Dreaming Through the Darkness
Always hold on to hope
A reflection on pain, perspective, and the quiet power of hope.
To say I haven’t had bad days would be a lie.
To say there aren’t moments where I’m in total pain — uncomfortable, frustrated, scrolling on Instagram seeing people traveling the world, running marathons, out with friends, or just going to a workout class — would be an even bigger lie.
When I start to feel sad or sorry for myself (which happens… we’re human), I try to stop and think: This will be me again soon. I’ll look back on these hard few weeks as just a blurry chapter — a memory that fades. But I’ll also see it as the time that made me appreciate everything so much more.
When I go under for brain or reanimation surgeries, the anesthesiologist always tells me: “Think of your happy place.”
For me, that’s easy — running loops around the Central Park reservoir, the long, windy roads on Fishers Island, or seeing the finish line of a marathon and sprinting toward it until everything goes black. That’s my calm. My version of serenity.
People always ask how I can dream in such a scary moment — when I know I might wake up with everything flipped upside down (literally) and my pain is an 11 out of 10. The truth is… I’ve learned to never lose my humor and to always hold on to hope.
Mark Ruffalo had the same type of brain tumor as me, and around the time of my last surgery, he was starring as The Hulk. I knew that going in — and when I woke up in the ICU, drugged and surrounded by my family telling me I’d made it, my first words were:
“The Hulk has nothing on me.”
Humor’s my survival tool. It keeps me human when everything else feels out of my control.
When I was in my darkest days — recovering from my last brain surgery, engaged and just months from my wedding — I would close my eyes and take deep breaths. I’d imagine my parents walking me down the aisle, handing me off to the love of my life. I’d picture Jack and me slow dancing to Sweet Thing by Van Morrison. I’d imagine belly laughs with my girlfriends, windows down, blasting Bottoms Up by Keke Palmer on the way to the chapel. In those moments, the pain would fade for just a second — replaced by a glimpse of everything beautiful waiting ahead.
So yeah — all this to say: never stop dreaming. Hold on to hope, always.
When you can’t get out of bed. When you’re healing. When you’re grieving the loss of someone or something. When you’re missing the version of yourself that felt whole. Close your eyes. Dream. Let it remind you that you will laugh again — that you’ll get to a day where you belly laugh so hard your insides hurt. Even if your dream feels unrealistic, dream it into existence. It’ll happen one day.
Even in work — it’s not easy for me to step away from my job for weeks to recover and rebuild myself. But what gets me through? I dream. I dream of one day having that corner office. Of standing on a stage speaking to thousands. Of turning all this pain into purpose.
You have to hold on to hope.
It’s so easy to lose it — to think about everything that could go wrong, or wonder if it’ll ever get easier. But you can’t. You have to keep your eyes on that finish line, even if it feels a million miles away. Because one day, you’ll cross it.
And when I do — when I have that Six Star World Marathon Major medal around my neck, when I cross that Ironman finish line, when I’ve lived out every dream I’ve ever chased — I’ll know it wasn’t luck. It was hope. Pure, stubborn, beautiful hope.
“Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.”
— Emily Dickinson
From me to you:
If you’re reading this from your own dark place — whether it’s heartbreak, recovery, grief, or just a season where everything feels heavy — I hope you find a flicker of light here. Even if all you can do today is close your eyes and dream of something better, that’s enough. That’s strength. That’s hope showing up quietly, reminding you that you won’t feel this way forever. One day, you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come — and you’ll be so damn proud that you never stopped dreaming.
