Reflections. Elusive hope. Toxic hope. A kind hope.

A story in a story.

We write stories all of the time. There are those that retell the past, full of memories both good and bad. There are the ones we write about the day-to-day. There are those telling what we dream about, what our goals and visions are for our futures. Some of the stories we tell are accurate. Sometimes they aren’t. Sometimes they are fraught with embedded trauma that color how we tell the next story and the next one and the one after that. Sometimes they are stories of prediction…the what-ifs…written so that we can be practiced for the scary unknows ahead. Sometimes they are worst-case-scenarios, those ones helping prepare us for the overwhelm of anticipated grief. Some are told to fill in the gaps of what isn’t remembered…those stories either rooted in reality or in fantasy…and sometimes the two are indiscernible. Many stories are told through a lens of hindsight filled with all of the I-wish-I-would-have-knowns. And sometimes there are stories of desperate hope because we are so sick and tired of suffering that SOMEthing has to go right.

So, it seems fitting that on the day that I’m writing this, it is the anniversary of my DIEP reconstruction (that subsequently failed despite the efforts of 10 surgeries over the span of 4 years). A story that cruelly highlights so many I-wish-I-would-have-knowns. A story that I want a do-over rewrite. A story that involves the past, the present, the future, the memories, the day-to-day, the traumas, the predictions, the best-case-scenarios that turned worst-case around every corner, the anticipated successes turned grief-filled failures, the unknowns, the overwhelm, the suffering, the conclusions that were promised but never were, the promises that 
-created expectations that 
–crafted decisions that 
—caused pains that
I’d wish on no one. 

My DIEP story always causes me to reflect on hope. Why? Because in it – hope is elusive; it’s been offered packaged in clichés and platitudes, empty and unhelpful; it’s been suggested as toxically positive, only perpetuating my despair. And it teaches me to seek real, actual hope, authentic and kind.

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Hope is elusive.

If you were to read the full story of my experience in breast cancer reconstruction from start to finish (read it here), it’s certainly one where hope is elusive. From the start, I was already clinging to a tired hope (advanced cancer diagnosis… amputation… chemo… radiation… fear… unknowns… badnewsafterbadnewsafterbadnews). A hope that continued to be dashed at every turn. A hope that eventually became hollow because literally nothing was working. A hope that had to then turn vicarious, clinging to that of my family, my surgeon, my nurses, my fellow carcinomies… And then even that was dashed. 

Let me tell you how painful it is to look in the mirror time and time again
…hoping the pain would be worth it 
……but learning every single time that it wasn’t.  
Or how painful it is to realize that my own body is not a safe place to exist
…hoping that the next decision would fix that 
……but finding out that it’s unfixable. 
Or how painful it is to see defeat in the eyes of a world-class skilled surgeon
…him hoping that I wasn’t really asking him to undo it all after all we’d been through
……but having to convince him that my escape was more important than his feelings. 
Or how painful it is to watch a tired husband
…him hoping that his idea of moving on would now be possible
……but not being able to join him there because ‘the way it was’ will never again be. 
Or how painful it is to be faced with and forced to weigh un-winnable decisions
…hoping that I’m not also being held responsible for the well-being of my loved ones while doing so
……but finding out I was held responsible for the well-being of my loved ones (while my own hung in the balance) even though I didn’t ask for any of this.
Or how painful it is to keep showing up
…hoping that it would get easier because everyone told me it would
……but realizing it never will.
Or how painful it is to be hopeless
…hoping that hope still exists 
……but feeling uncertain that it does.

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Pre-packaged, clichéd, toxic (yes toxic) hope.

Whenever I talk of my recon story, most can’t understand it. And whenever I talk about my struggle with hope, most can’t understand that, either. Instead, I get any one of the following responses: 1. You want more hope, just have more faith because everything happens for a reason. 2. Hopelessness isn’t of God so just trust in His plan. 3. Just be grateful…or just focus on love… and you’ll have more hope. 4. You need more hope, so just pray harder for it. 5. Happiness is hopefulness so just be positive.

Well, but aren’t these true?
Here’s the deal…these sound really pretty, I’ll give you that. And I’ll admit that yes, there is some truth in each one. But, these comments are often made from a place of privilege and when not said from a level playing field, they largely disregard the suffering of the one who feels hopeless and is hurting.

What do you mean a place of privilege?
I sit in a place of privilege every day when I serve my counseling and coaching clients, or listen to my kids, or talk with my friends. I might think I know grief. And loss. And suffering. And trauma. And story. And I deeply do! My own! But I do not know theirs. I might be able to feel with my clients…or my kids…or my friends…but I cannot feel exactly what they feel even when we have similar storylines. So, I sit in privilege that I do not fully know what they know about their pain. (And of course, vice versa.) Therefore, I must be so mindful that my position of privilege doesn’t overtake their reality. 

Let me be really specific – I have experience as a cancer patient. If you do not, you sit in a place of privilege that you haven’t. Or, if you do, you still sit in a place of privilege of not experiencing cancer in the same way I have and certainly, the same goes for the reverse. Or maybe you’ve experienced sexual assault. I have, too. Yet, I am in a place of privilege still as I don’t know SA like you know SA. The concept of privilege is not limited to political nuance, rather it is applicable to many other facets in life…including suffering and hopelessness.

So, what then?
Pre-packaged, platitude-d, toxically positive hope is not helpful when coming from a place of privilege. It actually can feel hurtful. To tell someone to just faith harder or pray harder or joy harder or gratitude harder when it is so painful to do so doesn’t invite hope or glimmers of light, it insinuates they are failing…and to suggest that one is failing at suffering… No. That is not helpful. To tell someone to just trust that there is some divine plan for their pain insinuates that their pain is required by the divine as a prerequisite to goodness… No. This, too, is not helpful. To tell someone to just be happier suggests that their healing hinges on their aptitude for positivity, insinuating guilt and shame if they don’t feel happy… No. This is also not helpful. 

Considering these things, whenever you want to offer encouragement toward hope, please ponder your privilege first. How easy it is to tell someone to have hope when staying safely distant from their (or your own) pain.

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A kinder hope.

So what is real, authentic, actual hope if it’s not packaged and clichéd and toxic? It’s kind. Kind hope is rooted in curiosity. Cliché and pre-packaged platitudes struggle to exist when there is the element of curiosity. It’s difficult (nearly impossible) for judgment to occur when showing curiosity. Same goes for privilege. And definitely, when there is curiosity, toxic positivity loses the room to breathe. 

Think about it. To wonder, to ask, to seek understanding, to value learning, to be open to new perspectives, to be curious about how another thinks and feels…that is kindness. When listening first, cliché, platitude, toxic positivity can’t also be said. And as it relates to privilege, no one, and I literally mean NO ONE (not even the experts), has the market cornered on anything. And that includes hope. 

So, the next time someone in your life is struggling with hope, rather than telling them how to hope or where they should find it, start by asking them to share with you whatever it is they want to share with you about whatever it is they are experiencing. And then just keep asking and wondering and seeking understanding and learning and being open to their perspectives. Quiet the inner voices in your head that tell you to give them your answers. Shush your responses and tune into your curiosity. And that kind act, in and of itself, will offer hope. And you don’t even have to tell them that.

Oh, and if you, yourself, are curious about your own experiences, you will more easily access your own self-kindness and quite possibly, your own hope, especially when it feels elusive.

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June’s Message

The stories we write, matter. The stories we tell have value and impact and implications. Do we test our stories with truth and accuracy? Do we hindsight carefully? Do we challenge ourselves to still dream and vision even if it feels scary or pointless? Do we write conclusions before the story is actually lived IRL? Do our conclusions set up our expectations that hinder rather than help? Do we write our hope?

Hope doesn’t lie in platitudes. It’s not packaged in privilege. It isn’t toxic positivity. Hope isn’t just hoping harder while denying what’s real. Hope isn’t an answer. Rather it’s a question. It can be hopelessness as much as it can be hopefulness. It can be a confused hope or a vicarious hope. It can be invisible and unfelt. It can also be evident and tangible. It can be sensed from divine sources when life feels outta control. It can also be okay to seek hope elsewhere when it seems like the divine is oblivious to suffering. Hope doesn’t always have to make sense. And real, authentic, actual hope is curiously kind.

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As always, I so appreciate you reading. See you next month. ❤️

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