Life isn’t always perfect. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes painfully real. No matter how much we plan, reality has a way of breaking through unexpected losses, disappointments, betrayals, or those sneaky situations that throw us off balance. During those times, the only thing that carries us through isn’t what we own or even what we know, but who we are. Character becomes our anchor, which I believe is the most accurate measure of who we are when life strips away everything else.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that enduring the difficult parts of life has shaped me the most. It’s tempting to avoid the discomfort, to flee from conflict, or to numb ourselves until the storm passes. But avoidance only delays the inevitable. Sooner or later, we are called to fully show up, to sit in the mess, face the pain, and do the hard work of living.

What makes it bearable are the people who refuse to abandon us in those moments. They don’t necessarily have the answers, and they can’t erase the pain, but they sit with us. They lean in when others step away. They are willing to have the hard conversations, to share the silence, to stay present when the ground shakes. These are my people. They remind me that love is not found in perfection or convenience, but in presence.

Sometimes, reminders come from strangers, like the woman I met in the Sri Lankan tea fields. Bent under the weight of a heavy sack balanced on her head and holding a stick in her hand, she looked at me with a radiant smile. It was not a smile of ease or luxury but one of strength, grit, and resolve. Her eyes told me her story. Her smile seemed to say: I can endure this. I will not let the weight I carry erase my joy.

That moment stopped me. It made me realize that loving myself isn’t about bubble baths, self-help slogans, or constantly chasing happiness. Loving myself is an act of rebellion against the world’s efforts to wear me down. It’s about choosing to honor my spirit, to keep smiling when it would be easier to frown, and to keep walking when the burden feels too heavy.

I often think about that woman. Her optimism was not naive; it was hard-earned, carved into her face by years of facing tough days. She was a living reminder that we can do hard things, and more than that, we can do them with dignity and grace.

So I look at her smile in the framed photo near my desk when my burdens feel heavy. I remember that endurance isn’t about white-knuckling through life, but about finding light in the cracks, joy in the pauses, and people who walk beside us.

Because ultimately, life isn’t about avoiding the mess; it’s about managing it well. And the strongest way to do that is with a smile.