"Even in Hell, Hope Can Flower": A Personal Journey

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” – Desmond Tutu

To be honest, part of me has hesitated to share too of my personal story. Sometimes, it just feels like too much – not for me, but because I know many of you are here for good vibes and positive inspiration. A part of me feels ashamed that I’m not a "good vibes only" kind of person. Also, much of my spiritual practice revolves around letting go of the story of 'me' - my ego. The truth is, I still have to live out the story of my life, and life has been heavy lately. I have to fight hard to pull myself out of dark places. But the more I sit with it, the more I realize it’s important to share this side of the story because it’s the real human experience, and this is where the most important teachings lie. What do we truly learn from a "happily ever after"? Is it even real? Of course, we need positivity and uplifting narratives to help us see the light and possibility – but we also need to acknowledge the darkness, and hear the stories of how others bravely navigate their way out of such places. I believe that’s where the most valuable teachings are.

The irony of it all? My theme for March was Hope. I envisioned sharing uplifting poems about spring flowers, the joy that brighter days bring, and verses that would warm the heart. But hope, I’ve come to realize, is not just the sunshine that follows a storm—it’s the very light that guides us through the storm itself. Hope cannot exist without adversity. Light is meaningless without darkness. Hope is the force that carries us forward when the way ahead is unclear, when the path seems shrouded in darkness. At first, I thought the universe was playing a cruel joke—hope was the one thing I had been desperately clinging to, and for the past few weeks, I found myself questioning whether it had slipped through my fingers entirely. And yet, here I am—having to teach that very thing.

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” – Rumi

Many of you know bits of the journey I’ve been on – the struggle, nonetheless. Well, it felt as if it had all come to a head recently. We lost our beautiful and beloved dog, Lambucas, and on the very same day, we received the heartbreaking news I have been dreading: nearly all of our embryos—sent for genetic testing after repeated failed transfers—were deemed non-viable. Only one remains, and even that one has a low chance of implantation. This was a devastating result, as we had recently concluded that this may possibly be our last try. With every cycle, it feels like I’m losing more—more of myself, more of my energy, more of the life I envisioned. I fear that if we continue down this path, I’ll lose everything—no baby, no career, and no funds left to even enjoy the possibility of choosing a life without children, like traveling. But perhaps the deepest fear is the thought of losing each other in the process.

"Hope is the only thing stronger than fear." – Suzanne Collins

Thankfully, just a few days later, in what felt like divine timing, I had a silent meditation retreat already booked. It turned out to be a true savior. I cannot express enough how transformative and healing a few days in a supported space of meditation, self-reflection, and silence can be for the heart and soul. I walked into that retreat filled with sadness and, truthfully, bitterness. I almost went home the first night because, well, these things are not always easy to start. It had been raining, it was cold and wet, the accommodation was very basic and felt more like camping. Honestly, I just wanted to be nurtured in a luxurious spa hotel instead of sleeping in a damp bed in a dorm room, fully clothed. But I’m so glad I stayed. Like our teacher said so beautifully that first day – something like: when times are hard, it’s that very adversity that makes us shine. It’s the pressure of adversity that reveals our brilliance. Leaning into discomfort, rather than avoiding it, is where transformation happens. I knew in my heart this was exactly what I needed. Moving into it, rather than running away seeking temporary relief – that’s the true path to freedom. And it was. By the end of the retreat, it felt like my heart had been reset and recharged. I felt in love with life again. I was able to make peace with what is. I smiled again. I felt an overwhelming sense of love in my heart, resilience, and strength.

Hope still clings.

“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—and sings the tune without the words—and never stops at all.” – Emily Dickinson

Then, still riding my post-retreat high, we got the call that the surgery we’d been waiting for was finally booked, just a few days away. A surgery that I felt should have been done at the very start of the process, based on everything I had read, but one that none of my doctors were eager to perform: removing my blocked fallopian tubes. You see, when your fallopian tubes are blocked—usually due to scar tissue or endometriosis—the blockage prevents the body’s natural fluids from flowing. Instead, they collect and turn toxic, creating an unstable environment for anything to grow. In the US, it’s widely practiced to remove blocked fallopian tubes before starting IVF. However, I feel Europe is always a bit more conservative, and I do understand why. Surgery is a difficult decision, always carrying risks, and once done, there’s no going back. This means that all those stories of hope I’ve heard over the years—about people who, despite all odds, conceived once they “stopped trying”—will never be our story. Unless, of course, I become the next Mother Mary. 😅

This phone call stirred a cocktail of emotions. On one hand, it felt positive that we would finally be removing one more obstacle. We still cling to the possibility that this might be our miraculous chance. On the other hand, we feel it’s so late in our journey, and we’ve almost decided to give up. We wonder if it’s still worth it. I mean, in trying to salvage my career and keep life moving forward, I just invested a lot of time, energy, and resources into starting local offline classes, which now I would have to cancel. I’d also have to stop teaching online while I recover, or at least adapt how I teach. I dreaded the pain of it all. I’ve had laparoscopic surgery before, and while it’s less invasive, it’s still surgery and still painful. There are always sacrifices with each decision—physical, mental, economic, and career-wise. But in the end, we couldn’t deny the light that hope shines down this dark and scary path. Like a flashing beacon in the darkness, it beckoned us to move on. (Plus, did you know that removing your fallopian tubes may reduce your risk of ovarian cancer?)

"We don’t know where we’re going, we don’t know what’s going to happen, but no one can take away from you what you put in your own mind". - Edith Edger

The surgery was a success, and I’m slowly recovering. As I can’t do much else, I’ve been reading a book that mysteriously appeared on my bookshelf (I have no idea where it came from!), but it’s been an unexpected source of strength and inspiration. It’s called The Choice by Edith Eger. The cover shows the rail tracks leading to Auschwitz, covered in snow, with a handful of delicate yet robust yellow flowers growing from the white blanket. Above the flowers, it says: Even in Hell, hope can flower. The author, an eminent psychologist and Holocaust survivor who held onto hope despite unimaginable suffering, loss, and horror, tells her story of how crucial keeping hope alive was to her survival.

Her philosophy on hope is a powerful reminder: we can either focus on what we’ve lost or pay attention to what we still have. She writes, “I am reminded again and again: to choose hope is to choose life.” And if she could do it in the face of such devastation, then so can I.

Dr. Eger defines hope as “the awareness that suffering, however terrible, is temporary; and Hope is the curiosity to discover what happens next.”

Isn’t it funny how the universe works? How this book found its way to me just when I needed it—to remind me to trust in hope, to keep my heart open even in the darkest of winters. The melting snow will once again nourish the spring flowers.

She reminds me that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my grief, nor try to always put on a brave smile and say, "I’m okay"—just to avoid making others uncomfortable with my suffering. Don’t we all do that?

She says, “All therapy is grief work. A process of confronting a life where you expect one thing and get another. A life that brings you the unexpected and unanticipated. To heal doesn’t mean to get over it, but it does mean that we are able to be wounded and whole, to find happiness and fulfillment in our lives despite our loss.”

“Life is always changing, and we are changing with it. We are in a continuous process of becoming. That is how we hold onto hope.”- Edith Edger

So here I am, embracing holding onto hope and trying to be wounded and whole at the same time. I would love to say I’ve graduated from this teaching with honors and am ready for the next lesson 😅. But I think I’m only partway through my course. Still, I feel it’s important to share what I’ve learned so far with you all. Because we’re all human, and we’ll all get to a point where hope feels like a life raft slipping through our fingers. We all need someone to shout, "Hold on! I’ve been through this storm before; the waves will settle soon. Keep holding on to hope!"

"Hope is not the absence of despair. It is the ability to face it." – Edith Eger

Thank you for listening to my story. I don’t share it for sympathy or pity—I already know how much many of you care. I share it because I feel my purpose is to use the material of my life as teachings that enable me to be there for others going through similar experiences. I share because, even though this story is uniquely mine, suffering is part of the human experience. Life not turning out the way we expect, facing loss or uncertainty, sitting in the darkness of pain and grief—it will happen to us all. Just look at the state of the world today. It is a scary place full of alot of horror, loss, grief and uncertainty. There are still people who live a reality much harsher than my own and more like Dr. Edith Edgers. And I think it’s important that we know we are not alone in that. That we can be the ones who hold the hands of others—the ones who pass on the small sparks of light.

"In the middle of winter, I found there was within me an invincible summer." – Albert Camus

❤️