Life, in Between Hope and Despair

Reflections on finding hope and what's helped me stay optimistic in tough times

This was the view from my apartment in business school. I’ve always found daybreak to be a hopeful time.

Finding hope in dark days is a topic I’ve wanted to explore for a while.

It’s an unsettling time and so many are struggling to stay positive given everything going on in the world. Many, unfortunately, are slipping into the depths of despair — some in public, some in silence.

Despair is a topic I know all too well; I’ve experienced it many times over the last fifteen years. It was most prevalent in the early days of my rare disease journey when I tried everything I could to stop my muscle weakness, to no avail. There were some days when it was hard to get out of bed.

In the last few years, my outlook on life has improved, but I still have days when I feel exhausted by my symptoms, leading me to (erroneously) conclude that life will never, ever, improve.

But as low as these low moments can be, I’ve also found hope — real, authentic hope.

And hope almost always follows the despair.

My goal for this piece

Hope is a straightforward topic to write about, but finding hope is trickier to explore within the confines of an article. Finding hope doesn’t lend itself easily to a universal five-step checklist. It’s context-dependent, deeply intertwined with one’s life experience, outlook, and belief system. What might help you find hope might not work for me, and vice versa.

Today, instead of offering advice and best practices, I’m going to share 12 reflections about hope, and its antithesis, despair. Then, I’ll share 16 ways I’ve found hope on my rare disease journey.

My hope — er, goal — is that one of these items will resonate with you. If something in this piece helps you find hope with whatever you’re dealing with, even better.

I recognize that times are hard and you may not be in a hopeful mood at the moment. If so, I still hope you read on, just in case.

I don’t expect you to agree with everything. Take what you need, and discard the rest.

12 reflections on hope (and despair)

1. I define hope as the belief that the future will be better than the present. In other words, if times are tough now, that they’ll eventually improve. It’s not so much expecting everything to get better, but some things.

2. Hope can’t be forced upon us externally. Hope is ours to find alone. Others can offer helpful advice (practicing gratitude, taking action, finding purpose, having faith, etc.), but they can’t make us feel hopeful. It’s a permission only we can grant to ourselves.

3. One of my favorite books on hope is The Comfort Book, by Matt Haig. It’s a series of short reflections (some as brief as a paragraph) on how Haig navigated through severe depression and found hope on the other side. I wish this book existed 12 years ago when I needed it the most.

   

4. Books about persevering through adversity — as difficult and tragic as they are — are some of the most hopeful books ever written. Three of my favorites include Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl; The Choice, by Dr. Edith Eger; and Unbroken, by Laura Hillenbrand. They are a testament to the power of the human spirit.

5. In my experience, I’ve found that it’s much easier to fall into despair than it is to find hope. Understanding this asymmetry can be instructive. The next time you feel despair, don’t beat yourself up for slipping into its grasp. If despair is akin to being pulled down by gravity, then hope is fighting to reach escape velocity. Finding hope takes more work, but it’s worth the effort.

6. It’s okay to hope against all odds. Hope is oxygen in tough times. Even if the odds are stacked against us, as long as there’s a chance that things will get better, hope is warranted. Right now, I don’t know how my disease will be cured, but I have hope that it will someday. Improbable doesn’t mean impossible.

7. When I climb out of despair, I don’t immediately feel hopeful. At least in my experience, there is a middle ground between hope and despair, an equilibrium where I’m neither too high nor too low. But reaching this equilibrium is still a huge relief.

8. Hope and despair are uniquely human emotions. Yes, AI can be trained to write anguished essays and cheerful poems, but it will never be able to understand these uniquely human experiences. That’s why the human perspective will always matter. We write from a place of firsthand knowledge; we know on a visceral level what suffering means, and consequently, what makes life worth living.

9. Bitter people might be full of rage and vitriol, but deep down, they are in despair. Hopeful people don’t become jaded internet trolls. Recognizing this doesn’t excuse their behavior, but it helps to understand its source.

10. Our inner critic feasts on despair. Speaking of trolls, there’s no worse troll than our inner critic. It thrives in our lowest moments. “You’ll never amount to anything,” it whispers through our tears. “There’s no hope. Just give up.” But our inner critic never tells the whole story. Always remember that.

11. Don’t ever apologize for being hopeful when everyone else is pessimistic. And don’t apologize if you feel despair when others feel hopeful.

12. Without despair, we can’t appreciate hope. We can’t appreciate light without first knowing darkness. As awful as despair is, it gives hope its meaning.

How I’ve found hope through the years

Since my diagnosis, I’ve found hope in several ways. Different strategies have helped at different times, depending on my needs. Not all these ways will be relevant to you, and that’s okay.

1. Faith. As a Christian, my faith has sustained me in hard times. It’s a hard-won faith — with occasional rough patches — but it has been a source of enduring hope, reminding me that my suffering has a purpose. If faith isn’t your thing, try to find something that gives you a feeling of transcendence — a connection to nature, loving and serving others, finding a cause beyond yourself, etc.

2. Love. My family is a source of unconditional love. When I’ve struggled the most, they’ve been by my side. Knowing that I’m loved gives me hope that whatever happens to me physically, I won’t have to face it alone.

3. Connecting with friends. When I talk to my friends, I feel better equipped to handle my struggles. They make me laugh, and when needed, know how to give me a pep talk. In my lowest moments, when all seems lost, someone is always willing to pick up the phone.¹

4. Letting go of the past. Sometimes, when I feel hopeless, it’s because I can’t let go of mistakes I made or decisions I didn’t make. But when I let go, and focus on what’s in front of me, I gain the clarity and headspace to embrace future possibilities.

5. Remembering how much I’ve been through. Okay, I lied. I do think about the past — but only when it reminds me of how much I’ve endured in my life. My past resilience is a testament to what I’ve overcome, giving me irrefutable evidence that when I encounter tough times again, I’ll be ready.

6. The future is full of potential. A few years ago, Tim Urban shared a striking visual that illuminates the power of possibility. (See below.) Yes, the future may contain horrible outcomes, but there are many other potential paths too, far more than we realize. Some may even lead to incredible futures.

   

7. Remembering that I’m terrible at making predictions. This is related to the last point. I’m great at many things (writing, making jokes, memorizing world capitals, eating pizza, etc.), but making predictions isn’t one of them. This is, strangely, quite hopeful! I tend to catastrophize. Some catastrophes have come true, yes, but most haven’t.

8. Believing in the promise of technology. Technology is always progressing. (Sometimes, in bad ways, but that’s a topic for another day.) Fifteen years ago, no one knew about CRISPR. Ten years ago, few people were talking about AI. Now, they’re ubiquitous. Although there’s not a cure for my disease today, exoskeletons are progressing. Which is great; I’m ready to become Iron Man.

9. Watching the sunrise. I am not a morning person whatsoever, and will only get up at the crack of dawn kicking and screaming. That said, when I have to get up early, a sunrise always takes my breath away. It’s a reminder that as difficult as the day ahead may be, life will always be beautiful.

10. Forging new connections. I am always looking to meet new people. When I do, my life expands, and the forces of serendipity are able to do their work. Growing my network is a way to push back against stagnation, a precursor of despair.

11. Writing. Writing helps me connect with readers, explore my feelings, and clarify my thoughts. It’s an antidote to despair and gives me hope that I have a promising future ahead of me.

12. Using my pain for good. There’s no better feeling than lightening someone’s burdens. If I can do that by sharing my struggles — you guessed it — it fills me with hope. HOPE = Help Other People Everyday.

13. Limiting news and social media. This step is more about limiting despair than finding hope. But limiting despair is half the battle. It’s important to stay informed, yes, but I don’t need to be following breaking news updates 24/7.

14. Controlling what I can control. It’s easy to get discouraged by what’s outside my control. (My disease, the state of the world, etc.) But by focusing on productive actions I can take, I’m able to control a lot more than I realize. Not everything, but a lot. And that’s been empowering.

15. Disputing my negative thoughts. Sometimes, I find hope by pushing back against negative thought patterns. Granted, there are many reasons to feel despair (grief, a disease diagnosis, world calamities, etc.) that can’t be reasoned away through disputation. But in some instances, it helps. This is why I always try to ask myself if my thoughts are actually true. Many times, the situation isn’t nearly as bad as I first thought.

16. Laughing. When I force myself to find humor in tough times, it’s my way of rebelling against despair. As long as I can laugh, I know I’ll be alright.

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This post was cathartic for me to write; going forward, I plan to revisit it any time I’m feeling down. Which, honestly, is how I feel today. Not despair, but disappointment.

My muscle disease has advanced over the last few years, and every time I have an appointment or go in for a test, I’m reminded of how much my condition has irreparably progressed.

But there’s one more thing that gives me hope— the essence of hope itself.

As Matt Haig put it so eloquently in The Comfort Book:

“Nothing is stronger than a small hope that doesn’t give up.”

Hope is stubborn. Beautifully stubborn. Even in our lowest moments, hope can survive against all odds, laying dormant until it shows up right when we need it most.

I look forward to its arrival.

A quick announcement

My friend

Erin Nolan

is one of the most talented illustrators I’ve ever met. She’s a tech worker by day, and Expressive Art Facilitator by night. She's also processed the last decade of her life through journaling.

This March, she’s launching a 4-week Expressive Journaling workshop.

Here’s how Erin describes it in her own words:

“If you're searching for a gentle way to process these overwhelming times, join me this March for a 4-week Expressive Journaling workshop. I'll teach you simple but powerful practices to kickstart your journaling habit and use it to feel grounded when everything feels uncertain.

We'll use color, shape, and symbols to reconnect with creativity and process what words alone can't capture. You'll leave feeling more connected and centered, with a unique artifact to honor this moment in time.

A few examples from the class.

As one student shared: “This incredible course came at a critical time in my life. It's helping me reconnect with myself in a way far beyond words.”

The workshop runs once per week from March 7th-28th, from 8 am-9:30 am PT.

Spaces are limited to 7 students.

No artistic experience needed. Just bring your kind, curious, human self."

If you have any questions, you can contact Erin at rewildingimaginationus@gmail.com.

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1. Granted, sometimes they pick up and go, “Stop calling me!”, but they do pick up.