It was grade 10.

It was lunchtime.

It was intramural floor hockey in the gym.

The bleachers were full of rambunctious students. Some cheering for our team, some for the other.

The game was tied when the ball popped out from behind our net. It landed on an opposing player’s stick.

He attempted a snapshot. I attempted a pokecheck. My stick outstretched, my back bent, my head leaning forward.

The blade of his stick slid along the shaft of mine. All the way up until it slapped the corner of my right eye.

I don’t remember the pain. But I remember the pressure. A crack in the dam trying to hold back the flood.

I remember my cupped hands full of thick, syrupy blood. A puddle on the floor at my feet. The eerie silence throughout the gym.

I was rushed to the office. And then to the hospital.

At the heart of emotion

It’s odd. When you think of an injury and assign it a colour, most think of red. Or black and blue.

For me, it’s white. Because that’s all I could see—blinding white light.

First there was brightness in my right eye. Then there was the light above my head as the doctor sewed up the gash. And their white gown.

I remember a needle jabbing the cut. Through one teary eye, it looked like it was a foot long.

I remember a sharp pinch and then feeling nothing at all.

I was told if I’d been hit a millimetre to the right, I would likely have lost my eye. Told I was lucky.

I don’t remember feeling lucky.

That night, I cried. Not because of my now throbbing eye, but because my vision may never return. Because I may never play baseball again, never drive a car, or do anything that requires two seeing eyes.

The heart was leading the charge, full of emotion and worst case scenarios.

Because it’s hard not to focus on the smell when shit hits the fan. Hard to stay positive when you’re knee-deep in it.

Because it’s hard to see what’s on the other side when you have a patch over one eye.

In the head of logic

I remember a friend coming over a few days later. He skipped school that morning and showed up after my parents left for work.

He had a bottle of Silent Sam vodka and a club-sized joint. We got drunk and high and laughed and laughed and laughed.

The rumour mill was churning at school, you see. Some thought my eyebrow ring had been torn out, some swear they saw my eyeball hanging from its socket.

Then my friend left, thinking it would be fun to go back to class fucked up—it probably was.

I remember being alone and intoxicated. And that’s when clarity came, as strange as it sounds.

I realized I had true friends.

• Ones who would always stand by my side
• Ones who wouldn’t care if I wore an eyepatch
• Ones who reminded me of what’s truly important

Sure, if my eyesight didn’t return, things would be different. But my life was far from over. I had a lot to live for, a lot to look forward to (no pun intended).

This is when the head took over, bringing logic to my inner saboteur.

The purpose of adversity

I didn’t know anything about Stoicism then. But the philosophy came despite my ignorance.

The Stoics welcomed adversity—and there was plenty of it in ancient Greece and Rome. Experience taught them to accept what they can’t control.

The Stoics learned to view misfortune as an opportunity, a chance to put their philosophy into practice.

• To remain humble and honest
• To grow stronger and more resilient
• To become better leaders, parents, and neighbours

You may have heard this Winston Churchill quote: “Never let a good crisis go to waste.”

What you may not know is that Churchill practiced Stoicism. He often read Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.

“Just as nature takes every obstacle, every impediment, and works around it—turns it to its purposes, incorporates it into itself—so, too, a rational being can turn each setback into raw material and use it to achieve its goal.”

Marcus Aurelius

Marcus was one of Rome’s most notable Emperors. He was also one of the most notable Stoics. He often read the teachings of Epictetus and Seneca.

“The true man is revealed in difficult times. So when trouble comes, think of yourself as a wrestler whom God, like a trainer, has paired with a tough young buck. For what purpose? To turn you into Olympic-class material.”

Epictetus

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, yeah?

Psychologists call this adversarial growth or post-traumatic growth. You’ve experienced it in some form or another.

Maybe it was an injury, or an unforeseen setback, or an unexpected tragedy. (Or a global pandemic.)

You suffered. It was unfair. It kept kicking while you were down. But it transformed you for the better.

“Constant misfortune brings this one blessing: to whom it always assails, it eventually fortifies.”

Seneca

So, don’t let a crisis go to waste. Don’t let the purpose of adversity go to waste. And don’t let emotion override logic during hardship.

Remember, focus on what you control and forget the rest—or as the Stoics would say: ta eph’hemin, ta ouk eph’hemin. What is up to us, what is not up to us.

Remember, stay patient and keep the faith.

And remember, keep an eye out for the silver lining.

PS: My vision eventually returned, mostly.