Beneath the Rainbow: Living in the Space With Pain and Joy

Inspired by a heartfelt presentation from my dear friend and one of our family group co-facilitators

A rainbow always has a way of stopping us in our tracks. Even amidst the busiest days, we can’t help but look up. They find us—uninvited yet undeniable—reminding us to pause, to breathe, to be present.

What captivates us isn’t just the colors; it’s the paradox of the rainbow itself. The storm, heavy and consuming, meets the light, warm and bright. Rain and sunlight collide to create beauty. The contrast—opposing forces converging—is where the magic happens. It’s this tension that I’ve been reflecting on lately.

Four years ago, my loved one entered their first treatment center on my 50th birthday. The timing felt like a cruel twist of fate—my own milestone marked by the upheaval of our loved one’s addiction. The following weekend, my daughter and husband hosted a surprise birthday party, gathering our closest friends and family at a restaurant. I tried to smile through the well-intended celebration, but inside, I felt disconnected. How could I celebrate when my heart was heavy with grief? How could I experience joy when the pain of the moment was so raw?

I attempted to push those feelings aside for others, but I couldn’t shake the sense of being torn between two worlds: one where I desperately wanted to support my loved one’s recovery, and another where I was expected to embrace happiness. The tension between the two was palpable, and in that moment, it felt impossible to reconcile them. Yet, in the space between them, I see now: there was a rainbow. Both joy and pain existed side by side—not canceling each other out, but living together.

One of our family group co-facilitators recently shared a message that has stayed with me: pain and joy don’t negate each other. They coexist—essential, intertwined parts of our journey. The rainbow imagery she used has become a quiet but powerful reminder that both can hold space within us.

The Space Between

Most of us live in that middle space, suspended between storm and rainbow. We carry deep, personal wounds—yet we still hold moments of joy. We feel grief and gratitude at the same time. We honor the progress we’ve made while acknowledging the scars we carry.

We don’t have to choose between pain and joy. We can feel both.

We can feel pride in our loved one’s progress, yet still bear the weight of the journey. We can laugh through tears because we understand that both joy and sorrow coexist in the same breath. This doesn’t lessen either experience; rather, it deepens our humanity. Both are essential to the fullness of who we are.

When Pain Creates Depth

Pain doesn’t just wound us; it shapes us. It carves out space within us to hold more life, more understanding, more compassion than we could have ever imagined. The pain I’ve carried has opened me up in ways I didn’t anticipate, and the joy that has emerged from it feels more authentic and deeply rooted because of what we’ve lived through—not despite it.

I see this so clearly in the families I’m surrounded by in our recovery community. We didn’t ask for these struggles, but they’ve allowed us to become people capable of extraordinary empathy. Our joy is not shallow or fleeting—it is earned, deepened by the journey we’ve walked together.

Lifting Our Eyes

When storms hit, our instinct is to hunker down, to wait for the rain to pass. But sometimes, if we dare to look up, even for a moment, we see that the light has always been there, filtering through, quietly present amid the downpour.

That’s the rainbow’s wisdom—not that our struggles vanish, but that beauty and hope can coexist with them. Joy and sorrow can live side by side. They shape one another, giving life to an experience that is both raw and tender.

I’ll never forget a rainbow that appeared over Woodhaven. It wasn’t just a fleeting moment of beauty; it felt like a quiet affirmation of everything we’ve been learning together. It reflected the courage I witness in our family group every week—how we hold space for each other’s storms while celebrating every small, precious glimmer of light that comes through.

Perhaps the most powerful lesson I’ve learned is this: the rain and the rainbow do not exist separately. They shape each other, each one incomplete without the other. We don’t have to wait for everything to be “resolved” before we can embrace joy. Both pain and joy can live with us—intertwined, complex, and utterly necessary for the fullness of our experience.