It’s hard to believe things will get better. There is so much pain drifting around us. The anti-Blackness, the hunger, the warfare. Protests demanding justice for lives cruelly lost are met with swarming hate. Our short attention spans translate to some treating advocacy work like a trend. I feel hopeless. When I think about the history of the world, my immediate thoughts are of pain. The threads of wounds made long ago wind themselves around me. America prospered thanks to the greediness of colonists and the exertion of slaves. Famines in Europe and Asia in the 1900s caused my Irish and Chinese adoptive grandparents to emigrate. I reside in the US most likely because my biological parents were poor in China and could not afford a girl. If I really let my brain analyze, almost every good thing that has happened to me is the result of others’ struggles. The food I eat? The clothes I like? The chromebook I use to write? All the work of underpaid laborers. I have taken numerous mindfulness and wellbeing courses and the guidance I am provided over and over is to be grateful. Gratitude is what will make me happy. I hunger for gratefulness. It’s a simple solution to a complex world. Yet, something snags me. How can gratitude make me happy when, inherently, suffering is the reason for my pleasure? At times, I have trouble comprehending the good in the world, in other people, and especially in myself when there has always been and still exists pain. I know I can’t solve Earth’s problems on my own and I admire all the people who are stronger than me who encourage me to continue. I crave the hope that carries these remarkable people like Angela Davis, Malala Yousafzai, Ceyenne Dorsohow, Crystal Echo Hawk, and so many more. Compared to them, I feel like I am a child lost in a forest with a dark canopy bearing down on me. Ghosts flit around me crying for love and affection and the stars glimmering above me are hidden. Yet, when I take the moment to breathe, I can feel the chilled, but soothing air. I can smell the crisp flowers and hear the little crickets. The ghosts are still there, but my senses empower me to listen to them. As I keep walking, I may not be able to see the stars-- maybe they are unattainable-- but I can see the beauty drifting around me that inspires me to continue moving. The ghosts simply needed someone to listen, to care, to act. Their stories are sad and painful as well as full of love and strength. I wish they lived in a world where they did not have to be so strong. I can only control myself and what I do and by allowing the little sparks of hope to invigorate me, I can keep listening and I can keep moving. Getting eternally lost in my desperation helps no one. I am grateful for the air, the flowers, the crickets. I am grateful for this moment of spirit. Even when I fall back into despair, I can remember that hope, like pain, drifts and it will come back. Thank you for reading! If you like my essay, please don't be afraid to give it a share. Comments are always welcome and I love hearing your thoughts. Question: When was a time hope drifted for you?
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AuthorI'm Darcy Ridge, creating stories that all revolve around family and identity in a myriad of ways. In the past, I have shared multiple stories and published a novella online. You can find me on Wattpad and many other social media websites. They/them [Image Description: black background with the words "Social Justice and Mental Health Resources" in white in the center /end ID]
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