When one of my clients, Chloe, was diagnosed with breast cancer, she joined a so-called ‘support group’. She had hoped to find a compassionate and self-aware community who could realistically acknowledge just how painful and scary and difficult cancer is, while also providing support and genuine encouragement. But what she found instead was, to use her terminology, ‘a bunch of positive-thinking fanatics’. These women did not acknowledge Chloe’s pain and fear, instead they told her to think positively — to see her cancer as a ‘gift’. They said she should consider herself lucky because this illness had given her a chance to ‘wake up’ and appreciate her life; a chance to learn and grow and love more fully.
Now personally, I’m all for learning and growing and loving more fully, and this whole book is about waking up and appreciating life. But it’s a big leap from that to seeing your cancer as a gift, or considering yourself lucky to have it. And replace the word ‘cancer’ with ‘the death of your child’ or ‘having your house burned down’ or ‘being raped’ or ‘imprisonment in a concentration camp’ or ‘losing your limbs’. How callous would it be to refer to these events as ‘gifts’ or to tell people they are ‘lucky’ when this happens? It is the very opposite of a caring and compassionate response.
All of us have plenty of opportunities to learn and grow and wake up and appreciate our lives; we don’t need to have something terrible happen to us in order to do this. And if something terrible does happen, by all means let’s learn and grow from it, but let’s not pretend that it’s wonderful or we’re lucky to have it. I’ve learned and grown a lot through having my son, and I’ve experienced a huge amount of joy and satisfaction amid all the heartache, but I don’t think of autism as a ‘gift’.
Having said that, from time to time you will meet or hear of someone who tells you that their illness or injury or near-death experience was the ‘best thing that ever happened’ to them because it transformed their life in such a positive way. I’ve met a couple of these folks, and I’ve read about quite a few others, and the genuine ones are truly inspiring; but my feeling is that these people are few and far between, and most of us will never see things the same way. So why not be honest with ourselves? When bad things happen, let’s acknowledge how painful it is, and be kind to ourselves. And then, and only then, let’s consider how we might learn or grow from the experience.
So, if you have acknowledged your pain, and responded to yourself with compassion, and done what you can to improve the situation, then it may now be time to consider several questions. Obviously you didn’t ask for your reality slap to happen — life served it up without your consent — but given that it has happened, it may well be useful to ask yourself:
• How can I learn or grow from this experience?
• What personal qualities could I develop?
• What practical skills might I learn or improve?
When reality slaps us around, it invites us to grow. And while it’s not an invitation that we wanted, if we turn it down, our life is sure to get worse. So how about we accept it and make the most of it? Let’s use it to develop defusion, connection and expansion: to get in touch with our values and act with purpose. Let’s use it as a rehearsal for the four steps: hold yourself kindly, drop the anchor, take a stand, and find the treasure.
Part of the privilege of life is that we do have the oppor -tunity to learn and grow, and we can make use of this opportunity any time we wish to, right up until we take our final breath. So let’s be curious: how can we deepen our life in response to distress? Can we perhaps develop more patience or courage? Or compassion, persistence, or forgiveness?
Have you ever heard the old saying: ‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears’? I used to cringe at this saying. I saw it as ‘New Age’ claptrap. I thought it meant that as soon as you were ready for the secret of enlightenment, some guru would magically appear out of thin air. But these days I interpret it very differently. I see it as meaning this: if we are willing to learn, we can do so from literally anything life dishes up. No matter how painful or scary it may be, we can always learn something useful from it.
Personally, in the last three years, I have come to see my son as my greatest teacher. (My mind is telling me that that sounds like an awful cliché, but it is true!) And the lessons come thick and fast on a daily basis. Naturally, I feel very sad when I think about all of my son’s challenges; about how much he has missed out on, and how hard he has to try, and how difficult life is for him in so many ways. And I also feel plenty of fear about his future. At the time of writing this book, my son is doing well at pre-school. With the help of a part-time private aide, he is making friends, contributing actively to the class, and generally fitting in well. But we all know very well how cruel kids can be. We know how merciless they can be to children who are ‘different’. And I fear that as my son gets older, he will be a target of bullying. Yes, it may never happen — and I hope it never does — but there’s a very high chance it will. And even to think about that sends a shudder down my spine.
So I have lots of fear and lots of sadness, but mixed with those emotions, I have vast amounts of love, joy and gratitude. It’s hard to describe the limitless love I have for my son and the incredible joy he gives me, and the enormous gratitude I feel for having him in my life. Now suppose you say to me, ‘Russ, I’ve got this gadget’, and you pull out a little silver box. Right on top of the box is a bright red button and you say to me, ‘Russ, this device is amazing. All you need to do is press this red button and all your fear and sadness will completely disappear. However, there’s just one side effect. When you press that button, you won’t care about your son anymore. He’ll mean nothing to you. You won’t care about how he feels, or how the other kids treat him, or whether he has friends, or what he does after he leaves school. You won’t even care whether he lives or dies.’
Do you think I would press that button?
And if our roles were reversed, would you press it?
This is what life gives us. If we’re going to care about anyone or anything at all, then sooner or later we will encounter a reality gap: a gap between what we want and what we’ve got. And when that happens, painful feelings will arise. Those things that really matter also hurt.
So can we embrace those painful feelings and see them as a valuable part of us? Can we appreciate that they tell us something important: that we are alive, we have a heart, and we truly care?
Can we see our pain as a bridge to the hearts of others? That it spans our differences and unites us in the commonality of human suffering. Only when we know what it’s like to hurt, can we relate well to others who are hurting too; only then will we understand the true meaning of empathy. So can we appreciate how pain helps us to build rich relationships: to connect with the pain of others, to actively care about them, and to willingly contribute kindness when they are suffering?
Our emotions are as much a part of us as our arms and our legs. So do we really have to avoid, escape or fight them? Or can we learn to treasure them instead? When our arms and legs get cut, broken or infected, naturally they give rise to pain. But we don’t get into a fight with our limbs because of it. We don’t wish we could go through life without them. We appreciate what they contribute to our life.
So, let’s now consider that part of us that cares. What if we could truly treasure this part and truly be grateful for all it affords us in life? Yes, if we didn’t care, we’d have no pain, but we’d also have no joy or love or laughter. We’d go through life like zombies; everything would be pointless or meaningless. There would be no disappointment or frustration, but there would also be no contentment or satisfaction. Our capacity to care enables us to live a life of purpose: to build rich relation -ships, to motivate ourselves, to find life’s treasures and enjoy them. So can we be grateful for it, even though it brings us so much pain?
Let’s also consider our ability to feel emotions. Can we appreciate the brain’s amazing ability to take billions of electrochemical signals coming in from all over the body and decode them and interpret them in an instant, to enable us to feel whatever we feel?
Just imagine if this system didn’t work. Imagine if we felt nothing ever again. How much would we miss out on? How empty would life be?
From a mental viewpoint of self-compassion, having dropped anchor and taken a purposeful stand, can we look at these painful feelings inside our body and treat them with kindness and respect? Can we give them space, and give them peace, and give them our caring attention? Can we connect with them with curiosity and openness? Can we reflect on how they remind us of what we care about? Can we let go of judging these feelings as ‘bad’ and instead cultivate wonder that they exist at all?
I’ve saved this chapter to the end because it’s the hardest thing I am suggesting in this book. To tolerate pain is difficult; to accept it is much harder; but to appreciate it is the hardest challenge of all.
And yet, it is possible. The more we reflect on the privilege of human emotion — that we get to care and to feel in so many different ways — the more we can appreciate all our emotions. Yes, this privilege does not come without a price. With passion, comes pain. With caring, comes loss. With wonder, comes fear and dread. But look at the upside; consider what your life would be like without it.
And consider this too: what is the key to lasting fulfilment? What is the essence of human vitality? What is the core of all those things we call ‘love’? It is to care, connect and contribute — to live with presence and purpose. Surely there is no greater privilege than this? So I encourage you to make the most of this privilege: to live with presence and purpose. And also to be realistic: to acknowledge that you will often forget to do this. The beautiful thing is that whenever you remember, you have a choice. You can hold yourself kindly, drop an anchor, and take a stand. And right there, in that moment, you will find treasure: the fulfilment that is always there, even when life hurts.