Complementary eCourse to Embracing Change – in 10 minutes a day

Module 3: Gratitude in Difficult Times – Finding Diamonds in the Dark

Welcome to Day Three!

Hello there. I’m glad you’re back. By now, you may have begun experiencing the subtle shifts that come from practising intentional gratitude and generosity. Today, we venture into perhaps the most challenging—and potentially transformative—territory: gratitude during difficult times. In my LifeQuake Survival Protocol course-with-coaching, you’ll discover that our ability to find appreciation amid upheaval often determines whether a crisis breaks us down or breaks us open. Let’s meet Maya and learn from her remarkable journey.

Module 1
Module 2
Module 3
Module 4
Module 5
Conclusion

Maya’s Story: The Terrible Egg Salad Sandwiches

The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and wilting flowers. Maya’s shoes squeaked against the polished floor as she made her way to room 307, where her mother had spent the past three weeks. The weight of the diagnosis—stage four pancreatic cancer—hung in the air around her, almost tangible.

Outside her mother’s room, Maya paused. Through the partially open door, she could hear her mother’s familiar laugh—softer now, but still unmistakably hers—mingled with another voice. Peeking in, Maya saw Nurse Denise changing the IV bag while telling a story that had her mother smiling despite the dark circles under her eyes.

“There you are,” her mother said, spotting Maya in the doorway. “Denise was just telling me about her grandson’s first piano recital.”

“He played ‘Chopsticks’ with such conviction,” Denise said, patting Maya’s mother’s hand. “Teresa, you rest now. I’ll check back before my shift ends.”

As Denise passed Maya in the doorway, she squeezed Maya’s shoulder gently. The simple touch carried more comfort than a thousand well-meaning platitudes from others.

Inside, Maya arranged the fresh pyjamas she’d brought, the scent of lavender fabric softener momentarily overpowering the hospital smells. Her mother watched with eyes that remained bright despite the illness that was steadily consuming her.

“You look tired, sweetheart,” her mother observed.

Maya almost laughed. Here was her mother, tethered to machines, fighting for each day, worried about Maya’s fatigue.

“I’m fine,” Maya insisted, plumping pillows that didn’t need plumping.

“Sit,” her mother patted the edge of the bed. “Tell me something good.”

It had become their ritual over the past weeks. Each visit, her mother would ask for “something good,” and Maya would scramble to find positive news, funny stories from work, anything to briefly transport them both from this sterile room with its beeping monitors and ticking clock.

Today, Maya’s mind felt blank. The meeting with the oncologist earlier had been grim. Six months had become three. Options were dwindling. What good could possibly exist in this narrowing world?

Her mother waited, patient as always.

“The cherry trees are blooming along the river path,” Maya finally offered. “The whole walkway looks like it’s been carpeted in pink snow.”

“Mmm,” her mother closed her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips. “I can almost smell them. Remember when you were little, how we’d have picnics under those trees?”

“You’d pack those terrible egg salad sandwiches,” Maya said, the memory rising unexpectedly. “And I’d pretend to eat them but really feed them to the squirrels when you weren’t looking.”

“I knew,” her mother opened one eye, a mischievous glint visible. “I always knew.”

They both laughed, the sound strange but welcome in the antiseptic room.

That evening, driving home through rain that drummed against her windshield, Maya felt a heaviness unlike anything she’d known. The dashboard clock glowed 11:23 PM. Another day gone. Another day closer to the inevitable.

At home, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto her sofa, not bothering to turn on the lights. Her apartment felt cold and hollow. On her coffee table sat the leather-bound journal her friend Rachel had given her last week.

“For the hard days,” Rachel had said. “Write down one good thing each day. Even if it seems insignificant. Especially then.”

Maya had nodded, touched but unconvinced. What was a journal in the face of terminal illness? A band-aid on an amputation.

Now, she reached for it, the leather cool against her fingertips. She flipped it open, uncapped a pen, and stared at the blank page.

One good thing.

After a long moment, she wrote: Nurse Denise made Mom laugh today.

The next day, after a visit where her mother had been too nauseated to talk much, she wrote: The sunset through Mom’s hospital window turned everything gold for seven minutes.

The day after, when her mother developed an infection and spiked a fever: Dr. Lin answered my call at 10 PM and adjusted Mom’s antibiotics immediately.

Some days, the gratitude felt like rebellion against the unfairness of it all. Other days, it felt like grasping at straws. But each night, no matter how depleted she felt, Maya would find something—anything—to acknowledge.

Mom still remembers all the lyrics to our road trip songs.

The cafeteria cook gave me an extra pudding cup for Mom.

Rachel sat with me in silence for an hour and didn’t try to fix anything.

Three weeks later, Maya sat beside her mother’s bed, holding her increasingly frail hand. The room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic beeping of monitors and the whisper of oxygen flowing through tubes. Outside, rain streaked the windows, blurring the city lights.

“Tell me,” her mother whispered, her voice thin but determined, “something good.”

Maya’s throat tightened. The latest scan had shown the cancer spreading despite everything. Her mother’s once-robust frame had diminished so dramatically that the hospital gown draped over her like a sail without wind. What good could possibly exist in this moment?

But as she looked at her mother—really looked at her—Maya suddenly saw beyond the illness to the woman who had taught her to ride a bike, who had held her through her first heartbreak, who still listened to Maya’s problems as if they were the most important matters in the world.

“You,” Maya said, voice breaking. “You are something good, Mom. The way you still worry about the nurses being overworked. How you remember the names of all my coworkers. The fact that yesterday, when you were in pain, you still asked me if I’d eaten lunch.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s cheating,” she whispered. “You’re supposed to tell me about cherry blossoms or funny stories from work.”

“No,” Maya shook her head. “The most important thing I’ve learned is that gratitude isn’t just for the easy stuff. It’s for this, too. For being your daughter. For having you as my mother. For every minute we get, even here, even now.”

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers, a surprising strength in the frail grip.

That night, in her journal, Maya wrote: Today, Mom and I spoke the whole truth to each other, and it was beautiful.

Two months later, after the funeral, after the casseroles from well-meaning neighbours had stopped appearing at her door, after the first crushing waves of grief had begun to recede into a more constant but manageable ache, Maya found herself once again at the river path. The cherry trees were long past blooming now, their branches heavy with summer leaves that rustled in the warm breeze.

She carried her mother’s ashes in a simple wooden box, along with the gratitude journal—now filled with entries from those final weeks:

Mom taught the night nurse how to make her special tea.

We laughed until we cried over that ridiculous TV show.

Mom told me she’s not afraid.

Today, Mom squeezed my hand three times—our secret code for “I love you”—even though she couldn’t speak.

In her final moments, Mom looked peaceful.

As Maya scattered the ashes beneath the trees where they’d once shared picnics, she realized something profound. The gratitude practice hadn’t changed her mother’s prognosis. It hadn’t miraculously cured the cancer or extended her life beyond medicine’s capabilities.

But it had changed everything else.

It had transformed those final months from a time of pure despair into a complex tapestry where joy and sorrow, gratitude and grief could coexist. It had helped Maya notice the moments that might otherwise have been lost to fear and anticipatory grief. It had created space for her to be fully present with her mother until the very end.

And now, somehow, it was helping her find her way forward, one acknowledged gift at a time.

That evening, in a new journal, Maya wrote: Today, I scattered Mom’s ashes in her favourite place, and somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain, I felt her smile.

Beyond Toxic Positivity: The Science of Genuine Gratitude in Crisis

Maya’s story illustrates a crucial distinction that we explore deeply in the LifeQuake Survival Protocol: the difference between toxic positivity (“Just think positive!” or “It could be worse!”) and authentic gratitude practice during difficult times.

Research from the field of positive psychology shows that acknowledging difficulty while simultaneously practising gratitude activates different neural pathways than either complaining or forced optimism. When we practice what psychologists call “tragic optimism”—finding meaning and moments of appreciation within genuinely difficult circumstances—we experience:

1. Increased psychological flexibility: Our ability to hold seemingly contradictory emotions simultaneously—grief alongside gratitude, pain alongside appreciation—actually expands our emotional capacity.
2. Enhanced meaning-making: Studies show that finding things to appreciate during hardship helps us construct narrative meaning from otherwise chaotic or senseless experiences.
3. Buffered traumatic impact: Research with trauma survivors indicates that those who can identify positive elements amid suffering show reduced rates of PTSD and faster recovery.
4. Sustained connection: Gratitude during crisis keeps relational channels open when we might otherwise isolate ourselves.

The key distinction is that genuine gratitude practice during hardship never denies or minimizes the reality of suffering. Instead, it creates a larger container that can hold both the pain and the appreciation simultaneously. This is a cornerstone technique in the LifeQuake Survival Protocol, where we learn that acknowledging what’s still good doesn’t diminish our truth—it completes it.

The “Even This” Practice: Finding Diamonds in the Dark

Today’s practice is especially designed for challenging circumstances—whether you’re facing a major LifeQuake or simply navigating a difficult day:

1. Acknowledge the difficulty first. Begin by honestly naming what is hard right now. Place your hand on your heart and say (aloud or silently): “This is a moment of suffering” or “This is really hard right now.” Feel the truth of this acknowledgement in your body.
2. Create space with breath. Take three deep breaths, imagining you’re creating space around the difficulty—not to diminish it, but to ensure it doesn’t consume the entire frame of your experience.
3. Ask the “Even This” question. Gently ask yourself: “Even in this situation, what small gift or grace might I acknowledge?” Allow whatever arises to come without forcing or manufacturing gratitude.
4. Capture the contradiction. In your journal or simply in your awareness, hold both the difficulty and the gift together, perhaps using language like: “This situation is painful AND I’m grateful for…” or “Even as I struggle with…, I appreciate…”
5. Notice the physical sensation. Where in your body do you feel the response to this practice? Is there any shift, however subtle, in your physical experience of the situation?

This practice isn’t magic. It won’t solve intractable problems or erase genuine pain. What it offers instead is a way to prevent difficulty from becoming your entire reality—to ensure that even in the darkest mine, you can recognize the veins of gold that run through the stone.

In the comprehensive LifeQuake Survival Protocol, we explore how this capacity becomes essential during major life disruptions, allowing you to maintain your core sense of self and possibility even when circumstances seem to be crumbling around you.

Tomorrow’s Preview

Tomorrow, we’ll explore the practice of generous listening—offering the gift of our full attention to others. We’ll meet Michael, whose simple shift in how he approached workplace conversations transformed not just individual relationships but an entire organizational culture. This skill becomes particularly crucial during times of upheaval, when quality of connection often determines quality of outcome.

Until then, remember that true gratitude isn’t about denying difficulty—it’s about refusing to let difficulty have the only word.

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Reflection Question: What challenging situation in your life right now might benefit from the “Even This” practice? Can you identify one small gift or grace within that difficulty?