myself permission to pause instead of apologizing.

If I lose my place in a conversation, I smile and say, "It'll come back."

Most of the time, it does.

And when it doesn't, the people who love me usually remember the word before they remember the pause.

Funny how often we notice our own struggles more than anyone else does.

Carrying More Than We Know

The old woman walked away with nothing anyone else could have seen.

No wine. No treasure. Only the quiet pleasure of discovering that something beautiful had remained inside an ordinary clay jar.

Perhaps that's true of us as well.

Fibromyalgia can slow our thoughts. It can scatter our attention. It can hide familiar words behind unexpected doors.

But hidden is not the same as gone.

Our curiosity remains. Our wisdom remains. Our kindness remains. Our humor—even if it occasionally arrives five minutes late—remains.

The mind that learned, loved, created, endured, and adapted is still here.

Some days we simply have to wait a little longer for the fragrance to reach us.

And perhaps that's enough to remember.

👃Have you ever mistaken a missing word for a missing part of yourself?