The Truth About Rainbows: Hope Doesn’t Always Look Like We Expect

“If you have ever followed a rainbow to its end, it leads you to the ground on which you are standing.” ~Alan Cohen

There’s nothing more exhilarating than riding in a Jeep through masses of standing water. With each push forward, my friend Angela expertly maneuvered through enormous puddles, sending fountain-like arcs of aquatic glory past my passenger-side window.

This was joy to me.

It was a welcome reprieve considering the past couple of years had unraveled in ways I never saw coming. In fact, this watery wonder, cruising through the quaint streets of the beloved beach island I called home, was a rare outing for me.

I wouldn’t call myself a shut-in exactly, but if you had spotted me out and about in recent months, you might have likened it to a unicorn sighting—rare and a shock to the system. Rare, because leaving my house required something other than pajamas. Shocking, because it meant I had somehow rallied after a morning of ugly crying.

These days, the ugly cries came less frequently, but getting out the door still required careful planning and a healthy dose of positive self-talk. Angela, sensing all I had been through, didn’t attempt to fill the space between us with mindless chatter. She let the air breathe, allowing our hearts to settle into a comforting silence.

And wouldn’t you know it? In that silence, as we rolled forward over the waterlogged road, a rainbow appeared.

It was magnificent. A full curve stretching across the sky, untouched by a single cloud. We both took it in, wordless at first, until Angela finally spoke the thought we were both holding:

“This has to mean brighter days are ahead.”

I nodded, hoping with everything in me that she was right. Not just for our community, which had been pummeled by weeks of relentless storms, but selfishly, for me. I needed this to mean something. The universe wouldn’t place something so breathtaking in my path if life wasn’t about to shift in a meaningful way… right?

At that moment, although I wasn’t ready for it, a tiny doorway of hope cracked open in my heart.

Angela pulled into my driveway, gave me one of those deep, soulful hugs she’s known for, and I stepped onto the sand-packed pavers, feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time: the possibility of relief.

But relief never came.

The next morning, I woke up expecting transformation. I brushed my teeth, looked in the mirror, and waited for the shift. And then it hit me. Nothing had changed.

Worse yet, everything that had once shattered me remained intact, as if locked in a forgotten pause. My father was gone—forever. And instead of the clarity or closure I had hoped for, I was left with the unsettling reality that some pieces of life can never be fully mended.

By some unknown force of grace, the years, months, and weeks leading up to our last conversations allowed them to be light, even warm. A reminder that the love we shared, though imperfect, continued to move freely in both directions. And still, his sudden departure sent shockwaves through my family, shifting fault lines in ways I couldn’t control. Unable to bear it, like a sea turtle stunned motionless after a sudden freeze warning, I collapsed inward and began my retreat from the external world.

Then, there was my future looming over me, a blank slate waiting to be filled. My identity had been tethered to raising my boys, but soon, my nest would be empty.

I had no roadmap for what came next. I had tried to carve out a new path through writing and building a mindful and self-compassionate community, but since my father’s death, that dream and the energy for it had faded.

My reflection met my gaze, uncertain and hesitant. Fifty years etched into my skin, fine lines tracing both laughter and worry, a strip of silver roots marking the passage of time, yet I felt invisible in a world that had seemingly moved on.

What now, rainbow? What now?

And beyond the grief, beyond the exhaustion, there was something else.

Anger.

How dare that rainbow give me hope? How dare it let me believe, even for a moment, that things were about to get better? I felt tricked, betrayed by my own willingness to believe in something beyond my suffering.

But as I spiraled deeper into my chasm of despair, something else took shape on the edges of my soul. A truth so simple, so unshaken by my sorrow, that it stopped me in my tracks.

I finally learned the truth about rainbows.

Rainbows do not exist to change our lives. They do not come with promises or guarantees. They are not here to tell us whether things will get better or stay the same.

A rainbow’s only purpose is to illuminate what already exists. To take the ordinary and, for a fleeting moment, drench it in color. It does not erase the rain, nor does it undo the storm. But it shifts our perception. It allows us to see the world, and ourselves, in a way that feels momentarily brighter.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough.

Maybe healing is not about waiting for life to change but about learning to be with life exactly as it is. Maybe it’s about making space for the full spectrum of our emotions—grief and wonder, despair and hope, pain and beauty—without needing to force one away to make room for the other.

Maybe the rainbow was never a promise of transformation. Maybe it was simply an invitation to see my life, my grief, and even myself through a different lens.

And so, instead of cursing the rainbow for failing to fix me, I let it teach me something else.

That I am still here.

That even in grief, I can experience awe.

That even in uncertainty, wonder can still find me.

That even in the hardest moments, light doesn’t disappear. It refracts, scattering in ways I might not have expected but still can choose to see.

And maybe, just maybe, hope isn’t about believing something external will come along to save us. Maybe hope is simply the courage to keep going, even when we don’t yet see the path ahead.

So, I will keep going.

Not because I know what’s next.

Not because I believe everything will suddenly fall into place.

But because there is still light in this world. Light that is beautiful, redemptive, and multi-faceted, and I want to keep searching for it.

Even in the rain.

Even in the in-between.

Even in me.