I’m not one to quickly lose hope. Usually I’ll keep trying and trying. I think I’m more one for setting unrealistic goals. Because trying and not getting there is something I am an expert at by now.
I used to believe the words of the song I’m Getting Ready by Tasha Cobbs, and often when I get to that song on my playlist, I’ll play it again. Or even a third time. But recently it came up again, and my first instinct was to say, What nonsense, and skip it. And it was then that I realised that I had given up hope. Hope of ever getting better or faster at running. Hope that maybe one day I’ll be fast enough to qualify for Comrades.
I’m quite happy supporting there every year. I’m thankful to my coach for creating that opportunity for me, and to my husband for allowing me the time to go and leave him with the children. And although every year afterwards I feel this longing to run it myself, I remind myself that it’s flipping far, that it would take me forever, and then I feel better again for another year.
But somewhere along the way, I had stopped believing that maybe I could.
Recently, something happened that made me realise that there really is always hope.
Those of you who read my first book will definitely remember me writing about my younger sister’s suicide at the end of 2018. I can think of few things worse than losing someone so close to you in such a way. It’s a terrible thing to have to go through.
Well, recently my brother-in-law, my late sister’s widower, announced that he is engaged again.
How absolutely wonderful is that?
I am so happy for them, but especially for him. I’m actually beside myself. And I think that’s when something clicked for me.
Because if you had told me in November 2018 that one day I would be sitting here, genuinely and completely happy that my sister’s husband decided to marry again, I don’t think I would have been able to imagine it. Because when you’re standing in the middle of something terrible, you simply cannot see very far.
My therapist once said that the ultimate goal of anything and everything is not that nothing bad ever happens. It’s to one day be able to look back at everything that has happened and say that everything worked out exactly how it was supposed to.
And sometimes that is so difficult to see when you’re right there in the thick of things. It’s difficult to keep on being hopeful when you can’t see how anything could get better.
It’s like a person who turns around because it is too misty to see the top of the mountain from the valley.
The mountain hasn’t disappeared.
The path hasn’t disappeared.
You just can’t see that far.
And maybe that’s what hope is. Not knowing how things are going to work out. Not believing that nothing bad will happen; it will. Not even necessarily believing that you’ll get the thing you’re desperately hoping for. But simply leaving room for the possibility that there is something ahead that you cannot see yet.
I don’t know if I’ll ever qualify for Comrades. I probably won’t. Maybe one day I’ll decide that I’m forever satisfied standing on the side of that road, cheering everyone else on.
But I don’t want to tell myself that it is impossible anymore either. Because I have learnt something from watching someone find happiness again after something that once seemed impossible to survive.
Sometimes the valley is just too misty to see the top of the mountain. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a mountain there.
And it doesn’t mean you should turn around either.