Optimism

Optimism often arrives at the bedside holding hands with hope. They are spoken together, breathed out softly, sometimes clung to. And almost always, they are misunderstood.

There is a quiet judgment that can surface in these rooms. “They are in denial. They don’t want to accept reality. They are pretending this isn’t happening.” I hear it said about families who continue to hope, who allow optimism to live beside the truth that their loved one is dying.

I don’t see denial. I see love trying to buy time. I see someone holding on to the possibility that one more test might look different, that one more treatment might stretch the clock just enough to say one more thing, to feel one more ordinary day together. Optimism, in this space, is not ignorance. It is not avoidance. It is a pause, a gentle breath before the full weight of reality settles in.

I am always honest. I never promise that I can change the outcome. I am clear about where this is going and what it may look like. I know death well. I recognize its patterns, its timing, its quiet approach. And still, I do not believe it is my role to take optimism away from someone who needs it to survive this moment.

When families ask me if it is silly to still have hope, my answer is always no. It is never silly to hope. Optimism is not the belief that death will not come; it is the belief that something meaningful can still exist even when it does.

The word optimism is often defined as an inclination to expect the best possible outcome. But at the end of life, the “best possible outcome” changes. It is no longer cure or recovery. It becomes comfort. Dignity. A soft landing. The knowing, deep in the body, that they were loved all the way through. This is the optimism I want families to hold.

I want them to be optimistic that their person will not be alone. That they will feel the hands holding theirs. That they will hear the voices that matter. That they will be wrapped in compassion as they take their final breaths. I want optimism to shift, not disappear.

Reality and optimism can be carried together. One in each hand. They are not opposites; they are companions. Reality says, “this is death.” Optimism says, “and still, there can be gentleness here.”

My role is to help balance the weight of both. Not to let optimism become so heavy that it turns into false promise, and not to let reality crush the hope someone needs in order to stand at the bedside and bear witness.

This is a hard line to walk. There is no formula for it, no perfect phrasing. Just listening. Just paying attention. Just honoring where someone is, without dragging them forward or pulling them back.

Optimism, at the end of life, is not about believing things will turn out differently. It is about believing that love still matters, even now. That presence still counts. That how someone leaves this world is just as important as how they lived in it.

And that is a hope worth holding on to for as long as we possibly can.

xo

Gabby