I actually think sadness and darkness can be very beautiful and

“I actually think sadness and darkness can be very beautiful and healing.” Thus spoke Duncan Sheik, and though his words seem to dwell in the shadow, they carry a light that only the wise may see. For too long has the world feared sadness, fleeing from it as if it were a curse, and despised darkness as if it held no gift. Yet the ancients knew better: the seed must first lie buried in the soil’s darkness before it can break into the light, and the soul must sometimes drink sorrow to awaken to its deepest strength. There is a beauty, hidden and fierce, in those moments when the heart breaks, for it is then that the self is remade.

Sadness, when embraced, softens the spirit and makes it tender. It draws down the veil of pride and teaches compassion. The one who has never wept cannot truly understand the tears of another. To live only in joy is to be shallow; to descend into sorrow is to discover the depths. And darkness, too, holds its mysteries. In the blackness of night the stars reveal themselves, unseen in the brightness of day. In the dark silence of grief, the soul often hears whispers of truth that were drowned out by the noise of daily pleasures. Thus, Sheik’s words remind us: there is a healing power hidden in what we fear most.

Consider the story of Abraham Lincoln, who suffered from what was once called “melancholy.” To many it was a burden, a shadow upon his days. Yet that very sadness gave him depth, empathy, and an unyielding patience. In the darkest hours of the American Civil War, he did not speak as one untouched by sorrow, but as one who had wrestled with it, and therefore could carry the grief of a nation. Out of his own inner darkness he found the strength to hold together a country on the edge of ruin. His melancholy was not his weakness; it was the wellspring of his compassion and resolve.

The ancients also recognized this paradox. The poets of Greece sang of tragedy not to cast men into despair, but to cleanse them through catharsis. By watching suffering on the stage, by feeling grief and pity, the heart was purified. It was as if darkness itself was a medicine for the soul. The Stoics, too, counseled reflection upon loss and death—not to dwell in misery, but to strip away illusions and reveal what is truly precious. Thus, to embrace sadness is not to sink into ruin, but to rise from it stronger and wiser.

O children of tomorrow, do not despise your nights of sorrow. When sadness comes, do not chase it away with empty noise, nor bury it beneath false laughter. Sit with it, let it speak, and you will find within it a strange and quiet beauty. For grief can heal wounds unseen, soften hearts that had grown hard, and remind you that you are alive. And when darkness surrounds you, do not cry out in fear. Remember that even in the deepest cave, water drips patiently, shaping stone into wonder. So too will your own darkness carve you into something more enduring.

The lesson is plain: sorrow and shadow are not enemies, but teachers. Sadness teaches compassion, darkness teaches resilience, and both together prepare the soul for joy that is deeper than before. You cannot heal if you only flee the night; you must pass through it, allowing its silence to mend what the day has shattered.

Practically, let each person do this: when grief arises, allow yourself time to weep, to reflect, to write your sorrows in words. When you face darkness, take it as an invitation to rest, to retreat, to gather strength for the battles yet to come. Do not numb your sadness away, but embrace it as part of your journey. For in this embrace, as Duncan Sheik declares, there lies a beauty and healing greater than any forced smile.

Thus remember: sadness and darkness are not the end of life, but part of its sacred rhythm. They are the fertile soil from which new strength grows, the quiet night before the sunrise, the deep wound that becomes the mark of wisdom. Accept them, walk through them, and you will discover that even in sorrow, the soul can shine with a beauty beyond measure.