Kick at the Darkness: Holding on to Hope When It Feels Like Too Much
“Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight.
Gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight.”
- Bruce Cockburn
Some darkness doesn’t crash in… it creeps. From the outside: school runs, packed lunches, therapy appointments. From the inside: a mountain on your back that no one can see.
Maybe it looks like:
A “placement” conversation where no one says the hard thing out loud.
A behaviour note from someone who doesn’t read sensory cues.
Tears over the sink at 10pm because stopping means falling apart.
When you live here long enough, hope feels like a foreign language. This post is your phrasebook.
What hope actually is (and isn’t)
Hope isn’t a hashtag. It’s a skill built through struggle.
Brené Brown describes hope as a cognitive process: set meaningful goals, find pathways, believe you can try again (and ask for help).
Charles Snyder frames hope as agency + pathways: “I can” energy plus routes to get there.
Hope ≠ pretending. Hope is moving anyway, even if the path is foggy and you’re walking slowly.
Naming the grief beneath the hope
Hope and grief are bedfellows.
We grieve ease, welcome, time, versions of ourselves. As Dr Pauline Boss teaches, this is ambiguous loss - a looping grief without a clean beginning or end. Naming it doesn’t make it vanish… but it does stop it from swallowing us whole.
“You can be grieving and hopeful at the same time. Both are honest.”
A hand on my knee (a small true story)
On a nothing-special Tuesday, after a dysregulated morning, I slid down the hallway wall and went still. No tears, just empty.
Then a light touch - my son’s hand on my knee. No words. Presence.
Nothing in our circumstances changed. But connection did. And sometimes, connection is the shift.
Tiny takeaway: Hope doesn’t have to be a sunrise. It can be a hand. A pause. A breath.
The fight (and the moments that keep you in it)
This type of motherhood asks a lot:
The fight for services. The fight to be believed. The fight to stay kind when you’re empty - and not to disappear in the caregiving.
Sometimes the kick lands on concrete. And then, out of nowhere:
A referral finally comes through.
A meltdown resolves faster than last week.
You laugh together.
You speak up - and they listen.
Those aren’t accidents. They’re proof that your effort is carving paths through systems that weren’t built for us. That carving is hope in motion.
Beyond resilience: this is resistance
Care is political. As Dr Eva Feder Kittay reminds us, “Dependency isn’t the exception; it’s the human condition.” Yet mothers and carers are often treated as afterthoughts.
So when you advocate, rest, say “this is too much”, or ask for help, you’re not failing - you’re resisting a culture that expects you to be invisible. Your refusal to disappear is an act of hope.
“Rest is not retreat. It’s resistance.”
My quietest victory
One afternoon my chest felt tight and my brain foggy.
I made tea, switched on the laundry, and sat down… without doing anything else.
That was my win.
Let this be enough today:
“I get to sit.” “My needs matter.” “I won’t disappear in this story.”
A 3-minute grounding practice: hope in the body
Try this now or save it for the car park / bathroom / 2am.
Notice your breath. In … and out. No fixing.
Recall connection. A hand, a glance, a shared laugh.
Say quietly: I am still here. I am allowed to hope.
Feet to floor. Press down; imagine the ground rises to meet you.
Longer exhale. Let your shoulders drop. Stay for three more breaths.
Micro-cue for later: put a tiny dot sticker on your phone. Every time you see it, one breath: in / long out.
Where the light leaks in
Most days it’s not a floodlight; it’s a match.
Look for it in:
A therapist who says, “You’re doing an amazing job.”
A friend who drops dinner at your door.
A new word, a new glance, a softer morning.
A day that begins without dread.
Hold the match. That’s enough to re-orient in the dark.
Reflect & journal (or voice note on a walk)
What does hope feel like in my body right now (temperature, weight, movement)?
When did I feel even a flicker this week?
Who holds hope for me when I can’t… and how can I let them?
One small action that honours my aliveness today is…
Micro-wins to notice this week:
I paused before reacting.
I asked for (and accepted) help.
I protected 10 minutes for me.
I said the true thing in a meeting.
We laughed.
You’re not alone here
If this offered even a flicker of light, share it with someone walking through a hard week.
Need a soft landing? Book a free Discovery Call — 20 minutes to breathe, name the heavy thing, and decide your gentle next step.
New here? Download The First 30 Days: A Grounding Guide for Mums After Diagnosis — a compassionate PDF to steady you when the whirlwind hits.
Local to Wicklow/Kildare/West Dublin? Join our monthly Support Circle. Tea, chairs with cushions, no judgement.
You’re not broken. You’re carrying a lot. And you’re doing better than you think.
