Chasing Meaning in the Midst of Pain

Life has a way of throwing curveballs that make you stop and wonder;

what’s the point of it all?

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with this question, not just because of my own struggles, but because of the battles my sisters and a friend’s mom are fighting. Their pain, their fears, and their stubborn hope have pushed me to dig deep into what it means to keep going when life feels like a grind.

My immediate older sister’s been dealing with relentless pain, even a year after her nerve decompression surgery. She calls it a shadow that follows her everywhere, stealing the lightness she used to carry. I still managed to spend a couple of hours with her today, and the pain can be seen even in her smile. She’s wary of painkillers, scared they’ll trap her in a cycle of dependency.

Then there’s another older sister, my mom's first, hooked up to monitors in a hospital bed, her pulse spiking like it’s trying to outrun something. The doctors say drugs can steady her heart and calm her fraying mental health, but she’s terrified of leaning on pills for the rest of her life. She's in a faraway city from mine; I'm only being carried along via phone. Thinking of them both, I see this fierce tug-of-war between wanting relief and fearing what it might cost.

It’s not just them. A friend’s mom has been battling insomnia for so long that it’s like her nights are haunted. She’s tried everything. From herbal teas, meditation, you name it, but nothing works. Sleep aids are an option, but she’s afraid they’ll hook her for good. Her struggle hits close to home because I’m in my own fight.

For years, I’ve been managing a stomach ulcer that just won’t quit. You'd have known this if you were a regular reader of my blog. Conventional meds? They’ve let me down. Herbal remedies? Same story. So, I’ve turned into a food detective, dodging anything spicy, acidic, or just too heavy. Just anything that sets my stomach on fire. It’s exhausting, always being on guard. Recently, I read about a guy whose ulcer turned into gastric cancer. He didn’t make it. That story shook me, planting a seed of fear that maybe my pain’s hiding something worse.

All this has me asking: what’s the end goal of living? Is it to chase some picture-perfect happiness that always seems to slip away? Is it just about surviving the pain? I don’t have a neat answer, and maybe that’s okay. What I’m starting to see, through my sisters’ stubborn laughter over old family jokes, through my friend’s mom still actively planning her son's upcoming wedding despite sleepless nights, and even through my own careful meals, is that life’s meaning might not be a finish line. Maybe it’s in the small, messy moments. The ones where you choose to keep going, even when it hurts.

My sisters, my friend’s mom, and I are all dodging dependency, whether it’s on pills or something else. But we’re also holding onto something bigger, which is the freedom to fight our battles on our terms. For me, it’s picking my foods carefully, savoring the days when my stomach doesn’t scream. For them, it’s finding joy in the cracks of their pain. The goal of living, I’m learning, isn’t about escaping the hard stuff. It’s about weaving something meaningful out of it.

Through love, grit, or just showing up for another day, we’re all stumbling through. But maybe that stumble is the point. Maybe it’s enough to keep reaching for the light, even when the shadows feel heavy.

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