Gratitude Schmatitude

Healing the body doesn't heal the soul

We recently said goodbye to our older dog, Donut. He wasn’t great at practicing gratitude (he had a hard life before we rescued him), but we are thankful to have known him nonetheless!

If you were to ask a friend to describe me, they wouldn’t say “grateful.” Sarcastic, cynical, honest—these are more likely. But grateful? I’ve always thought of gratitude like kale—good for you, but not very appetizing.

There is no need to lecture me about the benefits of gratitude. I’m aware of them. Reduced stress, better mental health, even longer life. And as a Christian, I believe that practicing gratitude likewise yields spiritual rewards. The Bible frequently commands humans to praise and thank God for all he is and all he gives.

Even more problematic are the parts of the Bible that encourage believers to be grateful for suffering. Not the blessings amidst suffering but the experience of suffering itself. *cough* Moving on.

After developing chronic pain, I took extra care to avoid gratitude in all its forms. I scoffed at anyone who mentioned silver linings, scoffed also at the Pass It On billboards that presented inspirational, airbrushed portraits of suffering, and scoffed at God and his mandates to be grateful.

I felt justified in this view because I believed practicing gratitude would diminish my pain in the eyes of others. I didn’t want to give anyone reason to think that I was okay when I wasn’t, or to ignore how much I was hurting. And over time, I built a castle out of this ungratefulness. I felt safer in its dark, stoney halls than I did in the sunshiney world of gratitude.

I often pictured being grateful, though, when I pictured what it would be like to be free of constant pain—something I daydreamed about quite frequently. Maybe this wasn’t a helpful thing to do at the time. I’d been told that my condition was incurable, so what good was there in fantasizing about recovery? But I couldn’t help myself. I imagined throwing a big party for all of my friends, going on an international vacation, and eating all the “trigger” foods I’d been avoiding, like chocolate and coffee.

Then my chronic migraines went into remission.

The months after my unexpected (and virtually overnight) recovery were simultaneously normal-as-can-be and Disney-movie-magical. Or, more precisely, Disney-movie-magical because they were normal-as-can-be. I threw the party I’d dreamed of, went on vacation to Europe, and covered my teeth in coffee stains. But just as amazing to me were the days I wrote for eight hours, walked the dog with no concern for the sun angle, or ran errands without turning into a puddle. It felt as if I’d won the lottery, or been declared queen of the solar system, and I was as grateful as I’d imagined I’d be. As in, unashamedly, uncontrollably grateful.

After those first few months, gratitude got harder.

I first noticed the problem when, at around that time, a friend told me, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better!” This wasn’t my first time hearing this sort of remark—I’d heard it often after I first recovered and hear it frequently even still. But unlike before, my gut reaction to it was one of frustration. Did I need to field these outbursts of gratitude for the rest of my life? I mean, give me a break.

I’m deeply embarrassed to confess this, and I was embarrassed then, too. I knew how indefensible my lack of gratefulness was. After all, I was one of the first people to be cured of chronic migraine disorder. This was, to me, better than winning the lottery or being crowned queen of the solar system. Why, then, was I still ungrateful?

Just as my brain had learned pain over the years, it had also learned to seek safety in my castle of ungratefulness. A castle I probably never needed, and definitely didn’t need anymore.

This month marks one year since my wildest dream came true. I’ll probably never be the type to list what I’m thankful for in a foil-embossed journal. I’ve used the term #blessed exactly once, as a joke. But I’m trying to pursue gratitude in a way that works for me. Like stopping to take in the gorgeous view when I walk the dog. Or consciously enjoying my last sip of morning espresso. Or simply saying thank you to people more often.

Slowly but surely, I’m finding safety in celebrating good things. When a friend rejoices at how much better I’m feeling, I rejoice with them, and I mean it.

I fear that announcing this will encourage you to drown the comments in gratitude. Because how annoying would that be?! But then again, go right ahead. My cynicism shouldn’t be allowed to continue unchecked. Let’s storm the castle of ingratitude with confetti cannons!

I’ll start: I’m so thankful for each of you. I’m not sure what makes you want to read about a random girl’s journey through chronic pain, but I am grateful that I’m not shouting into a void. I’m grateful to be able to connect with you, and for your willingness to connect with me.

As for being grateful for my illness, as the Bible teaches—that is a taller order. The other day, a friend asked me about this very thing: If there were an “easy” button that could rewrite the past, making it so that I didn’t ever have chronic migraines—erasing along with them all the people I’ve met, the love I’ve received, and the ways my heart has softened to the people around me—would I press it?

I don’t think I would. But I would want to. Oh, how I would want to. 🧠

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