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“If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” ~Buddha
There are seasons when life feels stripped of joy, when hope seems far away, unreachable, or unreal. Seasons when you wake up already exhausted, and it feels like there’s nothing soft left in the world—no beauty, no connection, nothing to rest in. I’ve been living in that season lately.
I’m losing my vision to macular degeneration. I’m a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mother. I’m navigating disability, financial strain, and the feeling that the future is shrinking instead of widening. Most days, I move through the world numb and tired, trying to remember who I used to be.
I keep trying to find something to hold on to, but joy feels like vapor—something I can see briefly but not touch. Something other people have. Something I can’t seem to reside in.
Every Other Friday
Twice a month, I go to my eye doctor for injections that slow the loss of my vision. The waiting room is always filled with quiet tension—fearful eyes, deep breaths, people trying not to crumble. I sit and breathe, waiting for my name to be called.
And every time, without fail, there is a woman—maybe in her late fifties or early sixties—who enters already furious. Before she even sits down, she’s fighting with the receptionist.
“This is ridiculous. I’ve been waiting forever. None of you know what you’re doing!”
If someone steps too close to the counter, she lashes out:
“Don’t you dare cut in front of me!”
She screams into her phone, cursing the driver who brought her there for free. She talks loudly about how the world has abandoned her. Once, she turned to me and said:
“People like you don’t know what it’s like. You’re privileged. You don’t care.”
Everyone in the room freezes. Heads sink. Bodies tighten. The air turns sharp. It feels like all safety disappears.
Each time I witness her rage, a quiet thought echoes inside me: Is this what we’ve become? A world without empathy, without warmth, without joy?
It reminds me of what so many of us are feeling today—an overwhelming sense of isolation, fear, and disconnection. A society where people carry so much pain that anger becomes the only language they have left.
And I feel it inside myself too.
A Moment That Changed Something
But recently, something happened that shifted the way I saw everything.
A few days before one of my appointments, I was sitting with my mother. I don’t remember what we were talking about—something small, ordinary. But suddenly, we both laughed. Not a polite laugh or a small smile. A real laugh—full, surprising, alive.
I heard the joy in her voice. I saw her face light up. I felt my chest soften and my shoulders loosen. I felt a release of tension I didn’t even realize I was holding. For a few seconds, I felt a deep, fleeting happiness.
And while it was happening, I knew the moment was special. It arrived suddenly and disappeared quickly, but it was real. And it reminded me that I am still capable of joy—that my heart isn’t broken beyond repair, just tired.
Seeing Her Differently
So when I returned to the eye clinic and the angry woman erupted into the room again—shouting, cursing, accusing—something shifted.
I looked at her, and instead of feeling threatened, I saw someone drowning in pain. Someone whose suffering has nowhere to go. Someone who might not have laughed in years. Someone abandoned by a world that keeps moving without her.
Her anger wasn’t power. It was heartbreak in disguise. It was grief with no place to land.
And I realized that she is not the problem—she is the symptom.
A symptom of a society where people feel unseen, where suffering is ignored, where fear becomes louder than compassion, and where joy is treated like a luxury instead of nourishment.
Hope Is Not a Grand Emotion
I used to think hope meant a major turning point—a dramatic transformation, a clear moment of redemption. I thought joy needed to be big to matter.
Now I understand something different:
Hope is small.
Hope is brief.
Hope is quiet.
Hope is a spark, not a fire.
Hope is hearing your mother laugh.
Hope is a breath that loosens tension.
Hope is noticing a moment while it’s happening.
Hope is refusing to let pain define the story.
One Small Moment Can Save Us
The world may feel joyless at times. It may feel harsh and divided. It may feel full of anger like the woman in the waiting room. But every time someone laughs—every time someone softens—every time a moment breaks through the darkness, it proves something essential:
Life is still here. Joy is still possible. The heart still remembers.
We don’t have to wait for everything to be okay to allow something small to matter.
A Practice for When Hope Feels Gone
Close your eyes for a moment. Take a slow breath.
Remember one moment—however tiny—when you felt warmth or connection.
A laugh. A smile. A hand held. Sunlight on your face. Anything.
Hold that memory gently for five breaths. Watch what happens inside you.
That feeling is the seed of healing.
A question: When was the last time you felt even a small spark of joy?
What would happen if you let that moment matter?
My answer: I heard my mother laugh. And today, I’m choosing to let that be enough.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, resilience, and the quiet power of small moments. He is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking and shares personal essays about meaning, hope, and disability on Substack.
Connect: tonycollins.substack.com | iefilm.com
