When Things Go Wrong (and hope is hiding)

Naazh
Aug 27
5 min read

It's hard to stay open to the idea that life still has good things, "life-changing" things, in store. This notion can often feel elusive, especially during periods of struggle and uncertainty. As I navigate through the complexities of life, I find that the older I get, the more I am prone to lean into doubt and fear. The experiences I've accumulated over the years sometimes weigh heavily on my spirit, making it challenging to embrace optimism. After all, time is limited, right? What if this is it? What if, God forbid, I die alone. Without a companion. It is one of my greatest fears. We are wired for connection, right?

Each passing day serves as a reminder of the finite nature of our existence, which can amplify feelings of anxiety about the future. When faced with a series of setbacks and disappointments—when things keep going wrong, wrong, and wrong again—it can feel nearly impossible to maintain a hopeful outlook. The weight of past experiences can lead to a pervasive fear that perhaps the best days are behind us, that the potential for joy and fulfillment has been extinguished by the harsh realities of life.

In such moments, it becomes increasingly difficult to envision a future filled with possibility and positivity. And the connection that my spirit longs for.

Yet, amidst this struggle, there lies a flicker of hope that we must strive to nurture. It is essential to remind ourselves that life is inherently unpredictable, and within that unpredictability lies the potential for unbelievable transformation and joy.

Good things can emerge from the most unexpected places, and sometimes, the most profound changes come after periods of hardship.

The journey may be fraught with challenges, but it is also rich with opportunities for growth, learning, and renewal. By acknowledging our feelings of doubt and fear without letting them consume us, we can begin to shift our perspective. We can learn to see setbacks not as endpoints, but rather as steppingstones on a path that may eventually lead us to unexpected joys and life-altering experiences.

Like a sparkler in the night, see the enduring glow of hope amidst your darkness.

Ultimately, the challenge lies in balancing our awareness of life's difficulties with a belief in its potential for beauty and transformation.

The worst part is the cycle: feeling like I’ve made the same mistake over and over, and asking myself what’s wrong with me? That self-doubt is where my inner critic thrives—feeding on the fear, convincing me that I’m not capable of change. But I’m done letting that voice keep me stuck. I am no longer scared. This time, I’m going to keep fucking moving—not because I have to push forward, but because I’m open to what new possibilities may come.

An Unexpected Reunion Experience

I recently attended the "Descendents of Chief Joseph Osaugie Family Reunion", an event rich in spirit, history, and connection that many descendants eagerly attend each year, Just the day before, in an odd turn of events, I stumbled across a number of incredibly sacred Native American items in a thrift store. I brought them to the reunion and sought the advice of an elder, thinking that I needed to find their owners and return them. She looked at each item and sat and thought for a bit before saying, “You must be doing something right.” I even reiterated that perhaps I should try to return the items to where they "really" belonged. She paused, looked at me, and said they already belonged exactly where they had landed—with me.

After drying my tears, and thanking the Creator for His generosity, I gifted her with a small leather pouch. She warmly invited me to join her women’s hand drum group as they sang and played that afternoon. I sang songs I hadn't sung in years with pride and gratitude for my Creator. The connection I felt with my Ojibwe family, with my ancestors and with the land was profound. The entire day revitalized my spirit, and drumming and singing reminding me that music, including the heartbeat of Mother Earth, constantly resonates within me, whenever I pause to listen. It comforts me without reservation, just like the land.

Embracing and Honoring My Voice

When I walk into situations where I might once have stayed quiet, I no longer feel the need to silence myself. I do have a voice. A voice that sees life through a lens no one else can see through—and I honor that everyone else is seeing through their own lens too. I don’t want a voice that overpowers or dominates; I want a voice that is respected. I want to surround myself with people who truly honor that voice, and who will never use it as a weapon against me.

And ultimately, I just want to “live and let live”—in the words of Guns N’ Roses. Well, not exactly, but that phrase always makes me think of their cover of Live and Let Die. I’m not sure which version I love more, but the spirit is the same: let me have my views, you have yours, and let’s just be cool.

“I’m leaning Into Something Different: A Mad Love Affair With Myself.”

So instead of sighing, “Here we go again, I might as well not even try,” I’m leaning into something different: a “mad love affair with myself.” It’s a phrase recently heard from someone I’ve come to admire deeply—someone incredibly special, and very, very smart. The words stuck with me because they aren’t about vanity; they’re about devotion. About choosing to show up for myself with the same intensity, loyalty, and tenderness that I’ve so often given away to others.

I’m creating a version of me that I’m proud to be. A version of me that attracts good things. A version of me that vibrates so strongly with love, truth, and authenticity that negativity no longer recognizes me as vulnerable prey.

Instead, it will only see me shining—my voice carrying the steady rhythm of the drum, the heartbeat of Mother Earth, and the songs of my ancestors—wide open to possibility.

Evening Reflections From Unexpected Places

I ended my day in two very interesting places. First, a cemetery with a section so old that the gravestones belonged to people who died in the 1800s! I walked through barefoot, feeling the sorrow that once filled that space, but also the love—the fierce love families carried when connection was literally vital for survival. I felt the yearning for survival, for community, for resources that only a full group could provide. I thought about the mothers who lost children, how heartbreakingly common that was, and I held space with them, as strange as that may sound.

After leaving the cemetery, I snuck in and wandered around the grounds of "Camp Arrowhead"—my first sleepaway camp that I started attending when I was 11. I walked the grounds, noticing what was missing, like the "box hockey boards", where I got my first ginormous blister from non-stop play action trying to impress the boys, and what had been added, including the "gaga ball" court (I'm still learning that one). I stood outside the cabin I stayed in every summer and peeked through the window, only to see the inside had been resided. My name was no longer carved on the wall.

But still, I remembered—and my spirit remembered—the laughter, the mischief, the funny and tender times I had there. My first kiss. At Bible camp. Why not?

Lately, I’ve been spending a lot of time remembering. And I want to continue to make memories—ones that make me truly happy. And if I want to make happy memories, I need to be happy. And in order to be happy, I want to be in love with me.