Hurt and hope can coexist. 

Grief and gratitude can coexist. 

Heartache and joy can coexist.

It sounds odd. We want to think only one or the other exists at one time—especially when one of the feelings and an experience is intense, overwhelming, and nearly unbearable.

Trauma makes hurt, grief, and heartache feel smothering. Trauma makes hope, gratitude, and joy feel nearly impossible. 

Feelings are important and valid but aren’t always accurate indicators of truth. 

When I was young, my family took a trip to Florida. Someone mentioned we would soon be crossing a toll bridge. I thought they said TROLL bridge. I was scared. My older sisters didn’t help the situation. I crawled onto the floor when we got closer. (This was before the days of carseats were common and seat belt were mandated.) And the fear continued at the beach front hotel that night, thanks to my sisters’ stories of trolls who come out of the ocean at night to find little girls who sleep closest to the sliding glass doors. (Of course, it was my turn to sleep on the rollaway bed, positioned close to the sliding glass doors.)

I felt fear. The emotion was real. However, it wasn’t an accurate indicator of reality. I needed to acknowledge and deal with it. Coping strategies were important. Someone telling me to calm down wasn’t helpful. It felt real. It felt overwhelming. But the feeling was deceptive. 

Feelings can help us. They can enhance our experiences. They can also deceive us or overwhelm us. And that reminds us…trauma can make hurt, grief, and heartache feel smothering. It doesn’t mean they are actually smothering. Trauma can make hope, gratitude, and joy feel nearly impossible. It doesn’t mean they are actually impossible. 

And it doesn’t mean hurt and hope can’t and don’t coexist. And grief and gratitude. And heartache and joy. Because they do.

It’s the juxtaposition of the most unlikely pairings that balances our lives. At times, it doesn’t feel like a balance. It feels like a last thread to hang onto. A gasp of breath. Just enough energy to do one thing. Hope, gratitude, and joy don’t always involve skipping through a field of flowers as the sun shines on us. But it’s a root that radiates from within or a glimpse of shimmer that reflects something more. Better. Beyond. 

It was in my darkest time that hurt, grief, and heartache consumed me. It surrounded me. It felt overwhelmingly oppressive in a way I had never experienced. The dark pressure on every side of me was palpable. And the trauma had come at one of the most spiritually and emotionally healthy seasons of my life. Leading up to the trauma, I had clarity, which was in direct opposition to the cyclonic forces and rubble confusing and pummeling me in the moments after the person I trusted and respected so casually and coldly dismissed me from his life. But the darkness revealed something—light. It was bright within that dark space even if it was small at first. It came from deep within, and I was so very thankful. And I knew it was God. 

He is how I know hurt and hope, grief and gratitude, heartache and joy can coexist. I saw it. I lived it. I still do. The ratio isn’t the same these days. My roots are even deeper, but it’s because some of them got pulled up for a while. It’s okay. God’s okay with tests. He passes mine. I don’t always pass his, but he always patiently teaches me through them. 

I do not wish trauma on you. But I absolutely want you to know that no matter what you go through—the highs and lows, the curves, peaks, valleys, deserts, and favorite relaxation spots—God sees you. He knows you. He can use and purpose it all from a perspective we can’t see. And for that, we can choose a posture of gratitude.