The Dark Side of Hope
Accepting the Apology That Won’t Come
A friend recently advised me, “Jonathan, learn to accept the apology you never received.” Lately, I find myself struggling to see the bright side, although hope is what I write about. Despite all the goodness in my life: my recent graduation, the birth of my new nephew, making me a three-time uncle, good friends and family, even the Xfinity rep showed me mercy–a hundred dollars goes a long way when you’re back to being a struggling artist with the lines of chronic illness on your face. An artist who is fortunate to have been able to return to the classroom for a brief time, but I find myself without a job in three and a half weeks.
I look to the inevitable: social media and see a photo of my ex-fiance, the source of heartache, and muse for my debut chapbook, A Silent Love Letter.
If you’ve read my blog long enough, you know my mantra: All good things don’t necessarily end; they change with the seasons, but this season is rainy. Stay hopeful, Jonathan. Stay hopeful. I return to the conversation with my friend. Who would I like an apology from? My body, to start with. He owes me one. But I can’t go to battle with him–this is where I live. My ex? No, he taught me to be more selective with my heart choices. My profession? That’s the one; the source of my joy and my sadness. I resigned from my position to “explore other career opportunities.” That’s on brand with hope. That’s the letter I sent out to my community.
“I fought so hard to get better; to live again; to return to teaching, and I’ve been thrown out like a dog, and I wouldn’t even do that to a dog.”
My mom hasn’t been able to react to this sudden negativity bubbling below the surface lately. I don’t let negativity show, but this week, I realized I can let my sadness show.
On Friday, I tell a coworker coping with the loss of a family member that grief comes in waves, as I recall grief descending nine years ago in a rehabilitation unit, sitting up in bed. “I think it’s time to focus on wheelchair skills. Your walking is not improving.” I nodded yes to my physical therapist. I knew it was true. The tears came before the anger. In movies, grief sometimes looks like sweeping everything off the table to the floor and throwing all that can shatter against the wall. I’ve yet to see a filmmaker show the, oh crap who’s going to clean this up footage.
Whose job is it to clean up our grief when our world crumbles step by step?
The apology that will never come–I need to accept. This is my sadness: I offered my part-time services as a Title I Interventionist to give continuity to my school, as multiple teachers are rapidly exiting. While pursuing writing, I was told, “Yes, come back, even once or twice weekly; this would be beneficial.” I told everyone I knew I would still be with my kids. A week later, a much different conversation unfolded that was not an unfolding of hope, but the unfolding of grief.
“Your replacement has twenty years of experience.”
“So where does that leave me?”
I will keep the conversation private until my grief has unfolded, and out of lingering respect to someone else when I was given none. I let my voice out in inches as I cry in inches. The next few weeks aren’t going to be spent packing up a classroom to move to the second floor, where I’ll come in once or twice a week; they are to pack up this old teaching life in this space forever.
Suddenly, I’m back to 2003 again in this moment; a young teacher leaving a position where I was unsupported, but not yet equipped with the language to speak up for myself, only able to look at my kids and say, “I’m not leaving because of you. This has nothing to do with you.” I vowed never to put myself in that situation again, as I recounted it in a story, Echoes from the Past. This week, I am back in 2003, but equipped with the language to articulate my feelings to the adult world and tell my kids why they won’t see me again in a kid-friendly way–a gentle goodbye, I’ll release in June, that’s not yet fully formed but will sound something like, “I’m not leaving because of you, however, your parents know I’m only a phone call away for tutoring. I’m still going to come to your soccer games even though I don't know anything about sports, and yes, I will attend your graduation. I am leaving, but I am always here for as long as possible.
Unfolding your words, your language to someone who has done you mental harm is not easy; as is learning to speak again when the muscles needed for language have been taken from you. Still, I’ve learned to talk again. And I’ve been ok. I sit on the telephone with this friend who tells me,
“Jonathan. You are a good teacher.”
“Then why have I been thrown out like a dog? I scooted up 43 stairs in this well-loved building with no elevator because I loved this community. This was my Hallmark school. Was I a bad teacher?”
It’s amazing how the brain cancels out all the good stuff when one person undervalues you.
“Jonathan. You have done so much. You can rest knowing this because you will never get that apology. You are loved.”
This friend doesn’t know they saved me a few months in the grieving process.
I struggled to articulate this post all week, but last night, I felt an unexplainable release of the burden I put on myself to take everything in stride. I sat with two of my buddies, and the tears came as I said, “I gave everything. Everything. And it wasn’t enough.” The weight of the CIDP in my legs remains, but I walked without a cane last night. The anger at the broken promise from my ex brings me book sales–that’s money I’ll need and therapy I won’t need to seek out, and hopefully it’s a story that brings hope to others. Though it stings, the fractured promise from my boss brings a chance for compassion. I’m looking for hope in a murky place, but with the compassion others show me, maybe I can take a piece of that compassion for myself. One person does not define us; our response does. I forgive you. I’ll keep saying it until I believe it. I forgive you for being so unkind and myself for being so easily hurt, but that’s part of what makes me, Jonathan–I choose to love everyone.
This is my dark side of hope, but I will never stop seeking light.
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✨ If this reflection spoke to you, you can read more in my Substack newsletter, Unfolding Hope, where I share stories on chronic illness, creativity, and what it means to keep showing up. https://jonathanmichaelsaucedo.substack.com/
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