On Lottery Tickets and Other Good Investments

I’ve learned that the concept of hope is controversial. There are people who find hope so important they tattoo the word on their forearms, and people who grumble internally (or externally) when you even mention it, and a lot more people who fall somewhere in between. If you drive around with a “HOPE” bumper sticker on your vehicle, I love that for you. But if you are a person who feels very few good things, or no good things, or maybe even some actively not-good things, when you think about the word “hope” and what it represents, I get the grumble. For many of us hope and disappointment have become so entwined that we can convince ourselves one isn’t possible without the other.

Emily Dickinson told us “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul- and sings the tune without the words- and never stops at all.” “The sweetest in the gale.” “The little bird that kept so many warm.” If those words speak to you, by all means, continue being inspired. But I recently came across a rebuttal of sorts by Caitlin Seida that I have to wonder if more of us could find relatable. TW: brief drug mention

Hope: an ugly sewer rat that’s seen some shit! I can imagine to a person who is going through a rough time, or maybe to a person who has seen some shit themselves, this whole rat model of optimism feels more understandable. Many of us have seen our biggest hopes and dreams dashed again and again, and we’ve been bit in the ass to the point of defeat. We don’t even know where to begin to rebuild our lives, and what’s more, we have started to abandon all hope that it’s possible. We can’t even imagine it.

I often talk to my clients about viewing the path through recovery, growth, and healing not as a road with a finish line but as a spiral staircase, infinitely winding its way upward. There is no certificate of completion, there is no earning of a permanent shield against all our past pain and trauma, as much as I wish I could offer you that. What is possible however is to climb the staircase step by step, to pause and rest when you need to, and then to keep going. Each time we make our way around again and revisit an old wound we do so from a place that is just a bit higher. The difference is barely noticeable sometimes, but it’s there. Other times we get stuck on a step for a very long time, and when we look up at all the twists and turns ahead of us, hope feels very far away. We don’t know how to find the strength to round the curve out of that old familiar pain knowing we will encounter more on the way up.

These darkest times call first and foremost for the space to be held and seen as they are and as we are without pressure or expectation to "fix" anything, because we aren't broken. Though it might feel that way. When we are at our most hopeless, we've often worked ourselves into a rut of unsatisfying and unhelpful routines, patterns, and beliefs about ourselves. The familiarity may feel comfortable, but it is self-perpetuating. We need to interrupt the expectations we've resigned ourselves to, and I think symbolism is a powerful way of achieving that. Symbols of new possibilities don't need to be dramatic or time consuming. In fact, sometimes small moments can have the biggest impact.

For people most low on energy or functioning or even willingness to listen to my whole staircase deal I sometimes offer an idea for such a small moment. I admit it's an unorthodox approach, more metaphorical than practical. A simple, accessible step in the form of buying a single lottery ticket.

Important disclaimer. I am not suggesting you buy a lottery ticket as any kind of financial strategy. I am definitely not suggesting you make gambling of any nature, which can be habit forming, a regular occurrence. I’m going to say it one more time just for the folks over at the NYS licensing board and my practice insurance company and the NASW social work ethical committee. Please do not spend significant amounts of money on lottery tickets as an ongoing coping strategy. The odds of winning the Powerball jackpot are roughly 1 in 292 million. You have a better chance at being struck by lightning, winning an Olympic gold medal, becoming president of the United States, being killed by a shark, or being chosen by NASA as an astronaut trainee.

I know what I’m proposing might seem backward, or even kind of cruel. You take your overwhelmed self, who has experienced so much loss already, who is exhausted by the climb, who cringes when the word “hope” is even mentioned, out of the comfort of your home, (for what it’s worth, I do believe pajama pants are required lottery-ticket-buying attire) to spend money on.. something that all but guarantees yet another loss. I’ve already reminded you how unlikely it is that you would win much more than the cost of the ticket or a cup of coffee. So what’s the point? You know that the odds are a joke, there is close to zero chance that you’ll actually win anything substantial. But here’s the thing. Something really important happens after you’ve just read the unnecessarily complicated instructions and you’ve figured out exactly how many dollar signs in which boxes you get to scratch and you've managed to locate an actual coin in the year 2022 and you are holding that old penny to the ticket and you’re ready. There is a split second that happens so unexpectedly you might miss it, when a tiny voice waaaay back behind your rational brain (which may be rolling its eyes at you) remembers that the odds aren’t zero. Close to zero is not zero. Very unlikely is not the same as impossible. That second is everything. That voice is everything.

I think buying a rare lotto ticket in a moment of despair is a powerful symbol. When we feel like our lives are falling apart, we can become so numb to the concept of hope that we no longer believe it exists. We forget to even consider it. We can also forget that our feelings are not just “in our head” but they are physical, chemical experiences in our bodies. What we describe as “hope” is a form of the physical and emotional experience of anticipation, and the beauty of the link between our brains and our hearts is that by creating even a brief moment of anticipation we can experience the startling realization that not only is hope something we are still capable of but that we can even choose small and attainable things that inspire it. Feeling hope even for a second, even for something that seems silly, is worthwhile if it means we start to wonder whether there might be more of it in us.

I’m not saying that the “what if” you might experience as you do this is going to quickly translate to all kinds of hope that we can fix other impossible-feeling things in our lives just as easily as scratching that ticket. What I do think is that asking ourselves the question of “what if” is one of the single most powerful things we can do to start carefully, if resistantly, ascending the staircase yet again one aching step at a time.

The symbolism is that impossible-feeling things happen, at least sometimes. If right now recovering, or rebuilding your life, or getting the mountain of dishes cleared in the kitchen, or experiencing more contentment, or repairing important connections, or achieving a dream, or even just getting out of bed feels impossible, I believe you that it feels that way. I am not coming at you from a place of toxic positivity. The message isn’t that depression is a choice and we are a $2 lottery ticket away from turning it all around. We are looking to create a single spark here, not expecting a whole inferno.

Close to zero chance of recovery, isn’t zero. Close to zero chance of repair, isn’t zero. Close to zero chance of rebuilding your life, isn’t zero. Close to zero chance at contentment, isn’t zero. Close to zero chance at your dreams coming true, isn’t zero.

If that split second of “you never know” gives you the motivation to start by lifting your eyes upward for just a moment, long enough to at least see that the next step is there waiting for you and maybe it’s not as far away as it seemed, I’ll take it.

Hope does thrive in the discards, and sometimes our greatest stories as people start there too.