You Can Do Hard Things

We can do hard things.

This sentiment has been coming up a lot lately.

A very dear friend of mine recently lost someone she loved deeply. At the funeral, we heard that one of this person’s favourite things to say to others was, “We can do hard things.”

I’ve been thinking about those words ever since.

This weekend in Melfort is the annual Multi-K run—a community event that includes a 1 km fun run for kids, along with 5 km, 10 km and 21 km races for those looking for a bigger challenge.

Over the years, it has become something of a fall tradition. People gather to do something they love, surrounded by people they love. They celebrate the changing of the seasons, spend time together, and, for some, intentionally choose to do something hard.

Something that stretches them.

Something that challenges them.

Something that leaves them feeling accomplished.

Yesterday, I saw a photo of sidewalk chalk created to encourage the runners.

You can do hard things.

And immediately, I thought of my friend’s loved one.

Then, later that same day, I was in my classroom with a little one who was struggling to do something. A colleague turned to him and gently said,

“It’s okay. You can do hard things.”

Twice in one day.

Again, I thought of the person we have lost—the person who lived those words and offered them to others as encouragement.

And perhaps the timing was exactly what I needed.

Because the world feels so hard and heavy right now.

I often tell my husband that I don’t like September, which is funny because I was born in September and have always loved my birthday. I love the beauty of this time of year. The cooler temperatures. The changing leaves. The feeling of a new season beginning.

But September has always felt hard.

It means the end of summer freedom and the beginning of schedules, routines, responsibilities and decisions. It means returning to the intensity of school and the constant demands of a profession I love deeply.

Over the past several years, I have had to acknowledge something that has been difficult for me to admit: the demands of my profession have a significant impact on my well-being. There is so much constant decision-making. So much responsibility. So many people needing something from you. Sometimes it feels like my nervous system is constantly on alert. I feel like I am always in fight or flight.

And September has also become a month marked by loss for me. Four incredibly important people in my life have died in September.

So perhaps it makes sense that this month can carry a heaviness for me that I don’t always know how to explain.

This year, that heaviness feels particularly close.

I know so many people who are walking through their own storms right now. People grieving recent losses. People carrying things that the rest of us may not even know about.

And sometimes it is hard to know what to do.

How do we help?

How do we support someone when we can’t take away their pain?

A very wise person said something to me yesterday that I really needed to hear.

We can’t simply send good thoughts, say prayers, send messages and keep people in our hearts and minds.

We also have to carry ourselves that way.

With light.

With love.

Because we influence the people around us.

I am really good at sending the prayers and the good thoughts. I’m good at holding people in my heart.

But sometimes I get stuck in the sadness.

I carry it around.

I let it become part of what I put back into the world.

And this was an important reminder that perhaps one of the ways we support people who are struggling is by carrying a little more light when they don’t have the capacity to carry it themselves.

Not by pretending things aren’t hard.

Not by ignoring grief.

Not by forcing happiness into places where sadness belongs.

But by choosing love.

Choosing kindness.

Choosing hope.

Choosing to be the person who says, “You can do hard things.”

And then, perhaps, being willing to sit beside someone while they do.

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Lately, I’ve also been noticing little reminders everywhere.

Ladybugs.

Dragonflies.

Dimes.

So many dimes, in fact, that I’ve started laughing about where they turn up.

Yesterday, I found one in the Pre-K bathroom while helping a little one wash their hands. It was just sitting there on the counter.

Maybe a child had it in their pocket.

Maybe it simply fell out of someone’s things.

I don’t know.

But there it was.

Waiting for me.

And I choose to receive these little moments for what they mean to me: reminders that we are connected, that love doesn’t simply disappear, and that sometimes we are given exactly the little nudge we need at exactly the right moment.

So, to whoever—or whatever—is reaching out:

Thank you.

Thank you for the reminders.

We can do hard things.

And when someone we love can’t quite carry the hard thing themselves, maybe we can carry a little light for them.

A little love.

A little hope.

A little reminder that they don’t have to do it alone.