sunshine and sadness.

Sometimes, after a long period of suffering and wandering around in the dark, we finally come up for air. It seemingly happens out of nowhere, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and we are able to take a deep breath. We recognize ourselves for the first time—in a long time—and are surprised by what we find:

That we are alright.

And I mean alright in the deepest sense of the word. What we feel is all is right—within—despite what is happening on the perimeters of our life. We can see clearly, all the ways we have been fighting and pushing up against our selves—all our difficulties and contradictions and wounded places. As Mary Oliver says, we can “let the soft animal of (our) body love what it loves.”

We can come home to ourselves.

We can look around with love and gratitude for all we have been through, marveling at the wonder that we have made it out and that we are okay.

And okay doesn’t mean without scars or an undercurrent of grief. I think it is normal to soften around the seasons that brought so much pain, to look back with a heartbreaking sadness for the person that had to travel in loneliness on that particular path, in that particular time.

Even Jesus wept.

And yet, we are given the gift of distance at some point—the ability to become separate from our experience, to look back and see what we learned. To realize that what was returned to us in the process could not have come through any other means, to understand that sometimes healing requires the breaking and resetting of bones.

We are not so fragile as we may seem.

But these moments—these truly precious, sweet moments with our truest self—they show us the way. One of the best things I ever heard was to lean into the glimpses of joy and love and peace because we will need them when the hard times come again. They are memories of sustenance that we can return to when we have forgotten who we are and what is most important.

It is never a waste of time to love oneself wholly in any given instant.

We are so unfamiliar with treating the parts of ourselves that are most uncomfortable with compassion. Our instinct is to run and hide, or bully and condemn. Neither gets us to where we are trying to go.

Can you be with yourself in your most difficult places? Can you look with a curiosity and an openness, a kindness even?

Because this is how we move forward just a little bit more whole. We cannot avoid our hurting places, no matter how hard we try. Eventually, they will catch up. But if we stay with them, gently accepting and welcoming and making friends with them—we will no longer fear the things that make us human.

This is no easy task, and sometimes the urge to go to sleep will win out.

Do not worry—the hibernation is sometimes a necessary part of the work.

But know this—there is always light available to you.

Even if it’s cloudy.

Even if there is a storm.

Even if you can’t see it right now.

It’s there.

And you will eventually find your way back once again.

My therapist used to say to me—you can borrow my hope.

So I’ll say the same to you.

You can borrow mine.

All is not lost.

And the sun will come out again.