“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”
― Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
It’s been a couple of weeks since the Fourth of July, and I’ve found myself returning to the questions it stirred in me. Looking back, I’m still sitting with the tension I felt that day—wondering if it was tone deaf to speak of hope in times like these.
The days surrounding the holiday were heavy with headlines that made my heart sink. Stories of injustice, excess, devastating natural disasters, cruelty, and profound disconnection seemed to mirror a collective ache that’s hard to ignore. While many long to celebrate our country and its ideals, it can feel complicated when so much remains divided and unhealed—when the country itself feels so fragile.
At some point, I had to stop cataloging all the reasons to feel disillusioned—for my own well-being, and maybe for yours too. Because underneath the noise, something deeper was asking for attention.
I kept noticing how freedom was being framed—mostly in external terms: what we’re allowed to say, do, or own. But the kind of freedom I’ve come to cherish most is quieter and more internal. It’s the freedom to sit with our own truth, to feel what we feel, beyond denial or rigid belief systems. The freedom to be present with one another—in joy, in sorrow. The freedom to stay connected to our shared humanity, even when it’s buried under fear, bigotry, or despair.
Decades ago, during a dark and disorienting time in my life, I discovered Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. It found me when I was unraveling—when the black-and-white moral structure of my Catholic upbringing had collapsed, and I was left floating in the grey.
That collapse, painful as it was, became a portal into a deeper spiritual life—one that felt truly mine. Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist, wrote about a final, unassailable freedom: the power to choose the meaning we make of our experience, even in the midst of unimaginable suffering.
He observed that some who survived the camps with their humanity intact were those who could still glimpse a sliver of hope—a blade of grass, a wildflower, a fragment of sky. These signs of life reminded them that meaning still existed.
“If only for a brief moment,” Frankl wrote, “I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss—be it only for a short moment—in the contemplation of his beloved or in the contemplation of nature, that is, of a beauty which can be taken from him.”
It wasn’t denial or forced optimism. It was a disciplined remembrance: no circumstance can rob us of our inner stance.
Frankl’s words changed me. His example showed me that hope is not naïve—it’s courageous. And that cracking open the armor of certainty can be the very thing that lets the light in.
That’s something I see in my clients, too—how a personal crisis, while painful, can lead to the profound inner work of healing. It can break open the old narratives and make space for something more alive. More honest. More whole.
What if anxiety, for all its discomfort, is actually a call home? A call into presence. Into becoming the one who builds a lantern of self-honesty, compassion, and courage—and carries it through the dark.
So if you felt conflicted this Fourth of July, or even heartsick, you’re not alone. I still believe in hope—not the kind that sugarcoats or bypasses pain, but the kind that walks with it. The kind that refuses to surrender our humanity, even when the world feels shattered.
We can keep choosing this kind of hope. We can honor our outrage and grief without becoming hardened. We can meet cynicism with conscience, injustice with action, and fear with the willingness to stay open.
If you’ve been searching for beauty in small moments lately, I hope you’ve found it—a flower growing through the pavement, the sound of laughter, a moment of tenderness. Even now, we still have the right—and the responsibility—to decide what we’ll do with our hearts.
I’m excited to share that Module 11 of my course, Mining Inner Wisdom, is now live, and it’s all about Cultivating Presence. As Thích Nhất Hạnh said so beautifully:
“When we are present, we see the suffering, we see the beauty, and we can respond from the heart.”
If your community or organization is seeking meaningful, healing experiences—whether through music, expressive arts, or heart-centered workshops—please reach out. We’re looking for places to share the Mining Inner Wisdom course and our award-winning healing music. We’d love to connect with communities eager to reclaim their power, their gifts, and their shared humanity.
(And for those who’ve been asking—our album Mining Inner Wisdom is now on Spotify.)
The song Presence for Module 11 is available here:
Listen on Spotify.
One final note: our dear friend Karina Wilson, whose exquisite violin graces “Presence” recently had her beloved instrument stolen. If you feel moved to help her replace it, here is her GoFundMe page.
She brings so much beauty into the world, and I’d love to see her supported.
Many Blessings
“Fireworks Within”
