Look up from the doom-scrolling for slivers of joy

Yikes. Today’s headlines look pretty bleak. So did yesterday’s, and the day before that, and the day before that. Genocide, homicide — all the -cides — inflation, corruption, climate change, racism, tyrants, war. It’s a lot. AI is getting creepier by the minute, and we’re never going to watch Friends without a pang of grief again. All our news sources are clogged with meaningless drivel (like this), and as we continue to dig towards rock bottom, the silver lining is nowhere to be found. The planet’s on fire and no one seems to be doing much to put it out. Why are we still producing polystyrene? Why does The Masked Singer keep getting renewed?

I’m seeing a therapist about all this existential dread. I’ve seen a few, and they all froth over the same thing: gratitude. But what is there to be grateful for? That the world didn’t implode today? That only means we’re a little bit closer to the day that it does.

Credit: Robin Cowcher

Sometimes, when my therapist(s) suggests something like this, something stupid, something light-touch and lazy, I follow their advice out of spite. I do it so I can come back to another $280-an-hour session, drop the scraps of my attempt at their feet and blame them for its failure. “I tried it your way,” I want to tell them, “now do your job properly and solve all my problems.”

It’s divine when it works out this way. When it doesn’t, it’s … annoying. And genuinely helpful. But mostly really, really annoying. That said, [insert horrifying news story here] just happened, so before I renew my nihilism subscription, I thought I could give it one last shot.

As the apocalypse draws ever nearer, I’m grateful for … restaurants’ set menus that over-deliver; ones that force me to surreptitiously unbutton my pants at the table so I can keep laughing with my friends without my jeans’ hardware pinging off and shattering a wine glass. The group chat is still haunted by last year’s veritable Roman feast at Baby and the courses that just wouldn’t stop coming.

I’m grateful that after a stormy day — a gift in itself — the sky clears itself to the most miraculous pink, lighting up Instagram stories as far as the sunset stretches. I’m glad for how psyched we all get about a supermoon, and the way we drop our heads back and stare at the twinkle-lit sky in awe whenever we get far away from light pollution. We aren’t so different from our ancient ancestors like that. Isn’t that pretty?

When I’m doom-scrolling and adrift in an infinite loneliness, there are reminders from the universe that just because someone we love isn’t here any more doesn’t mean they’re not with us. The morning after my dog died, I decided to vacuum in peace for the first time in a decade. The only explanation I have for a hardly used Dyson carking it for no apparent reason is paranormal interference from a vacuum-averse corgi. I laughed until I cried until I ran out of tears.

Alone in London at 18, I found myself almost dead broke and unable to retain even the most basic hospitality job. As I sought a little treat and the gumption to call my mother and beg her to buy me a ticket home, I felt like too much of a wanker asking for a pain au chocolat, so I pointed to a plain croissant in the pastry case instead. When I bit into it, Nutella exploded into my mouth. Small joys.

Sure, microplastics have crossed the blood-brain barrier and we should all hope to die of sudden aneurysms rather than await the horrors of yet-undiscovered cancers, but have you ever glanced across the room at a party, made eye contact with your favourite person in the world and shared the same thought? What’s the threat of a nuclear winter compared to meeting a dog on the street and stroking their velvet ears while their whole sausagey body wiggles in delight? Natural disasters are horrific, but have you ever found a few extra fries at the bottom of the chip bag? Dictators dictate, bushfires blaze and petrol prices are outrageous, but sometimes you wake up with hours left before your alarm.

No amount of bonus fries or pink skies can make terrorism or human trafficking palatable, but some days, one of your oldest friends becomes a parent, and you get to watch the moron you’ve adored since school grow into a moron with a beautiful family.

I can’t fix the world for you; I can’t even pay a premium to outsource the job to my therapist. In and among all the angst, though, there are slivers of joy. There’s a lot left to love.

The Opinion newsletter is a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up here.