Facing the Fugglies

The Fugglies don’t knock. They show up uninvited—scruffy thoughts with crooked teeth and muddy boots, tracking doubt across the floor of your mind. Ffyo felt them before she saw them: the tight chest, the heavy pause, the whisper that said, You’re behind. You missed something. You should already know.

She tried to outrun them. Busy steps. Louder plans. Faster thinking. But the Fugglies love a chase. The more she hurried, the more they multiplied—each one carrying a different fear, all of them tugging at her focus like loose threads.

That’s when the Rangers taught her the first rule: stop running. Not to fight. Not to fix. Just to stand. Fugglies lose their power when you face them still. When Ffyo slowed her breath, the noise softened. The Fugglies didn’t disappear—but they stopped shouting.

Up close, they weren’t monsters at all. One was worry wearing urgency as a disguise. Another was old disappointment pretending to be prediction. A third was fear, exhausted from trying to keep her safe. The Rangers reminded her: Fugglies are signals, not verdicts.

So Ffyo listened. She asked one simple question at a time. What are you protecting? What do you need me to notice? What happens if I don’t panic? With each answer, the Fugglies shrank—not because they were defeated, but because they were understood.

By the time she moved again, the path was clearer. Not perfect. Not easy. But honest. The Fugglies walked beside her now, quieter and lighter, no longer steering—just informing.

And that’s the Ranger way. You don’t erase the Fugglies. You face them, learn from them, and keep going—with steadier feet, clearer eyes, and a little more room to breathe.