A recent study suggested that optimism might lower the risk of dementia — a finding that is both heartening and, in its way, hilariously inconvenient.
After all, most of us have spent a lifetime perfecting the art of mild exasperation. Now science is telling us that our grumbling may not be good for the brain.
This poem grew out of that tension: the idea that something as ordinary as a hopeful outlook could shape the long arc of our memory.
If that’s true, then every corner of daily life — politics, errands, haircuts, marriage, even the long line at the grocery store — becomes a small test of our neurological future.
The poem plays with the comic possibilities of taking this research too seriously, imagining what it might look like to approach the world with a deliberately sunnier disposition, not out of naïveté but out of a kind of practical, late-life stewardship.
I’m not claiming optimism is a cure for anything. But I am interested in how a shift in outlook, however modest, might change the texture of our days: how we vote, how we love, how we wait, how we forgive, how we keep going.
If the mind is shaped by what it returns to, then perhaps cultivating a few more positive thoughts — however awkwardly — becomes its own form of care.
The Optimist’s Guide to Not Losing Your Mind
Every morning now I practice optimism the way some men practice putting — a few gentle strokes toward the imaginary cup of a better day.
The researchers say a sunny outlook may keep the brain from fraying at the edges, which makes me wonder if I should start smiling at my bills, waving cheerfully at the news, and thanking the universe for the privilege of waiting on hold.
Imagine the implications.
At the grocery store,
I stand in the longest line on purpose,
beaming like a man who has just discovered that patience is a tax deduction. The woman ahead of me is arguing about a coupon from 1998, and I nod encouragingly, as if her persistence is a small miracle that will save us all.
At the barbershop, I tell the barber to “surprise me,”
because what’s the worst that could happen when optimism is coursing through your neurons like a gentle river of serotonin. He gives me a haircut that makes me look like a retired magician, and I tip him extra for the lesson in humility.
Even politics becomes bearable if you squint hard enough.
Not the candidates — never them — but the voters in line,
each one clutching a tiny hope like a lottery ticket they know probably won’t win but play anyway because hope, like oxygen, is hard to quit.
When I take out a loan,
I sign the papers with a flourish,
as if I’m autographing a fan’s program after a matinee performance of The Financially Responsible Man.
The banker looks confused, but I tell him I’m investing in my future cognitive resilience. He does not laugh. I do.
Buying an EV? Of course.
Solar panels? Why not.
If optimism is medicine, I’m building a pharmacy on my roof.
College? Go.
Learn something useless and beautiful — astronomy, medieval poetry, the physics of soap bubbles — anything that reminds you the world is larger than your inbox.
Dating becomes easier, too.
You simply assume the other person is doing their best,
even when they talk for 20 minutes about their kombucha starter or their emotional support iguana. You nod, you smile, you picture your hippocampus glowing like a lantern.
And marriage — ah, marriage — the long apprenticeship
in noticing the good. Two people waking each day and choosing,
sometimes clumsily, sometimes with flair,
to keep building a life that still surprises them.
If that doesn’t protect the brain,
nothing will.
So yes, I’m all in.
Because if a brighter outlook keeps the mind intact,
then maybe the real work is simpler,
to meet the world with a little more mercy,
to wave at the neighbors,
to let someone cut in line,
to remember we’re all just trying to stay whole in a world that frays easily.
If that’s optimism,
I’ll take it.
