When everything seems to go wrong, when life lobbs half a dozen curved balls at you at once, it's easy to focus on the negative and to ignore the positives. My last posts pay testomony to that.
The setbacks scream louder than the small wins. The pressure mounts, decisions stall, and before you know it, you're living in survival mode — reacting, bracing, enduring. It's exhausting. And in that fatigue, the good things — often quieter, more subtle — get overlooked. But they’re still there, even if hiding in the shadows of stress.
In the past few months, I've been hit by a few of those curve balls: uncertainty about support funding, medical complications, the decay of crucial equipment, and the constant hum of financial instability. Each one, on its own, would be manageable. Together? They feel like a siege. And when the walls start closing in, I’ve found myself spiralling toward the familiar temptation: to only count what’s been taken, not what remains.
But here’s the thing. Amid the chaos, I’ve started noticing moments — and people — that don’t get the headlines but deserve them. A phone call offering unexpected financial support. A friend checking in. A tiny shift in perspective that made a hard day feel bearable. A moment of laughter I didn’t expect.
And there are practical wins too — like receiving a new cushion after years of using one long past its expiry. Or finally getting a more comfortable wrist splint that doesn’t irritate or restrict the way the last one did. These might sound small, but in a body and life shaped by constant negotiation with discomfort, they’re monumental.
These aren’t antidotes to the struggle, but they’re evidence that struggle isn’t the full story.
I've also realised how much energy goes into bracing for the worst. It’s a kind of tension we carry in the shoulders, the gut, the breath. But somewhere along the line, I've begun replacing a bit of that tension with curiosity. What if things turn out okay? What if I give myself permission to hope — not naively, but bravely?
That’s the twist: hope isn't delusion. It’s resistance. It’s the quiet refusal to let negativity monopolise the narrative.
So, no — I won’t pretend everything is fine. But I also won’t forget the parts that are. I’ll name the curve balls, but I’ll name the catch, too. The times I surprised myself. The strength I didn’t know I had. The people who didn’t flinch when I needed help. The new cushion. The better splint.
Because sometimes, when life throws its worst, our best emerges — quietly, defiantly, beautifully.
