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There is Always Hope

We talk a lot about hope at the Brian Dagle Foundation and if you come to our building, Brian’s Healing Hearts, you’ll see artwork featuring hope throughout the house and cottage. At the beginning of your grief journey, you may feel like there could never be hope again, that you’ll never feel joy like you once did. But as you keep taking steps forwarding and doing the work of mourning and healing, you will find that the grief makes room for hope and hope drags joy right along with it. Not all at once, but like a puddle is made up of many rain drops, hope builds bit by bit until you can recognize it again.

A few questions to help you think about hope:

  • What is something that gives you hope?
  • Who do you know who inspires hope in others?
  • What does hope mean to you?
  • What does hope look like?
  • What does hope feel like?
  • What color is hope?

For a beautiful story of what it looks like to find hope and healing after loss, scroll down to read Sandy’s story.

Have thoughts on hope? Let us know!

Books and Resources

Inspiration

“Something will grow from all you are going through. And it will be you.” TobyMac

“They grow together in the same field – grief and hope. So compactly and in such unison that it’s difficult to tell which is which and just when you may be tempted to think grief is choking everything, hope blooms.” Lori Hetteen

“Place your hand over your heart, can you feel it? That is called purpose. You’re alive for a reason so don’t ever give up.” — Joyce Meyer

“The bravest thing I ever did was continuing my life when I wanted to die.” — Juliette Lewis

“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.” — Pablo Neruda

A Story of Healing and Hope

Kim, Sandy’s daughter.

I had a history with trauma already when I learned three and a half years ago that my daughter, Kim, had taken her life. My inner critic immediately unleashed on me and support at home collapsed as well. And so, just a few months after Kim’s death, I found Brian’s Healing Hearts through an online search. I’d never sought support from a group before. I was terrified at the prospect of opening up to strangers about the crazy thoughts inside my head, but I’d reached a tipping point. If I didn’t release some of what was happening up there, or expand my capacity to hold it, (or both), I was going to have a meltdown.

It was winter and the room felt warm and welcoming. When Ann read the opening guidelines, I felt safe. When I listened to others, many who like me were parents who’d recently lost a child to suicide, I knew I wasn’t alone. When others who were farther along in their grief shared their experiences, I sensed hope. When my turn to speak came, I found in that atmosphere of acceptance the courage to share something that’d been haunting me. I’d been too numb to cry, and I feared my lack of tears was a reflection of a lack of love. To my welcome surprise, I discovered that I was having a common response. I was assured that whatever I felt, or didn’t feel, was part of my unique journey.

Over time, I learned from the group how to take better care of myself, befriend my inner critic, and be gentler. Slowly I began to open my heart and allow myself to feel. I learned that I often experienced more than one feeling at the same time. Ultimately, I learned how to build a new relationship with Kim in the present, one which both celebrates our unbreakable bond of love and mourns the loss of her physical presence. I’ve come to accept that what this looks like varies day to day, sometimes moment to moment because by finding community, I no longer feel like my loss sets me apart. Rather I’ve come to see living with it as the essence of what it means to be human and a reminder of our deep connection with one another.

by Sandy Kiefer