Optimist vs bad news

What happens when life throws a plot twist at your best efforts to hope.

I’d just started practising optimism in earnest when the bad news came.

Like most bad news, it arrived out of the blue—and immediately reshaped my days in ways I was wholly unprepared for.

I’d just been settling into our new house, excited at the prospect of once again having a home of my own. I was unpacking boxes at an increasingly leisurely rate. Honing my ideas for DIY projects, then evolving them into heady plans over late-night chats with my husband.

We could build a bookshelf here. Plant a vegetable garden there. Turn this room into a nursery, one day—if we’re lucky.

I wasn’t blissfully happy.

(I did not have a book deal. I did not have a baby. I didn’t even have a positive pregnancy test.)

For as long as I can remember—and certainly since I got sick—there has been a gap between where I want to be in my life, and where exactly I am. I doubt I’m alone in this. It’s the human way to never be satisfied, to always be reaching, reaching, reaching for the fruit of the future. It is our greatest blessing and our biggest curse.

But even so, I was trying to be hopeful. Ever since the cancer and the loss of my best friend, I have been painfully familiar with how quickly things can change. I forget to be grateful, sometimes, of course. It’s only natural. And anyway, I don’t want to live my whole life afraid of the unexpected phone call.

So I try to live in the grey: staying aware of how unmoored life really is, yet still always searching for joy. Because really—what’s the alternative?

Back to the bad news. Although I would dearly love to tell you what it was, unfortunately, discussing it here could make the situation worse. What I can say is this: it turns out I made a mistake. An everyday sort of mistake, the kind you usually rectify with limited consequences. Only for me, it’s sadly not so simple.

Upon discovery of my error, I was immediately furious with myself. My old admonishments came easily:

I’m worthless.

I’ve let everyone down.

How could I be so fucking useless?

These phrases are the roads well-travelled. The routes I always take when shit gets hard, whether the hardships are a fault of mine or not. The neural pathways are carved in my brain, like rivers through rock, so that when it rains, the horrid thoughts gush through, flooding my mind.

And I was afraid. What if I couldn’t resolve the problem? What if this bad news really did mean disastrous consequences for years to come? My life could once again change immeasurably, and there wouldn’t be a darn thing I could do about it.

I won’t lie. I allowed myself a few days of melancholy. Of berating myself. Of letting the panic seep into my breathless chest and my cramping gut and my flight-ready toes.

On the phone with my parents, I was spiralling when my dad reminded me of a scene from Bridge of Spies.

Tom Hanks is defending a Russian spy, and he asks the man:

“Aren’t you worried?”

The man shrugs.

“Would it help?”

Now, to be clear: I do not condone toxic positivity. If curing anxiety were as simple as stopping your worrying when someone told you to, there’d be no need for the medications and therapists on which I’ve so often relied.

And ever since the bad news came, there have been moments when I suddenly remember the stakes, where I imagine what might happen if things don’t go my way. They are the usual lonely moments. The 2 AM insomnia. The early morning quiet.

But whenever my brain starts up with the disaster montage, I’ve been asking myself:

Is this helping?

And the fact of the matter is, it’s not. The worry and the self-rebuke aren’t helping me. They aren’t making me feel better. They won’t change the outcome.

So instead of picking at the scab of my dread, I am freeing myself from the responsibility of the outcome. Whatever happens, my mistake is already made. I cannot take it back. I can only hope that things will turn out OK.

I am throwing myself into my writing. I am taking long walks. I'm allowing myself a glass of red wine alongside an indulgent serving of cookie dough ice cream.

Because even though I’m used to punishing myself, that self-hatred has never led me anywhere but right back to the rotten start.

The bad news came. The mistake has already been made. And I don’t want to hate myself anymore.

So I’m trying to be kind to myself. Because even if it feels hard to hope for my future, I still want to hope for myself.

Have you ever made a mistake that shook your sense of self? Were you able to work your way back to self-kindness? I’d love to hear how you navigated it.

Oh, and don’t forget to tap the 🧡 button on your way out.

(Unhearted posts are terribly draughty.)

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