The Light is Here

I’ve been thinking a lot about light lately.

Not light as something abstract or idealized, and not light as a promise waiting somewhere in the future. But light as something present, often quieter than we expect, and easy to overlook when life feels heavy.

On New Year’s Eve, I ended the year in a way that has become familiar to me. Alone. Quiet. Intentionally slowing down.

I returned to a seasonal candle ritual I’ve practiced for years, lighting a series of candles across several weeks as a way of marking time and creating space for reflection. On this final night, I blew them out in the order they had been lit. When only the last candle remained, the room was otherwise dark.

I paused, watched the flame, and spontaneously said out loud, “The light is here.”

Then I blew it out.

As the flame disappeared, the old angel chimes beneath the candle rang. They are an old treasured piece that once belonged to my mother, something I’ve loved since childhood. The soft ringing has always been associated with candlelight, quiet evenings, and security, and hearing it then felt especially tender.

I know there is a physical explanation for why that happened, and I don’t need to dismiss that. But the moment still landed with meaning. It felt less like a coincidence and more like a reminder.

The light is here.

And yet, I want to be honest about something else.

There are moments, especially early in this new year, when it feels very hard to remember that. Some terrible things have happened nationally. A lot of anger and outrage are activated, in the world and in me. At times, the darkness feels all-encompassing. I don’t feel calm about it. I feel unsettled, angry, and overwhelmed. In those moments, I’m not naturally inclined to look toward the light at all.

I think many people worry that turning toward the light means denying what’s happening, minimizing harm, or bypassing reality. I understand that concern. Darkness is real.

Anger is a valid response to injustice, cruelty, and loss.

But I also believe something else.

Light is real too.

When we are fully engulfed in darkness, our nervous systems remain in a state of threat. From that place, our field of vision narrows. Reactivity increases. Our capacity to think clearly, connect with others, and respond wisely diminishes. Immersion alone does not lead us through. It often leaves us stuck.

Orienting toward the light is not about ignoring the darkness. It is about making sure we can still see our way through it.

I see light in people, often in small, unremarkable ways. In acts of kindness that don’t draw attention. In moments of connection that happen quietly, between people who choose to remain human with one another even when it’s hard. In compassion that doesn’t require agreement, only presence.

We carry that capacity within us. Not perfectly, and not all the time, but genuinely. Even when we are tired. Even when we are afraid. Even when anger is present.

For many of us, animals are also a source of light. Beloved pets, in particular, have a way of drawing us back into the present moment. Their steadiness, attentiveness, and uncomplicated presence can soften us, ground us, and remind us of connection without words.

For some, light is also found through spiritual connection. Through prayer, contemplation, faith, or a relationship with something larger than oneself. That experience looks different for each person, but the orientation is similar. A remembering that we are not alone, and that meaning exists beyond what we can see or control.

And then there is the light of the natural world.

Nature does not deny darkness. It moves through it. Trees stand bare for months and still prepare for spring. Seeds lie dormant underground, doing invisible work. Rivers continue to move, reshaping themselves over time when obstacles appear.

There is resilience there. And interconnection. Nothing exists in isolation. When we slow down enough to notice this, something in us recalibrates. Not because nature offers easy answers, but because it reminds us that struggle and renewal belong to the same rhythm.

This is where mindfulness quietly enters the picture.

Mindfulness does not ask us to turn away from difficulty. It asks us to see clearly. To notice what is actually here, rather than what fear or outrage alone insists must be true. When we are present, we are more likely to notice moments of light as they occur. A breath that softens the body. A conversation that brings warmth. A shaft of sunlight through a winter window.

And noticing is not the end of it.

What we give our attention to, we stay in relationship with. What we return to again and again, we tend. Over time, what is tended has the chance to grow.

This does not mean forcing positivity or pretending darkness does not exist. It means choosing, again and again, to care for what steadies us. To protect our capacity for compassion. To nurture the conditions that allow clarity, connection, and wise response to take root.

None of this erases what is hard. It does not fix injustice or undo harm. But it does help regulate us enough to stay engaged without becoming consumed.

More and more, this feels like a personal and professional orientation I am returning to again and again. Not denying the darkness, but continuing to orient toward the light, tending it where I can, so that I am better able to respond rather than simply react.

The light is not a reward for getting through something. It is woven into the experience of being alive. It shows up within us, between us, and around us. In that sense, the light has always been here, even when we struggle to see it.

Sometimes our work is not to search for it, but to pause long enough to notice it, to care for it, and to allow it to grow.

As this year unfolds, that is the posture I am trying to hold. Not blind optimism. Not forced positivity. Just a steady willingness to notice where light is present, and to tend it with care.

The light is here.