Quotes About Struggle

Eu tinha muita dificuldade em acreditar nas coisas, mas também tinha a maior dificuldade em não acreditar. Era tão curiosa quanto cética.

It was the thing that had compelled them to fight for the trail against all the odds,

I can't do this," he kept repeating through his tears. "I can't live without Mom. I can't. I can't. I can't." "We have to," I replied, though I couldn't believe it myself.

My feet? Well, they were still entirely, unspeakably fucked.

Nothing could ever bring my mother back or make it okay that she was gone. Nothing would put me beside her the moment she died. It broke me up. It cut me off. It tumbled me end over end.

You should see a therapist, everyone had told me after my mother died, and ultimately—in the depths of my darkest moments the year before the hike—I had. But I didn't keep the faith. I never did call the other therapist Vince had recommended. I had problems a therapist couldn't solve; grief that no man in a room could ameliorate.

all the women who wanted to be hobos were holed up in some house with a gaggle of children to raise. Children who'd been fathered by hobo men who'd hit the road.

Of course, heroin could be had there too, I thought. But the thing was, I didn't want it. Maybe I never really had. I'd finally come to understand what it had been: a yearning for a way out, when actually what I had wanted to find was a way in. I was there now. Or close.O

Because there is something worse than the I-can't-live-without-her heartbreak hellspace you're in right now, Afraid. It's spending your life with a partner who, at her or his deepest core, does not want to be with you. It's accepting a reluctant half love for fear that's all you can get or deserve. It's dangling eternally in doubt. It's believing that a lie will keep you safe and the truth is where the danger lies.

I'd imagined endless meditations upon sunsets or while staring out across pristine mountain lakes. I'd thought I'd weep tears of cathartic sorrow and restorative joy each day of my journey. Instead, I only moaned, and not because my heart ached. It was because my feet did and my back did and so did the still-open wounds all around my hips.

Saying it's hard is ultimately a justification to do whatever seems like the easiest thing to do -- have the affair, stay at that horrible job, end a friendship over a slight, keep loving someone who treats you terribly.

God was a ruthless bitch.

Not because I couldn't find God, but because suddenly I absolutely did: God was there, I realized, and God had no intention of making things happen or not, of saving my mother's life. God was not a granter of wishes. God was a ruthless bitch. The

But no one laughed. No one would. The universe, I'd learned, was never, ever kidding. It would take whatever it wanted and it would never give it back. I really did have only one boot.

Yes. I get to do this. I get to waste my life. I get to be junk.

Heroin had made me dumb and distant from myself. A thought would form and then evaporate. I could not quite get ahold of my mind, even when I wasn't high.

He pushed on, pillaging my pack, inquiring sternly each time before tossing another item I'd previously deemed necessary into the get-rid-of pile.

I have carried the weight of my student loan debt for about half of my life now, but I have not been "defined by my 'student loan' identity." I do not even know what a student loan identity is. Do you? What is a student loan identity?

suffering is what happens when truly horrible things happen to us.

Your question to me is about God, but boiled down to its essentials, it's not so different than most of the questions people ask me to answer. It says: This failed me and I want to do better next time . My answer will not be so different either: To do better you're going to have to try .

It all matters - every sin, every regret, every affliction. As a proof, she offered an account of her own struggle to reckon with a cruelty she'd absorbed.

Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

Desperation is unsustainable.

Oh, the dream. The goddamned man + baby dream. Written by the High Commission on Heterosexual Love and Sexual Reproduction and practised by couples across the land, the dream's a bitch if you're a maternally inclined straight female and not living it by the age of thirty-seven - a situation of a spermicidally toxic flavour.