Gratitude: Especially When It’s Hard

This past week in the WW (Weight Watchers) world, we talked about gratitude and named many of the easy moments—warm meals, a beautiful sunrise, a friend’s kindness, family, the WW coaches and community. Those moments matter, of course, but I want to talk about something quieter, deeper, and far more powerful: gratitude when things are hard. Gratitude when life is not lining up the way we hoped. Gratitude when our nervous system is flooded, our circumstances feel like too much, and “thank you” feels like a foreign language.

Because it is in those moments—when gratitude feels least available—that it offers the most transformative power. When I reach for it then, something in me softens and opens, sometimes so suddenly it feels like tiny ants are dancing across my heart. Hard gratitude has a way of loosening what’s tight, widening what’s narrow, and letting in just enough light to keep going.

And importantly, gratitude plays a profound role in helping us face things honestly. When we’re overwhelmed, our system reflexively slips into fight, flight, or freeze. Gratitude gently shifts us out of that survival state. It brings a little relief. It cues the brain that we are safe enough to see the moment clearly. Gratitude grounds us in steadiness and gives us the strength to hold both the darkness of the moment and the small, steady light inside us.

In my experience, gratitude is not pretending everything is fine. It isn’t the denial of pain, fear, or hardship. True gratitude isn’t about avoiding the cracks—it’s about seeing through them; it invites us to notice who and what is still holding us up. It gives us a different vantage point, a wider lens, a way to keep our footing when life feels unsteady.

Gratitude is also an act of self-compassion. It pairs tenderness with truth. Self-compassion says, “This is hard, and you are doing your best.” Gratitude adds, “And even here, something good remains.” Together, they create a sturdy internal place to rest.

Gratitude isn’t a personality trait—it’s a practice. A muscle. A neural pathway that strengthens with use. I practice gratitude in the cold state, when I’m grounded in the present moment and fully here, so that when the hard stuff comes—and it always does—I can access it.

Most of us don’t instinctively reach for gratitude when we’re suffering—our brains simply aren’t wired that way. As infants, we lead with discomfort: we cry when we’re hungry, wet or need to be held. We don’t come into the world appreciating; we come into the world needing. And that is not a flaw—it’s biology.

The human brain is built with a negativity bias. Thousands of years ago, noticing danger kept our ancestors alive. They needed to remember which berries made them sick and which predators lurked in the shadows. Vigilance was survival.

Today, that ancient wiring means our minds cling more tightly to what’s wrong than what’s right. We remember criticism longer than compliments. We zoom in on the one thing that didn’t work rather than the twenty that did. And if we’ve lived through difficulty or trauma, that bias can become even more rigid.

But here is the hopeful part: the brain is not finished. It’s adaptable, shapeable, and constantly rewiring based on what we practice. This is neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to reorganize and form new pathways over time.

Every time we practice gratitude, even in the smallest way, we are teaching the brain to notice safety, nourishment, steadiness, connection, and possibility. Over time, gratitude shifts from something we try to something we feel. But like any training, it requires repetition.

So what does gratitude look like—especially during hard times?

Sometimes it is incredibly small. On days when everything feels heavy, gratitude might sound like:

• “I’m grateful I can see the sunrise from the comfort of my bed.”

• “I’m grateful I got out of bed.”

• “I’m grateful for this glass of water.”

• “I’m grateful for the breath that just moved through my lungs.”

• “I’m grateful for breathing out longer than I breathe in—because it tells my brain I’m safe.”

  
  

Small counts. In fact, small often matters most. Small is what’s accessible when life feels impossible. Gratitude is not meant to be grand; it is meant to be grounding.

One powerful way to practice is through the breath itself. Breath can become a moment of gratitude—an embodied reminder that even when the mind is overwhelmed, the body is still supporting us. Each inhale acknowledges what is difficult. Each longer exhale brings the nervous system back toward calm. Breath is both a teacher and a companion.

Another helpful tool is a one-minute daily gratitude moment. Write it down, say it out loud, or simply reflect. Name three things you’re grateful for, and try to make at least one of them specific to that day: sunlight on the floor, an unexpected message, the softness of a blanket, the way your shoulders dropped when you exhaled.

These small acknowledgements cue the brain to scan for more. And slowly, your internal landscape shifts. Gratitude becomes less about what’s happening to you and more about what’s happening within you.

Another essential piece: gratitude and difficulty can coexist. You can be grieving and grateful. Exhausted and grateful. Lost and grateful. Gratitude doesn’t erase suffering; it holds it. It creates a wider container. And in that space, resilience is born.

When we choose gratitude during hardship, we plant a stake in the ground that says, “Even here, even now, something good remains.” That is not toxic positivity. That is courage.

Science backs this courage. Regular gratitude practices reduce anxiety, lower stress hormones, and strengthen brain regions linked to emotional stability. Gratitude increases activity in the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain responsible for clarity, calm, and perspective. In other words, gratitude helps shift us out of fight/flight/freeze and back into ourselves.

During my time with Inspired Living Medical (ILM), I practiced and continue to practice gratitude by texting myself each morning and evening. Mornings hold the easy beauty around me. Evenings hold the truth of the day—the best and the hardest moments—through the lens of compassion. What I’ve learned is that gratitude lights up the brain in ways that help us recover faster, cope better, and stay connected to what matters most.

But more importantly, gratitude changes how we feel inside our own lives. It anchors us. It steadies us. It softens the edges. It reminds us that darkness and light often walk side by side—and that noticing one does not betray the other.

Gratitude will not make life easy.  But it will make life steadier.  And it will make us stronger. Especially when things are hard.