There are times in life when joy seems completely absent, when hope appears distant, unattainable, or even illusory. These are periods when you awaken feeling utterly drained, as if the world has lost all its gentleness—no trace of beauty, no meaningful bonds, nothing comforting to lean on. I’ve been enduring such a phase in my own life recently.
My eyesight is deteriorating due to macular degeneration. I’m also the primary caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mother. On top of that, I’m dealing with the challenges of disability, mounting financial pressures, and a pervasive sense that my future is contracting rather than expanding. On most days, I navigate through existence in a state of emotional numbness and physical fatigue, struggling to recall the person I once was.
I persistently search for something solid to cling to, yet joy slips away like mist—glimpsed for an instant but impossible to grasp. It seems reserved for others, something I observe from afar but cannot inhabit myself.
Every Other Friday
Every two weeks, I visit my ophthalmologist for injections designed to decelerate the progression of my vision loss. The waiting area is invariably charged with subdued anxiety—eyes filled with apprehension, heavy sighs, individuals striving to maintain their composure. I settle in, focusing on my breathing, anticipating the call of my name.
Invariably, a woman—likely in her late fifties or early sixties—storms in, brimming with fury. Even before taking a seat, she’s confronting the receptionist with vehement complaints.
“This is outrageous. I’ve been waiting an eternity. You all have no idea what you’re doing!”
If anyone approaches the counter too closely, she snaps at them: “Don’t even think about cutting in line ahead of me!”
She yells into her phone, berating the driver who transported her there at no charge. Her voice booms as she laments how the entire world has forsaken her. On one occasion, she directed her ire toward me: “Individuals like you can’t possibly understand. You’re spoiled. You couldn’t care less.”
The entire room falls silent. Heads bow low. Postures stiffen. The atmosphere grows tense and biting. It feels as though all sense of security evaporates instantly.
Each encounter with her outburst prompts a somber reflection within me: Have we deteriorated to this? A society devoid of compassion, warmth, and happiness?
This scene mirrors the collective sentiment so many of us grapple with nowadays—a profound isolation, mounting fear, and fractured connections. It’s a culture burdened by such intense suffering that rage emerges as the sole means of expression.
I recognize this turmoil echoing within me as well.
A Moment That Changed Something
However, an event unfolded recently that profoundly altered my perspective on all of it.
Just a couple of days prior to one of my appointments, I was spending time with my mother. The conversation was mundane, nothing remarkable. Then, out of nowhere, we both burst into laughter. This wasn’t a courteous chuckle or a faint grin—it was genuine, robust, unexpected, and vibrant.
I caught the delight in her tone. Her features brightened noticeably. My own chest eased, and the knots in my shoulders began to unravel. A wave of relief washed over me from a strain I hadn’t fully acknowledged. In those brief instants, a profound, ephemeral sense of happiness enveloped me.
Even as it occurred, I sensed the uniqueness of that instant. It materialized abruptly and vanished just as swiftly, yet its authenticity was undeniable. It served as a powerful reminder that I remain capable of experiencing joy—that my spirit isn’t irreparably damaged, merely weary.
Seeing Her Differently
Thus, when I returned to the eye clinic and the irate woman burst through the doors once more—yelling, swearing, and making accusations—my response was transformed.
As I observed her, fear gave way to understanding. I perceived a person overwhelmed by anguish, with no outlet for her torment. Someone who might not have experienced laughter in ages. Someone left behind by a relentlessly advancing world that overlooks her.
Her fury wasn’t a display of strength. It was sorrow masquerading as aggression. It was mourning without a safe harbor.
In that realization, I understood she wasn’t the core issue—she was a manifestation of deeper problems.
A manifestation of a civilization where individuals feel invisible, where agony is dismissed, where dread overshadows kindness, and where delight is regarded as an extravagance rather than a vital sustenance.
Hope Is Not a Grand Emotion
I once believed hope required a monumental shift—a sweeping change, a definitive epiphany of salvation. I assumed joy had to be expansive to hold significance.
My outlook has evolved considerably:
- Hope manifests in modest ways.
- Hope is fleeting.
- Hope whispers softly.
- Hope is a flicker, not a blaze.
- Hope is the sound of your mother laughing.
- Hope is a breath that eases strain.
- Hope is recognizing an instant as it unfolds.
- Hope is rejecting the dominance of suffering in our narratives.
One Small Moment Can Save Us
The world can appear devoid of joy during certain stretches. It might seem unforgiving and fragmented. It could brim with hostility, much like that woman in the waiting area. Nevertheless, each instance of laughter, each softening of demeanor, each breakthrough piercing the gloom affirms a vital truth:
Life persists. Joy remains within reach. The heart retains its memory of lightness.
We need not postpone appreciation until all is resolved; we can cherish the minor occurrences right now.
A Practice for When Hope Feels Gone
Pause and close your eyes briefly. Inhale deeply and steadily.
Recall a single instance—no matter how insignificant—where you sensed warmth or a genuine link.
Perhaps a hearty laugh. A warm smile. A reassuring touch. Sunlight caressing your skin. Or any such experience.
Nurture that recollection tenderly through five mindful breaths. Observe the subtle shifts occurring within.
That sensation represents the origin of restoration.
Consider this: When did you last encounter even a faint glimmer of delight?
What might unfold if you permitted that instant to hold weight?
For me, it was hearing my mother’s laughter. And in this moment, I’m deciding that it suffices.
