The River Didn’t Answer
An old fisherman believed music could persuade the river.
Each morning he carried his wooden flute to the water’s edge. Sitting among the smooth stones, he played gentle melodies, convinced the fish would rise willingly to greet him. The notes drifted across the still water, but the river remained quiet. Nothing stirred beneath the surface.
After a while, the fisherman laid down his flute and picked up his net.
With one practiced cast, he drew it back heavy with fish. As they flopped helplessly across the woven cords, he lifted his flute again and smiled.
“Now you dance when I play.” An old fish answered from within the net, “When you are in a man’s power, you must do as he bids you.”
The fisherman believed the music had finally worked. The fish knew better.
The Day I Saw the Net
Some fables stay with us because we eventually discover we weren’t reading about the fish. We were reading about ourselves.
For years I misunderstood this story. I assumed it was about sticking to what you know or not expecting impossible things. Those lessons are there, but they are not the one that found me.
Only much later did I recognize the net. Control rarely begins with shouting. It begins with expectation.
If I explain myself well enough…
If I love you well enough…
If I am patient enough…
Surely you’ll respond the way I hoped. When reality refuses, control quietly picks up the net.
Becoming Smaller, One Silence at a Time
In my marriage, different opinions slowly became unacceptable. Disagreement wasn’t simply disagreement. It became disrespect. Independence became betrayal. Over time, I stopped asking whether I believed something and started asking whether it was safe to say it aloud.
That is how people become smaller without noticing. Not all at once. One opinion. One apology. One silence. One careful conversation at a time.
Eventually, I wasn’t choosing my words because they reflected who I was. I was choosing them because I feared what would happen if I didn’t.
Once, I finally said the sentence I had rehearsed for months. “The angry outbursts have to stop, or I’ll have to leave.” He agreed.
So I quietly began preparing. Medical records. Medication refills. Boxes. Utility transfers. A new checking account. Maps. Addresses. The thousand practical details that come with dismantling a life.
What surprised me wasn’t the work. It was how quickly I disappeared.
Within minutes I was unfriended on Facebook. Our anniversary vanished from the calendar. The dinner I had prepared was dumped into the sink with the dirty dishes instead of eaten.
Then came silence. Cold, complete silence.
Questions That Sound Like Surrender
I found myself asking questions that surprised me. Should I go back? Am I overreacting? Am I being a bad wife? Could I pretend none of this happened? People often mistake these questions for uncertainty.
I don’t think they are. I think they’re grief.
Before the Thunder Ever Came
I once had a dog who hated thunderstorms. Long before the first crack of thunder, he knew. He would scramble desperately into my lap, panting and trembling, searching for the safest place he could find.
That’s exactly how my body feels then. Not weak. Not irrational. Simply trying to survive what it believes is coming. Our nervous systems are remarkably good students.
When conflict repeatedly leads to fear, humiliation, or emotional danger, the brain stops waiting for proof. It begins preparing at the first hint of storm clouds. Stress hormones rise before words are spoken. Muscles tighten before voices are raised. The body learns that safety depends upon anticipating danger rather than reacting to it.
That isn’t failure. It’s adaptation. Fibromyalgia often magnifies this process.
A nervous system already living with central sensitization becomes even more vigilant. Emotional stress doesn’t stay emotional for long. It becomes exhaustion, aching muscles, brain fog, stomach upset, headaches, sleepless nights, and fingers that feel too tired even to type.
People sometimes ask why those of us with chronic illness seem to react so strongly to emotional upheaval. Perhaps because our bodies never believed the storm had completely passed.
Grief Doesn’t Need a Silver Lining
Around the same time, I stumbled across one of those cheerful sayings the internet loves. “Change is good. Adaptable people embrace change.”
For one brief moment I almost believed it. Then I laughed. No. I don’t want this change. I wanted a happy marriage. I wanted peace. I wanted the future I thought we were building together. Narcissist’s can deliver these.
Sometimes grief isn’t resisting change. Sometimes grief is simply telling the truth about what has been lost.
Learning the Difference Between Dancing and Surviving
There is a line from Anna Nalick’s “Breathe” that has stayed with me for years.
“No one can find the rewind button… so breathe. Just breathe.”
That feels more honest than inspirational slogans. Not because breathing fixes anything. Because breathing is enough for today.
The old fish understood something the fisherman never did. Movement inside a net is not dancing. Sometimes what looks like agreement is survival.
And sometimes the bravest thing we ever do is finally admit we were never dancing at all.
