There have been many times in my life when I felt helpless and only a handful when I was hopeless.
It has taken me most of my life to realize that helpless and hopeless are not the same thing—to realize that the thought that I feel helpless and actually being helpless are very different. For me, feeling helpless simply means I don't know how to help myself in that moment. Hopelessness is when you think you can't be helped, or you think you don't deserve to be helped.
And that is a very scary place to be.
People who have never suffered from depression or never had to struggle through adversity may not understand what I'm talking about. And if that's the case, I'm truly happy for you. Because my greatest wish for everyone is that they can live a life without feeling hopeless.
I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I have all the answers to suddenly make your life a perfect package with a bow on top, because I don't. I regularly find myself feeling helpless, especially when I don't know how to help myself go beyond something that is worrying me. However, I finally came to realize that when things start to get very difficult for me, the feelings of helplessness descend into hopelessness when I started to believe that things will never change—that I'd always feel a certain way or I'd always be in the same situation.
As we've already written about a lot in our blog, change is one of life's constants. If we can count on nothing else, we can count on change. And this realization is one of the things that has helped me stop a downward spiral toward despair when things feel bad. I know now that things will change. It might not always be a big change. But just as in walking, taking one step, even a small one, moves you forward. If you add up all your steps, you will realize you've traveled a far distance.
Lao Tzu said, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." I think about this often as I remind myself that I need to keep myself moving forward, physically and mentally. I remind myself that I can't predict the future, so I don't know what life will be like in a day or a week or a year.
My dad, a Buddhist teacher, has been working with and counseling prisoners at Folsom Prison. These are men with violent pasts. They're not ever getting out of jail. I asked him, "How do these men not give up? What keeps them living?" He thought about my question for a moment and then replied, "They have lives. They don't have lives that you and I would recognize, but they do live. They have friends. They have a social structure. It's what they live for." Some of the prisoners he works with have learned to meditate. They have learned to find peace and feel joy within themselves. They continue moving forward in the ways they can.
My mother often says, "This is the life we've been given." I've truly taken that one to heart. My life is the life I have. I spent many years being angry that my life wasn't the way I thought it would be, or should be. I felt dissatisfied that I couldn't make my life be a certain way. And every time I found myself consumed by those thoughts, they would lead me to feeling hopeless.
But if I simply acknowledge the life I have and take steps toward living the life I want—then there is hope. And, yes, sometimes feelings of helplessness arise. But that's ok. It's ok to feel helpless. And it's okay to ask for help. And it's ok to allow yourself to be helped. And then, once again, you can start taking those steps forward. If I look back on the path my life has taken, there are so many things I'm grateful for. So many things I cherish that I never could have known were possible.
Questions for my mom:
Have you ever had a time in your life when you felt hopeless?
I don't think you can get to be my age without feeling hopeless at one time or another. I think it happens to everyone. But it's rare for me these days. I liked what you said about helplessness and hopelessness being different. You also mentioned feelings of not deserving to be helped, and I'm really fortunate in that way because I've never felt that I don't deserve to be helped. I don't get down on myself in that way. But I can feel as if I "can't" be helped and that does lead to feeling hopeless.
The reason I rarely feel hopeless anymore is that, over the years, I've changed my perspective on life. I don't expect life to be rosy all the time. I don't expect to always like everything that's happening in my personal life or in the world. I know this means that I've lowered my expectations, which some people may think is a negative approach, but, for me, it depends on the context. In the context of trying to diminish being susceptible to feelings of hopelessness, I think it's skillful to lower expectations—to know you're not always going to get what you want.
Do you recall what action you took to help yourself move forward past those negative thoughts?
In addition to that change of perspective, I have a couple of tools for dealing with feelings of hopelessness. One is that I treat hopelessness as an arising and passing mental state or feeling or emotion—whichever word you like. Like you said in your essay, change is universal, so I treat hopelessness as a temporary visitor to the mind.
One of the ways I do this is to describe it to myself in a way that makes the feeling not a permanent part of who I am. So I may say, "Hopelessness is present today." I know that sounds awkward, but it's very different from saying, "I am a hopeless-filled person." When you dis-identify with the emotion in the way I've described, you lessen its hold of you and that makes it pass away more quickly. When you're able to see it as a temporary mental state, it's easier to wait it out.
The second thing I do to keep feelings of hopelessness at bay comes from a Zen saying: keep a don't-know mind. Readers of my books will be very familiar with this idea! "Don't-Know Mind" has been tremendously freeing to me, including freeing me from hopelessness. After all, none of us knows what will happen in the future. We don't even know what tomorrow will bring, personally or globally. It could be an unexpected positive change.
So rather than worrying about the future, which can lead to hopelessness, my advice is to acknowledge when you're feeling hopeless, but to also recognize that you don't know how things will play out. Maybe something wonderful will happen! I know it's a cliché, but tomorrow is a new day. We have a friend who fell in love at 71. Neither he nor the woman—who's about the same age— thought there'd be another love for them in their lives. But there it is. You just never know.
But I do want to add something important. If someone who is reading this piece has been feeling hopeless for weeks on end—maybe 2-3 weeks straight—then they need to seek help. Reach out to a friend or get help from a therapist. Feeling hopeless for that long is a sign of clinical depression. A person can be depressed and not feel hopeless, but the two often go hand-in-hand. You should always keep an eye on how long a dark mood sticks around and, if it's a few weeks, then take some steps toward getting help for yourself.
Do you think people with chronic illness are more likely to struggle with feelings of hopelessness?
I would say that all things being equal, yes. But to me, living with chronic illness in a country like the U.S., in most cases can't be compared to a parent who is living in a dirt-bottomed tent in a refugee camp with her three kids with hardly any food, no sanitation, and no idea how or when she's going to get out of there. Hopelessness in that situation is truly tragic.
Back to your question of whether people who are chronically ill are more likely to feel hopeless. If we are comparing healthy people to chronically ill people with all other factors generally being equal, then, yes, I do think that being chronically ill can lead to feelings of hopelessness. The reason is that people who are chronically ill (which includes chronic pain) feel powerless to do anything to improve their medical situation.
Of course, there are healthy people who can feel powerless too. Maybe they're in a bad relationship or they're unhappy at work and have no alternatives. That's truly sad. For the most part, though, healthy people can find a way to change their situation because they have some control over it. By contrast, people who are chronically ill can't control what's happening to them physically and/or mentally, and they often feel there are no alternatives for them in life. Feeling that way can give rise to feeling hopeless. I know it happens because chronically ill people write to me about it all the time.
Whether people are in good health or not, hopelessness is disheartening and it feels terrible. My heart goes out to anyone who's feeling that way right now and I hope our suggestions will help.
My mom refers to it as impermanence, but I call it change. And both words are are accurate. Nothing is permanent—everything changes. Sometimes the changes are small and sometimes they are big.
Last week my daughter got her driver's license. For the past 8 months, there have been almost daily conversations about driving: learning to drive; thinking of what it will be like when she can drive on her own. And now it's happened.
And for the most part I am relieved. The burden of driving her all over a city the size of Los Angeles was starting to wear me down. I was spending 3 or 4 hours a day in the car just getting her to and from school, dance, auditions, friends' houses, the store, restaurants...on and on. And it was causing us to fight. She felt stifled by the limits I imposed as to when or where I was willing to drive her places.
Suddenly this morning, I woke up and watched her get in her car and drive away. As I watched, there was almost a painful physical sensation, as if there had been another invisible umbilical cord that had held us together all these years and it was suddenly cut. But unlike in the hospital, when the nurse cut her umbilical cord because she no longer needed it to survive, this time she cut it...because she no longer needs it to survive.
She's growing up. She doesn't need to me to constantly watch over her. She doesn't need me to make sure she knows the proper directions and knows exactly where she's going.
It's taken me almost 40 years to realize I don't like change. Change is scary for me. When I was younger, I didn't think about it. Change would happen and I would simply adjust. But as I've gotten older, I find myself fighting things that are unfamiliar. It's hard to learn new routines, and it's hard to make adjustments to habits that make my days familiar.
And now, if I find myself confronted with impending change, I immediately find myself worrying. I assume that changes will be for the worse, and I have to remind myself that all of the good things in my life were brought about by change. That change isn't always bad. Sometimes change is pleasant. At the end of the day, we just don't know. Sometimes things I thought were good changes, ended up being negative experiences, and sometimes things that were changes I hadn't wanted ended up being blessings in disguise.
My mom refers to her state of sickness as her "baseline." I've sort of adopted the idea of a baseline as the place where I am able to balance the good and the bad, the happiness and the sadness. Sometimes there are days where I am thrown off my baseline because I am feeling particularly sad. And there are other days where I am feeling excited and happy.
When I find myself feeling out of sorts, if I take a minute to re-center myself and think about what I'm doing, I can usually find my baseline again. I can find that place within me where I can see that most changes, whether they feel good or feel bad, are not actually movement higher or lower, up or down, but more parallel. I can see that most change doesn't mean things get "better" or "worse." They just shift around.
So, as I sit here with a slightly heavy heart, I am reminding myself that my sadness about my daughter being able to drive, being able to have independence, is joyful for her, which brings joy to me. And the changes that feel painful to me because she is more independent are necessary for her on her road to becoming an adult.
I can't always stop myself from wishing I could stop change from happening. But I know I can't stop it. Nothing can stay the same. Nothing should stay the same.
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Here's my interview with my mom on this topic:
You often write about impermanence. Would you say this is a concept that became more important to you after you became ill?
I don't know whether it became more important, but it certainly became more evident. I realized that my life and the world was all about change, change, change—which is the name of the chapter on impermanence in one of my books. Impermanence is a universal law. It doesn't just come from Buddhism. It's recognized by all religions and by science too.
But change can be wrenching. Your essay talks about that. It certainly was wrenching for me when I got sick and had to give up a profession I thought I'd be in for another 20 years. Perhaps because it's a universal experience, the Buddha focused on change a lot—how we'll all grow old, and we'll all experience illness, and we'll all be separated from those we love.
Many people think about separation as referring to death, but it can apply to any separation. For me, it applied when you and Jamal [Mara's brother] moved out of the house. That separation was really painful. You talked about Malia now driving on her own, and I thought that, as much as it was a burden for you to have to drive her everywhere, it did put you next to each other in the car. And that physical closeness nourishes a relationship. So suddenly you're not in the car with her, so I see that as a kind of separation that may not be easy for you—and maybe not for her either.
When I write about impermanence, I always focus on what I refer to as its corollaries: uncertainly and unpredictability. Because if change is ever present, then we can't be sure what's going to happen next. Uncertainty and unpredictability are uncomfortable, that's for sure. No wonder we don't like change. Imagine if we could control what's going to happen next, whether it be in our personal lives or globally—it would be easy to be content. But that's not the way life is. So one of the things that helps me is to work on making peace with impermanence and the fact that we control so little.
Are there specific Buddhist practices you can share that help with coping with change?
My books are full of practices. I write about impermanence and unpredictability a lot. So I'm going to share something I've never shared before. This is something called the five remembrances. It comes from the Buddha's list of what we're all going to experience in life at some point, like it or not. A lot of Buddhists recite these remembrances daily. I offer it here, knowing that it might not suit everyone. If it isn't right for you, that's fine.
So here are the five remembrances:
- I am of the nature to grow old.
- I am of the nature to have ill health.
- I am of the nature to die.
- All that I cherish and everyone I love will change. I cannot escape being separated from them.
- My actions are my only belongings.
Whew. Talk about tough love! But don't take the Buddha's word for it. If you think about it, all of these are true. The first four are about change. They describe four experiences that are a natural part of the life cycle. This is why it helps to make peace with them.
I'm sharing them because I've been finding them helpful. Here's how I use them. I don't automatically recite them every day, but if something related to one of them pops into my mind (for example, a concern about growing old or fear about death), I immediately stop whatever I'm doing, and I recite the five remembrances silently to myself.
This is definitely having a positive affect on me. At first, reciting them felt strange to me—even shocking at times—but gradually, it's helped me to regard growing old, being ill, dying, and being separated from those I love as a normal part of the life cycle and that's taking the fear of them away. That's why I'm sharing it—in case others find it helpful.
Sometimes after people experience a big change in their lives, they feel regret. Do you have any advice for people who find themselves stuck with regretful thoughts?
There are two kinds of regret. First, we can regret the paths we didn't follow, the dreams we didn't pursue. With those, I suggest saying to yourself something like: "Everyone experiences this kind of regret. Everyone has dreams and plans they wish had work out. I may be disappointed but I'm going to move on with the life I have right now, today."
Second, there's regret that arises when we do something that might have hurt someone or even made ourselves feel bad. That kind of regret feels really bad. In my view, when something feels really bad—like guilt, for example—it rarely serves a useful purpose. Here, though I'd say that this kind of regret does serve one useful purpose: you may be able to learn from it.
Here's how I suggest handling it. First, don't blame yourself—forgive yourself for what you did. If you don't forgive yourself, it's hard to move forward. Next, see if you can learn from whatever you're regretting by investigating it—thinking about it. Was it something you said? Or some unkind thought? When I talk about action I'm including thoughts, speech, and actual behavior. So, it could just be a thought—for example, rushing to judgment about someone. I used to do that a lot.
Usually this kind of regret arises after you've acted out of greed—you want something and you don't care who you hurt to get it—or out of anger or ill-will towards someone. So look for those things. Were you being greedy or harboring ill-will for someone else?
Once you can identify what you did that's making you feel regret, resolve not to do it again. (Remember that fifth remembrance: your actions are your only belongings.) And if you find yourself doing it again, investigate what happened, and renew your resolve.
Bottom line: everyone has regrets. But if you get stuck on them, you're living in the past. For me, life is too short to do that. So I would say, forgive yourself—why not? You've said something unskillful, or you snapped at someone, or you didn't spend enough time with someone—just forgive yourself. Then resolve not to engage in that behavior again.
Having done that, forget about it. Move on. You can't control the thoughts that pop into your mind. So, if you feel regret—you feel regret. Don't make it worse by dwelling on it and assigning blame. Acknowledge it and move on. One thing I feel certain of: living in the past is the road to bitterness and anger, not the road to happiness.
I found a penny today while I was jogging. I was breathless and tired, but I stopped and picked it up and clutched it in my hand for the rest of my workout. Holding small items like that in my hands while I’m exercising is not something I particularly enjoy. This is because my hands get sweaty and it’s hard for me to not drop things like my phone. And I don’t like stopping when I’m jogging because when I stop my momentum, it’s very hard for me to get started again. But I stop for pennies.
I haven’t always picked up “lucky pennies.” There have been years when I just ignored them. But I have a friend who believes that money she finds are gifts from her mother in heaven. She often posts on social media about how she knows her mom was sending her love that day because she found a penny. So for a long time this idea about pennies was always floating in the back of my mind. I would see them in the street and think of my friend, but I rarely picked them up.
Last year I went through a very tough time. I take medication for both my depression and anxiety, and all the medications needed to be adjusted. Combine that with trying to raise a teenage daughter without all of us losing our minds, and it made for an emotionally unbalanced time. During my darkest moments, I started noticing money on the streets. A dime. A nickel. A penny. Two pennies. I wasn’t convinced that it meant anything, but at some point I realized I didn’t need to be convinced. I just wanted to be open to the possibility that maybe the universe was trying to send me love, hope...anything.
So I started picking them up.
One day I texted my friend a picture of a bright shiny new penny I found and told her I was thinking of her. She replied, “Put it in your bra over your left boob.” I replied, “That’s a very strange suggestion” and she wrote back, saying, “It’s the closest to your heart and that’s the closest to heaven.”
I’m still not doing that because my brain can’t reconcile the idea of jogging with pennies in my bra. But I do clutch them in my hands for the duration of my runs. It might be for a block; it might be for several miles. But I do it. And having the pennies in my hands reminds me to be grateful. It reminds me to be present. It reminds me that there might be something bigger out there in the universe.
About a month ago, I was on a long walk. I was debating about whether or not I felt like it was the right time to start looking for a job. My daughter is older and much more independent, so my main role as her caretaker and driver is no longer taking up as much of my time. But I wasn’t sure I was mentally ready to get a job. I’d been having such a rough time. And, after 16 years of not working in traditional settings, I was feeling insecure about whether or not I could even do a job, let alone figure out how to get someone to hire me. I was feeling confused and frustrated.
At some point during that walk, while I was giving myself a little pep talk about not letting my insecurities and anxiety stop me from trying, I realized that I might try and not succeed, but that not trying at all would be worse. And at that very moment I saw a dollar bill on the sidewalk right in front of me. It was folded up into a little square and laying in front of me as if someone had put it there for me to find. Again, I’m not particularly superstitious, but I truly felt in that moment that it was a message encouraging me to follow the positive thoughts I was having. Perhaps the universe was telling me that this was the path I needed to follow.
Within a month I found a job.
Today the penny I found was in a little puddle of water from the recent rain. It was old and corroded, its surface barely recognizable. But I instantly felt love with that old penny. No matter what it had endured, it had survived to provide me a little hope this morning.
Thank you penny.
I recently heard the quote “Being an adult is learning to live with disappointment.” I’m not sure I agree with it, but I understand what it means. It means that no matter how amazing our lives are, we aren’t always going to get what we want. And being an adult means we have to learn how to cope with disappointment.
And yet, I think it’s more helpful to focus acceptance rather than disappointment. I think adulthood is about learning to accept things with grace. Accepting the good things and accepting the bad things. Taking responsibility for the things we need to be responsible for.
Growing up, I was considered mature at a young age. People always told me I was a little adult or they'd say, “Oh I thought you were so much older.” And that was because I took on a lot of responsibility as a young person and that impressed people. So I grew up thinking I was adult because I could do all these things that were considered “adult.” But the reality was I had no idea what it meant to be an adult.
Yes, I had no problem taking on responsibility for big projects. I could choreograph an entire musical full of adults. I could tell people what to do and be super organized. But I had very little idea about being responsible for my own life.
Growing up, my parents were great and they were supportive of me in every way. I almost think they were too supportive. I became a grown-up person without ever understanding how to get my laundry done regularly. Or how to clean up after myself in the kitchen. I grew up not realizing that it was an inconvenience to everyone around me if I left my dirty cups all over the house. I was well into my 20's before I didn’t expect my parents to solve problems for me when it wasn’t “convenient” for me to do so.
My teens and my early twenties are filled with memories of waiting for my life to start. I was in a rush to get out high school and to go to college. I was in a rush to get out of college and get married and get a job. I was in rush to have kids.
Those years are a blur to me because I kept thinking "This is what I’m doing until my real life begins." I thought I didn’t need to worry about being happy because I assumed I’d be happy when I finally was "grown up." The problem with thinking this way was that, at some point, I realized that life was passing me by and the idea of arriving at the mythical place of “happiness” wasn’t happening.
It wasn’t until my late twenties, after I had a child, that I finally began to understand what it meant to be an adult. I couldn’t not do the laundry just because I didn’t feel like it. I couldn’t stay in bed if I didn’t feel well. Frankly, aside from my mom—who will probably always feel sorry for me—nobody was feeling sorry for me. I was an adult. What felt like overwhelming responsibility and inconvenience to me was simply what millions of other parents had faced all through time: being an adult.
Even after having a child, I felt as if I still had so much time. I thought there was the possibility of starting an amazing company or becoming famous or doing whatever I wanted at the time. But when I reached my 30's, I started to get an unsettling feeling of dissatisfaction. I realized that most of those dreams were probably no longer a possibility. I began wondering to myself, “If I never do anything more with my life, will I be okay with that?” For several years I was unsure and this led to that underlying feeling of dissatisfaction.
Then I started second-guessing my life. I'd think, “If I'd just done this I'd feel happier” or “If I just do that I’ll feel happier.” But no matter how much I accomplished or tried to become what I thought I wanted to become, the feelings of insecurity and doubt remained. I got a job. I lost the baby weight. I did some professional acting. I started a dance company. But it was never enough.
Finally, I realized that nothing I did was going to make me feel better. It clicked inside my brain that to truly feel better I had be able to accept what I am. I had to be able to accept what I am right in this moment.
To be honest, if I could truly explain how I came to this revelation, I'd probably be a millionaire. The idea that true happiness is to be found by accepting yourself has been around a long time. But no one can tell you exactly how to do it. And it’s not easy. It’s not something you can simply read about and suddenly feel different. Even after I realized that acceptance was the key to my feeling better, it didn’t change everything for me overnight.
It’s taken years. It’s taken years of wrestling with the concept of acceptance—even challenging the idea—before I finally learned to trust that my life isn’t about what I have done in the past or will do in the future. It’s about right now. That if I can accept where I am right now, then I will be able to accept myself where I am in the next moment. And the next. And the next.
Even now, there are often times when I'm filled with doubts and fear. When that happens, I can feel myself getting caught in the whirlwind of fighting against what is or find myself wondering “What if?” But the difference is that I'm able to catch myself now. I'm able to slow myself down and remind myself that whatever scenarios I’ve created in my mind don’t matter. All that matters is this moment. All that matters is putting one foot in front of the other; taking one breath after another.
And while this state of mind doesn’t solve all my problems—I still often struggle—it definitely helps. It helps me accept that the life I am living is the life I am living. I can choose to enjoy it—to really appreciate it—or I can choose to be unhappy. I am choosing to try to be happy. I am choosing to accept what my life is. It doesn’t mean that I'm never disappointed, or that I will stop growing or trying new things and reaching for new stars; but whatever happens...is what happens. And I will choose to try and make the best of it.
For my mom, becoming chronically ill has truly challenged her ideas about acceptance. Here are her answers to my questions about it.
When you realized that your illness was probably chronic, what was your reaction?
My reaction in the early months and years was denial. Denial, anger, and a lot of self-blame. It was because I thought back then that people didn't get sick and not recover, and the people around me seemed to feel the same way—even if they weren't trying to be judgmental. So I thought, what's wrong with me that I'm not getting better? There was a lot of self-blame which is very common when people first become chronically ill.
My reaction changed when I realized that this illness was just an illness. Even though I was sick, I was still a whole person—just as anyone who is disabled is still a whole person. A person missing a limb is still a whole person. That's when I stopped blaming myself. And when the self-blame went away, so did a lot of the denial and anger. I still get angry every once in a while, but it used to be the way I felt all the time. It was awful. I hid it. I hid it from my kids and my friends. But my husband knew. And I knew.
How long do you think it took before you were able to start to come to terms with acceptance of your illness?
I get asked that question a lot, and it always throws me because it's been 15 1/2 years since I became chronically ill, so it's getting harder and harder to remember. Not harder to remember when I got sick—that's seared into my mind. But it's hard to remember when I started to turn my mind around.
So, what I do is count backward from when I started writing my first book because that was when the mental healing began. I would say it took about six years to start to accept this illness. I can only hope that my books, my writing, and maybe these interviews help other people not take so long to start moving toward acceptance. Life is too short.
For some people acceptance is the same thing as giving up, or resignation. For you, what is the difference between acceptance and resignation?
Acceptance, as I see it, is acknowledging where you have to start in your life. And for me the main feature of where I have to start is that I'm sick. I'm chronically ill. There's hope in acceptance because you can't take steps to make things better for yourself until you stop and acknowledge how things are for you right now.
So, take a moment to truly acknowledge how you feel and take that as your starting point. For me, that starting point is: "I'm in a body that's sick." Whatever your starting point is, from there, you can open to possibilities of what you might be able to do within the limitations of your illness.
I can't take credit for the expression "start where you are." The Tibetan Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron has a book titled, Start Where You Are, and that title really resonated with me, so I use it to help myself and help others. The emphasis is on start—starting to see possibilities for making changes in your life. Start with an open and mind and an open heart. That's acceptance.
Resignation, on the other hand, is giving up on life. There's tremendous aversion in it and a lot of anger and resentment. It's the attitude of "Life is unfair. I give up. I'll just be miserable from now on." We've all been there. That's resignation. You're treading water when you're feeling that way, and so there's no chance to improve your life.
But there's hope in acceptance.
I went through a resignation phase. But then I realized that, even though I'm limited in what I can do, I'm still alive. You talked about this in your terrific piece above—how you've chosen to be happy. (Sorry for a little detour here, Mara, but I want to comment on one thing in your piece—I don't feel sorry for you. I do worry about you at times though, so that sounds like a more accurate characterization—to me anyway!)
Okay. Back to choosing to be happy. Obviously, no one can be happy all the time but, like you, I've also chosen it as a direction. I choose to find things that are fulfilling to do with my life. I choose to look for joy where I can find it.
When you're resigned you don't move forward and so you can't even make choices that are likely to make things better for you. That's why resignation is a sad place to be. We've all been there, but hopefully by recognizing the feeling when it arises, we can learn to acknowledge it and move on.
What is your advice for people who are struggling with the idea of acceptance of their current situation?
I have to go to some of the Buddha's teachings here to answer that. Most people have heard of the first noble truth. In it, the Buddha provided a list of the experiences we can all expect in life. And one of the things on that list is illness. There are other things, such as growing old, separation from loved ones, etc. (I'm sure these lessons are included in other religious teachings as well, but I am familiar with Buddhism.)
So I look at the Buddha's list and think, "Wow. Chronic illness is a natural part of the life cycle." That teaching has helped me a lot. It made a huge difference to me to be able to say that this is one of the things on the list that all of us can expect to experience even though it's unpleasant. And so, since illness an inevitable part of human existence, I'd advise people not to fight their current situation. Try to see it as just the way your particular life is unfolding. Illness could happen to anyone.
It's also helpful to remember that everyone has things about their lives they're not happy with. For those who are healthy, it might be not being able to find love or hating their job. Life offers us many wonderful things but it also has its share of sorrows, and they're on that list from the first noble truth.
The response to a tough situation should not be resignation because that carries so many negative and painful emotions with it. That said, if it's too hard to move right away from resignation to acceptance, I suggest practicing self-compassion. All that means is recognizing that you're suffering and being nice to yourself about it. So, acknowledge how hard it is to be sick or in pain, and be nice to yourself about it. You can even speak kindly to yourself about how hard it is. In my books, I suggest crafting self-compassion phrases that you can say silently to yourself, almost like a mantra.
There's no way around it, it's hard to feel sick all the time. Really hard. But it's easier if you can accept it. To do that, take your chronic illness as your starting point and then look around for what might be enjoyable for you. And always, always, be nice to yourself.
