There is a common misunderstanding about Buddhism. People often think acceptance means waving the white flag. It doesn’t. It means seeing reality exactly as it is before deciding how to respond.
On Thursday night, lying awake in hospital, I found myself exploring acceptance in a way I never have before. Not just accepting today’s reality, but accepting every possibility that may lie ahead.
I imagined the different paths my life could take. What if I recover far more movement than anyone expects? What if recovery is slower? And perhaps the hardest question of all: what if this is as much movement as I ever regain?
These aren’t easy thoughts. In fact, every part of me wanted to turn away from them. Yet I realised something surprising. The fear wasn’t coming from the future itself. The fear came from my resistance to even allowing those possibilities into my mind.
One of the central teachings of Buddhism is that suffering often comes not simply from pain, but from our attachment to how we believe life should be. We hold tightly to an imagined future, and when reality fails to match it, we experience a second layer of suffering that is entirely created by the mind.
That idea landed differently the other night. Since February, I have naturally been focused on recovery. Every tiny flicker of movement in my thumb, every new sensation in my back, every improvement in therapy has become another piece of hope.
Hope remains incredibly important. I don’t intend to lose it.
But Buddhism gently asks another question alongside hope. Can you be completely present today, even while hoping for tomorrow?
Those two ideas can exist together.
Acceptance doesn’t mean abandoning rehabilitation. It doesn’t mean refusing treatment or giving up on progress. It simply means making peace with this present moment instead of postponing your happiness until circumstances change.
That is much harder than it sounds.
Most of us spend our lives making unconscious bargains with happiness.
“I’ll be happy when I get that promotion.”
“I’ll be happy when I’m healthy.”
“I’ll be happy when I retire.”
“I’ll be happy when I can walk again.”
The problem is that happiness is always waiting for another day.
Buddhism quietly turns that thinking upside down.
What if joy is available now?
Not because life is perfect.
Not because suffering has disappeared.
But because this moment, imperfect as it is, is still life.
Lying in bed for 24 hours a day was never part of my plan. Being dependent on others for almost everything certainly wasn’t either. There are moments that remain desperately hard. There are days when frustration arrives before breakfast.
Yet on Thursday night I found myself asking a different question. If this really was my life until my final breath, how would I choose to live today?
The answer wasn’t found in movement. It wasn’t found in scans. It wasn’t found in prognosis.
It was found in attention. The warmth of someone holding my hand. The smile of a nurse. A message from a friend. The sound of laughter in the corridor. A conversation with my wife. The feeling of sunshine through the window.
None of these moments cure paralysis. None of them remove uncertainty.
But every one of them reminds me that life hasn’t disappeared simply because it looks different.
The Buddha taught that everything is impermanent. At first glance that sounds unsettling. Yet it can also become deeply comforting.
Pain changes. Fear changes. Hope changes. Bodies change. Even life itself changes. Nothing remains fixed forever.
Knowing that doesn’t remove
grief, but it softens our desperate need to control what cannot be controlled.
Perhaps that is where acceptance begins. Not by saying: “This is what I wanted.”
But by saying: “This is what is.”
There is enormous freedom hidden inside those four words.
When we stop arguing with reality, we suddenly have more energy available to actually live it.
That is where gratitude quietly enters.
Gratitude isn’t pretending everything is wonderful. It isn’t ignoring suffering or forcing positivity. It is recognising that even inside the hardest chapters, something beautiful still exists if we are willing to notice it.
On Thursday night I even thought about death. For years that sentence would have frightened me. Yet Buddhism doesn’t encourage us to hide death behind closed doors. Instead, it asks us to become familiar with it. Not to become morbid, but to become awake.
If we truly remember that life is temporary, every conversation becomes more precious. Every sunrise becomes more remarkable. Every act of kindness becomes more meaningful.
Death stops being an enemy that steals life. Instead, it becomes the reason life matters at all.
Ironically, accepting mortality can make us feel more alive.
Yesterday, I woke with the same spinal cord injury. My rehabilitation still lies ahead. My hopes remain exactly the same. I still want to recover as much movement as my body will allow. But I also carry something else. A quieter mind.
Not because I know what tomorrow holds. But because I no longer feel I have to.
Perhaps that is what acceptance really means. To meet each day exactly as it arrives. To work as hard as you can. To love the people around you deeply. To remain grateful for what still exists. And to understand that peace isn’t found at the end of the journey. It is found by fully inhabiting the step we are standing on today.
Matthew Johnston
Herald and Times Sports Editor
