On the peculiar exhaustion of believing, losing, and having to begin again.
Hope is such a beautiful, life-giving feeling.
It inspires vitality. It wets the lips of a mouth cracked and brittle from the suffering that life so generously insists on providing. For a moment, you're elated by the quenched thirst and relieved by the certainty of the present moment: I will be okay.
And perhaps you will be.
But hope is fleeting. Much like the leaf you watched fall from the tree outside your window, only to be whisked away by the wind and carried into the vast void of the unknowable. (Maybe an overly poetic and scientifically questionable interpretation of the observer effect in physics, but I digress.) Something was there. You saw it. You experienced it. And then, suddenly, it was gone. Or perhaps it simply moved beyond your ability to observe it. Which, frankly, is a particularly irritating distinction when you're the one left standing at the window.
We talk about hope as though it's inherently benevolent. Something to cultivate, protect, and cling to when life becomes unbearable. But what happens when hope becomes something you have to recover from? When you've allowed yourself to believe, repeatedly, that something meaningful might finally be taking shape, only to find yourself standing in the wreckage of another possibility that never quite became reality?
Knowing you can survive something doesn't mean you want to keep surviving it.
There's a peculiar exhaustion that comes from being resilient. We're told how strong we are, how much we've overcome, how remarkable it is that we continue to show up. Wonderful. Fantastic. A standing ovation for the human nervous system - Huzzah.
But has anyone considered that perhaps we'd like a fucking break?
Perhaps we'd like to experience something beautiful without wondering how much it's going to hurt when it disappears. To believe that the good thing unfolding in front of us is, in fact, a good thing, rather than another elaborate opportunity for personal growth. Because, respectfully, some of us have grown quite enough for the time being.
Psychologically, this makes sense. Our brains learn from experience, searching for patterns and anticipating potential threats. When disappointment becomes familiar, possibility itself can begin to feel dangerous. We rehearse the loss before we've even experienced the joy.
Sometimes we call this intuition. Sometimes realism. Sometimes it's simply an attempt to manufacture certainty where none exists. And then there's the grief of possibility. The relationship that almost became something. The opportunity that seemed within reach. The future you briefly allowed yourself to imagine. How do you grieve something you never actually had?
We're remarkably dismissive of these losses. As though the absence of something tangible somehow negates the meaning it held. But we don't only become attached to what exists. We become attached to what things represent, what they awaken in us, and what they allow us to imagine.
Sometimes what hurts most isn't losing the thing itself. It's losing the feeling that perhaps things were finally going to be different.
And not every disappointment needs to become a lesson. We've developed an extraordinary appetite for transforming suffering into something productive. Every heartbreak must reveal an opportunity for growth. Every loss must become a testament to our strength. Apparently, we're not permitted to experience something painful without extracting a meaningful character-development arc from it. And listen, I appreciate psychological insight as much as the next therapist - But sometimes the lesson is simply that something hurt.
Sometimes you made thoughtful decisions, acted in accordance with your values, and still ended up disappointed. No hidden wound to uncover. No maladaptive pattern to dismantle. No profound revelation. Just complete and utter disappointment with a healthy side of exhaustion.
As a therapist, I recognize the importance of hope. But I also recognize that human beings are not endlessly renewable emotional resources. We can want meaningful, connected lives while feeling profoundly weary of the uncertainty involved in pursuing them. Perhaps we don't need another reminder to remain hopeful. Perhaps we could simply acknowledge that we're tired.
I wish I had something more reassuring to offer. Some beautifully articulated wisdom about trusting the process. But I don't know that everything will work out and neither do you.
We can be courageous and disappointed. Hopeful and exhausted. Openhearted and afraid. We can know we'll survive another loss while desperately wishing we wouldn't have to.
And maybe we can allow those contradictions to exist without insisting they resolve into something more palatable.
Because sometimes hope feels wonderful. Sometimes it hurts. And sometimes, quite frankly, you're just tired of being so fucking resilient.
