This morning, I stood at my window and searched for the hills.
They had disappeared overnight.
In their place was a wall of smoke, thick and quiet against the glass. Before I had taken a single breath outside, I felt my chest tighten. Some of that tightness was physical. Most of it, I suspect, was grief.
There is a particular heaviness that comes with fire season. The heat presses down. The sun becomes a dim orange circle. The activities that usually restore us — a morning walk, an evening on the patio, or a swim in the lake — suddenly carry an asterisk. We check the air quality index the way we once checked the weather, and our lives shrink. It can feel as though summer itself has been taken from us.
Perhaps the grey sky leaves you restless, anxious, irritable, or unexpectedly sad. Perhaps you feel guilty for struggling when someone else has lost a home, a community, or someone they love. Yet grief is not a competition. We can be grateful for what remains while mourning what has changed.
The smoke asks something of us beyond closed windows and air purifiers. It asks us to practise a quieter, more deliberate kind of care.
The body comes first. On heavy-smoke days, I move my exercise indoors and make it gentler. Stretching on the living-room floor counts. So does walking the hallway or climbing the stairs. Hydration matters, as does rest. When the air quality is poor, follow local health advice, keep windows closed, use an air purifier if available, and wear a well-fitted respirator, such as an N95, if you must go outside. Heat and smoke tire us in ways we may not recognize. Fatigue is a message from the body, not a personal failing.
The mind needs tending to. I turn on a lamp in the middle of the day, play music, or call someone I love. I limit how often I check the fire maps. There is a difference between staying informed and marinating in dread. A few minutes may help us prepare; hours can leave us frightened and powerless.
The hardest practice is accepting what I cannot control. I cannot bargain with the wind or worry a wildfire into submission. My task is not to pretend the sky is blue. It is to live as well as I can beneath the sky that is here.
There is room, even now, for tenderness. Text the neighbour with asthma. Check on the person who lives alone. Offer an air-conditioned room, a meal, a ride, or a listening ear. Prepare an emergency kit with masks, water, medications, non-perishable food, flashlights, batteries, and copies of important documents. Learn your evacuation route, respect fire restrictions, and support people who have been displaced.
Smoke isolates us behind closed doors, but care can still travel between them.
If the sky is grey today, begin with one act of care. Close the window. Drink the water. Rest without apology. Check on someone. Find out whether your community offers a cleaner-air space, and know where you will go if conditions worsen.
Grey skies eventually change. Until they do, let us care for our bodies, one another, and the world waiting just beyond the smoke. We may not be able to clear the sky, but we can make certain no one faces it alone.
Dr. Amy Tucker proudly calls herself an “accidental athlete.” A senior competitive swimmer and long-distance open-water enthusiast, she has represented Canada as a member of the Age-Group Triathlon Team for the past three years. Amy encourages others to embrace health, movement, and new challenges at every stage of life, proving that it is never too late to begin.