Why Hopefully?

Two posts today - this one and an update for subscribers

I guess there's two posts today. This one, and the paid update for books, which will be out later today.
I've been messaged a bit about the verb I chose for the Yours (one word), Kai in the title, and why I settled on 'Hopefully', given life is dark for many. It's not always going to be yours 'hopefully'. I've just got that one for now.
So, I thought today I'd share an article I wrote when I first started out as a writer. It's something that I wrote a long time ago for bi-polarbears.com - and it was an article that got so much (negative) attention at the time, that it came down, but that I feel is apropos right now. I wrote this over ten years ago - and it's still applicable now.

When the World Feels Like a Grey Blanket: Navigating Hopelessness

There are days, sometimes weeks, when the light just seems to dim. Not metaphorically, not in some poetic sense, but genuinely, as if someone has pulled a thick, grey blanket over the entire world. This isn't just sadness; it's the profound, heavy weight of hopelessness. It’s that chilling whisper in your ear that tells you nothing will ever get better, that the effort isn't worth it, that there’s no point in reaching for a sun you can no longer see. It's also the small, quiet voice that asks what the point is.

The world in general seems to be getting more insular. When I first encountered online communities, they were heralded as ways of bridging gaps in personal contact, building the perfect community for your needs. The reality, especially in an age of what could really be called 'black and white thinking'. From the political minefield to everyone having an opinion in your life, it's hard to know where to turn.

And let’s be honest, it feels incredibly lonely. In those moments, the very idea of hope can seem like a cruel joke, something for others who haven’t truly felt this particular brand of desolate quiet. It’s a place where thoughts can spiral, where the future looks like an endless stretch of the present moment, and where even the smallest task can feel like moving mountains.

For many of us, this isn't a fleeting mood. It can be a persistent companion, especially when navigating the intricate labyrinth of mental health conditions. Whether it stems from the relentless cycle of depression, the echoes of past trauma, or the sheer exhaustion of masking our true feelings, hopelessness finds its way in. It’s a heavy anchor, dragging us down when all we crave is to float.

Yet, in this very rawness, there’s a strange, quiet truth: you are not alone in feeling this. This isn’t a flaw in your character; it’s a profound human experience, amplified by the unique wiring and life journeys we each carry. Acknowledging this isn't about wallowing; it's about validating the very real pain that comes with feeling lost in the dark. It’s about recognizing that the grey blanket is real, but it isn't permanent, even when it feels like it is.

So, how do we begin to pierce it? How do we move on from hopelessness?
Sometimes, it starts with the tiniest crack. It might be the courage to simply name the feeling – "I feel hopeless today." It might be allowing ourselves to lean, however subtly, on another person, even if it's just a message to a friend saying, "I'm having a hard time." It could be the quiet act of listening to someone else's story, finding a sliver of common ground that reminds us of shared humanity. Sometimes, if you've got the spoons, it's about faking it till you make it. Or using affirmations. Or meditation. Or self-care.

For me, and perhaps for you, writing about these feelings, or engaging with those who do, offers a peculiar kind of relief. It's the act of taking that heavy, unspoken weight and giving it form, allowing it to exist outside the confines of our own minds. This doesn't magically make it disappear, but it does make it less intimidating, less consuming. It's a testament to the fact that even when hope feels absent, the capacity for reflection and connection remains.

The journey through hopelessness is rarely linear, and it's certainly not a race. There will be days when the blanket feels lighter, and days when it drops back down with renewed force. But with each honest acknowledgment, each quiet act of self-compassion, and each vulnerable connection, we begin to weave a new thread. These threads, slowly but surely, start to patch holes in the grey, letting in just enough light to remind us that beyond the things we feel are smothering us, the world, with all its messy, beautiful complexity, is still waiting.

As are the people that care about you. We see you.

Yours, candidly,
Kai