I Believe In Hope

Life has a way of wearing you down a little at a time. Usually, it isn't one enormous catastrophe; it's a hundred smaller things. The project at work that goes sideways. The conversation that doesn't go the way you hoped. The mistake you keep replaying in your head. It's putting everything you have into something and wondering whether anybody notices. It's dealing with people you can't control, circumstances you can't change, and problems that apparently didn't get the memo that you already have enough shit to deal with.

Eventually, if you aren't careful, you start expecting things to go wrong. Maybe part of that is self-defense. If you expect disappointment, you can't be disappointed, right? If you assume something isn't going to work, you don't have to risk believing that it will. If you convince yourself people are going to let you down, you're prepared when they do. There's just one problem with that strategy: you also stop leaving room for things to go right.

I had a long conversation with my therapist recently about positivity and the way I look at things, and I had to admit that somewhere along the way, I became pretty damn good at finding the negative. There's a line from Ted Lasso that has been stuck in my head: “I think it's the lack of hope that comes and gets you. See, I believe in hope. I believe in belief.”

I love that because it doesn't mean everything is sunshine, rainbows, and inspirational posters. Some days suck. Some people suck. Sometimes you work your ass off and still lose. In fact, that's part of what makes the message work. Richmond doesn't magically become unbeatable because somebody hung a crooked yellow BELIEVE sign over a doorway. Belief isn't a guarantee. It's a choice.

Maybe that's what I've been missing. Hope isn't convincing myself that everything will work out exactly the way I want it to. Hope is believing that whatever happens next isn't already doomed. At work, it's easy to become consumed by everything that's broken—deadlines, miscommunication, decisions you disagree with, people who frustrate you, problems that keep coming back no matter how many times you think you've solved them. Life isn't much different. Eventually you can spend so much time preparing yourself for the next problem that you forget to notice the things that aren't problems.

Ted tells Sam to “be a goldfish” because a goldfish supposedly has a ten-second memory. It's funny, but there's something useful underneath the joke: sometimes you have to let shit go. Not because it didn't matter, not because it didn't hurt, and not because whoever caused it suddenly deserves a free pass. You let it go because carrying yesterday around all day doesn't make today any better.

There's another lesson from the show that I keep coming back to: be curious, not judgmental. I've always thought about that as advice for dealing with other people, but maybe it applies just as much to ourselves. Instead of asking, Why the hell did I screw that up? maybe ask, Why did that bother me so much? Instead of, This is going to be a disaster, ask, What if it isn't? Instead of, Nothing ever changes, ask, What can I change? They aren't earth-shattering differences, but they're a start.

One of the things I appreciate most about Ted Lasso is that Ted's optimism doesn't make him immune to life. As the story goes on, you realize that the relentlessly positive guy is carrying plenty of pain himself. Positivity isn't the absence of pain. Hope isn't pretending you're happy when you're not. Believing things can get better doesn't require pretending they aren't difficult right now. Maybe being positive simply means refusing to let the worst parts of your life become the only parts you can see.

I'm probably never going to be the guy who wakes up every morning, throws open the curtains, and announces what a beautiful fucking opportunity the universe has given me. And that's probably for the best. Nobody needs that guy. But I can stop assuming the worst outcome is automatically the most realistic one. I can appreciate something going right without immediately wondering when it's going to go wrong. I can give people a chance. I can give myself one too. I can try to be a goldfish once in a while.

Maybe hope isn't the thing that kills you. Maybe losing hope does the real damage. I don't need to believe everything will be perfect, that every problem will work itself out, or even know exactly where I'm going from here. For now, it's enough to believe that tomorrow can be better than today—and then do what I can to help make it that way.

I believe in hope. I believe in belief.

And for the moment, that's a pretty damn good place to start.

Everyday is a new chance or every 10 seconds in goldfish terms.

-Peace - Matt