Fighting For Hope Through Re-Membering

“You are highly skilled at manipulation!” he screamed, pounding the table with clenched fists. Others in the room, some friends, sat frozen and silent as his rage spiraled out of control. Those words, sharp and accusatory, would echo in my mind for months to come, playing on repeat like a scratched vinyl album. 

Months later, I found myself drowning– drowning in grief and shame. Even though my wife Emily and my family were with me, I felt like I was dying alone. I was cut off from a place and a people I loved. This was not just isolation– it was a devastating lack of belonging that I had never known before.  Shamed, shunned, and cast out. All of my efforts for repair were either ignored or twisted into blame and judgment. Empathy and curiosity seemed nowhere to be found. I became fixated on what I had lost, wondering what to do or say to spark a conversation.

I clung tightly to hope as it slowly faded and flickered like a candle at the end of its wick.

One night, things took a darker turn. I had never been affected by depression before, and for those of you who have faced it courageously– some for years- your resiliency is truly remarkable. I spent most of the night awake, drowning in shame over the past and terrified of what the future might hold. I was wallowing in my own shortcomings, regrets, and remorse, haunted by the fear that there was someone I had unknowingly hurt while simultaneously experiencing my own anguish.  

The next morning, desperate and broken, I mustered the courage to call someone who had been one of my best friends. Though our relationship had been strained due to the recent conflict, I truly believed he would show up. I dialed his number, expecting to leave a voicemail since most of my calls had gone unanswered, but much to my surprise, he picked up. I said, “I’m hurting; I need to talk”. He agreed to meet and promised to send me a time that week; that was the last I heard from him.

That was the moment I spiraled–my depression reached a terrifying low, and hope seemed all but gone. 

Hope isn’t cute. It’s scary as hell. Giving up hope felt like the safer option in those most difficult moments. At least that way, I wouldn’t be disappointed again. Until all this happened, I never knew how weak I was. Yet, at the same time, I never knew how strong I was. To be even more honest, I never knew how strong Emily was. She fought for and with me, never letting me walk this wilderness alone. Together, we picked up the pieces of shattered dreams and broken relationships. 

In the end, hope prevailed. But hope isn’t what we often think it is. Hope is not a positive thought or a passive wish. We often say things like, “I hope it doesn't rain tomorrow.” That’s not hope; it’s optimism. There is absolutely nothing I can do to determine whether it will rain tomorrow. 

Real hope, the kind that empowers when everything seems lost, is much deeper. Hope is about agency, about action. It’s a belief in the goodness of the future that asks, “What can I do now, in this moment, to help make that future a reality?”. Hope isn’t needed when life is going well, it's needed when all seems lost. Hope is the only positive emotion that requires a negative experience to activate (Tomosou, 2020).

Hope doesn’t thrive in comfort. It’s born in struggle. It’s the last shred of light when everything else is dark.

Hope isn’t just some abstract idea.  Hope is for the young soldier in a foxhole- cold, exhausted, and terrified- who uses his last ounce of strength to keep his eyes open, even when he has nothing left. Hope is a defiant “Hell no!” that refuses to surrender. That clings onto not just the belief that things will get better but the courage to take even the slightest step in that direction. Hope is a frightening and bold commitment to act.

We leaned into that hope. Together, we began a healing journey. We returned to a community we believed could hold space for us, even in our brokenness. We both went to counseling. I enrolled in a master's program in Restorative Practices, and I’m just two classes away from finishing. Emily completed the second and third levels of Narrative-Based Trauma Care certification. 

Although we’ve healed in so many ways over the past three years, there’s one thing I still couldn’t shake.

Despite the voices of encouragement in my life, I still yearned for the approval of those who had judged me. My mind held onto their voices, communicating how I didn’t belong, and I believed them. I felt trapped in this paradox.

As painful as this experience has been, it has forced me deeper into the work of healing.  In “Man's Search for Meaning”, Viktor Frankl, the Austrian psychiatrist who survived Auschwitz, writes, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms– to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” I realized to heal fully, I would have to take back ownership of my own thoughts and identity. 

I had to face the question: Do I really want the approval of someone who demands that I think like them, act like them, and believe like them to get a sense of love and acceptance? There is a difference between belonging and fitting in. It was time to take my worthiness out of the hands of others and rewrite or re-member my identity. 

Now my journey is one of re-membering.

To re-member means bringing the right people (members)– the ones whose opinions truly matter– back into the story of my life. To silence the voices who would isolate me, and who are unable to engage with curiosity and empathy. To consciously choose whose voices I allow to influence my identity. People who get a say in shaping my identity are part of an exclusive “members-only club.” I had to revoke some of the memberships and dismiss people from the places where I allowed them to sit. I had to upgrade other voices, those of people who are for me and can hold space for my humanity. 

The process of healing has shown me that if I allow everyone's opinion to shape my identity, I will always be in prison.

If I listen to everyone's voice, I will always find evidence of why I don’t belong. That is the work. I’ll try to stay curious and listen to those who can speak the truth with love, without blame or judgment. I'll give a piece of my heart and listen to voices that remind me of my worth and dignity. I want to surround myself with people who have done their own work and have faced their own shadows. Those who encourage me to keep fighting and not give up. Those who not only see beauty in ashes but are willing to sit with me in them, holding on to the embers of hope.