This is a tender week for me. There are several things happening in my life that I’m not ready to share publicly—and some of them aren’t mine to share. But I can tell you that my heart feels heavy. There is grief here. Uncertainty. Change I didn’t ask for. And change I knew was coming but somehow arrived too quickly anyway.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to look for beauty when life hurts.
Last week, I wrote about the granular good—the small, ordinary moments of goodness that are easy to miss when we’re so focused on what isn’t going well. But this week, I’ve been thinking about the other side of that idea. Because sometimes life isn’t just busy or stressful. Sometimes it genuinely hurts.
A Gentle Reminder
In seasons like this, I don’t want to rush myself toward gratitude. I don’t want to turn pain into a lesson before I’ve actually allowed myself to feel it. And I don’t want to force myself to find a silver lining.
Sometimes things are simply hard. We grieve. We’re angry or afraid or deeply disappointed. We don’t know what’s going to happen next. Those emotions deserve room too. But I’m learning something else at the same time: pain doesn’t have to have exclusive access to my attention.
I can grieve and notice the way the morning light comes through the window. I can feel uncertain about the future and laugh with someone I love. I can miss what was and still be curious about what might be. I can have tears in my eyes and still notice that the sky is beautiful. One doesn’t cancel out the other.
The Both/And
I think this is part of what emotional health actually looks like.
We often imagine healing as moving from one emotional state to another—from sadness to happiness, fear to peace, grief to acceptance. But maybe healing isn’t always about leaving one feeling behind.
Maybe sometimes it’s about becoming spacious enough to hold more than one thing at a time. The human experience is rarely either/or. It’s both/and.
- I can be heartbroken and deeply grateful.
- I can wish things were different and accept what is true today.
- I can grieve what I’m losing and make room for what is beginning.
- I can feel afraid of what comes next and trust that I will find my way through it.
Both things can be true.
Perhaps one of the kindest things we can do for ourselves in difficult seasons is stop demanding that we choose.
We can let the painful thing be painful. We can cry. We can grieve. We can be disappointed. We can acknowledge that something isn’t how we wanted it to be. And then, without asking ourselves to feel differently, we can keep our eyes open.
A Pause for This Week
Maybe you are carrying something heavy too.
Instead of asking yourself to feel better, fix it, or find the positive, what if you simply asked:
What else is here?
Maybe there is grief and a friend who keeps checking in.
Uncertainty and a quiet morning.
Heartbreak and laughter around the dinner table.
Fear and a moment when your body finally feels safe enough to exhale.
Loss and something new beginning to take shape.
Look for the text from a friend. The dog curled up beside you. A really good cup of coffee. Laughter that catches you by surprise. A beautiful sunset. The tiny moments when you realize that even though something hurts, not everything hurts.
Not because any of these things fix what’s painful. They don’t. But because pain isn’t the only thing here.
Your Turn
This week, notice your own both/and.
I’m grieving __________, and I’m grateful for __________.
I’m uncertain about __________, and I’m finding goodness in __________.
You don’t have to make the first part smaller to make room for the second. If you’d like, hit reply and share yours with me. I’d love to hear what’s true for you right now.
I’m practicing this alongside you.
I’m not looking for the silver lining, and I’m not asking myself to hurry through grief. I’m letting myself feel what needs to be felt. And while I do, I’m keeping my eyes open. For beauty. For goodness. For the granular good.
Not because any of it makes the hard thing less hard.
But because pain isn’t the only thing here.
And maybe, for today, that’s enough.