I was scrolling the news one evening last fall, the kind of mindless scrolling that leaves you feeling worse with every swipe, and I hit a wall. Not a physical wall. An emotional one. A story about climate projections. A story about conflict somewhere far away. A story about something terrible happening to people who didn’t deserve it. And I sat there on my couch with my phone in my hand and thought: What’s the point? What’s the point of meditation, of prayer, of spiritual practice, of trying to be a better person, when the world seems to be actively falling apart?
I’ve talked to enough people to know I’m not the only one who hits that wall. It comes in waves. Sometimes the world’s pain feels abstract and distant. Other times it presses against your chest like a physical weight. And in those moments, faith, the quiet trust that things will be okay, that there’s meaning underneath the chaos, can feel like the most naive thing in the world.
Yogananda had something to say about this. He’d lived through it himself. He arrived in America in 1920, taught through the roaring twenties, and then watched the Great Depression crush the hopes of millions. He lived through both World Wars. He saw prejudice, violence, and suffering on a scale that dwarfs what most of us encounter in our daily news feeds. And through all of it, his faith didn’t waver. Not because he was blind to the darkness, but because he saw something else inside it.
Faith Isn’t Denial
The first thing I had to understand about Yogananda’s approach to dark times is what faith meant to him. It didn’t mean pretending everything was fine. It didn’t mean avoiding the news or burying his head in meditation while the world burned. He was aware of suffering. He spoke about it directly. He didn’t minimize it.
“There is a purpose behind every trial. God does not create suffering, but He does allow it, because through suffering man learns to prefer good to evil, divine joy to earthly pleasures.”
– Paramahansa Yogananda, “Where There Is Light,” 1988
That quote might be hard to swallow if you’re in the middle of something painful. The idea that suffering has a purpose can feel dismissive if it’s offered at the wrong moment. But Yogananda wasn’t offering it as comfort for acute pain. He was offering it as a long-term framework, a way of understanding darkness that doesn’t require you to deny it but allows you to hold it alongside something else: the belief that consciousness is evolving, that humanity is learning (slowly, painfully, but genuinely), and that the darkness is temporary while the light is permanent.
I don’t always find this easy to believe. Some days I find it nearly impossible. But the alternative, believing that the darkness is all there is and that nothing meaningful lies beneath the suffering, is a belief too. And I’ve noticed that the second belief produces despair, paralysis, and withdrawal, while the first produces engagement, compassion, and action. The practical outcomes of faith are better than the practical outcomes of nihilism, even when faith feels harder to maintain.
What Yogananda Did During Dark Times
During the Great Depression, Yogananda didn’t retreat from the world. He traveled more, teaching free classes in cities where people were desperate for hope. He wrote “The Law of Success” in 1944, during World War II, specifically to help people rebuild their inner lives during a time of external destruction. He met people where they were: afraid, uncertain, struggling.
His message during those times wasn’t “just think positive.” It was more nuanced: the external world is a reflection of collective consciousness, and if you want the external world to change, you start by changing the consciousness within yourself. Not as an act of spiritual bypassing, but as a genuine contribution to the collective field.
“Be not a slave to your moods. Do not be tossed to and fro by the waves of circumstances. Anchor yourself in God.”
– Paramahansa Yogananda, “Sayings of Yogananda,” 1952
“Anchor yourself in God” can mean many things depending on your tradition. For Yogananda, it meant daily meditation, connection with the inner stillness that lies beneath the surface turbulence of life. That anchor doesn’t prevent the storms. It prevents you from being destroyed by them. And a person who isn’t destroyed by the storm is a person who can help others survive it.
The Difference Between Optimism and Faith
I want to draw a distinction that Yogananda implied but didn’t always state explicitly. Optimism says “things will get better.” Faith says “there is good present even in this, and my awareness of it matters.” Optimism is about the future. Faith is about the present. Optimism can be disproven by events. Faith can’t, because it isn’t making a prediction. It’s making a commitment.
When I’m reading the news and the despair closes in, optimism doesn’t help me. I can’t make myself believe that everything will be fine when the evidence suggests otherwise. But faith, specifically the faith that my own inner state contributes something real to the collective, that one person sitting in peace generates a ripple that affects the field around them, helps. Not because it fixes the world, but because it gives me something to do besides despair.
A Practice for Dark Moments
Here’s an exercise I’ve been using during those moments when the weight of the world becomes acute. It’s inspired by Yogananda’s teaching but adapted for the specific challenge of modern information overload.
Step 1: When you feel the darkness pressing in, stop consuming. Put down the phone. Close the laptop. Turn off the news. This isn’t denial; it’s triage. You can’t help anyone if you’re drowning in the same flood.
Step 2: Place both hands on your chest. Feel your heartbeat. This is your anchor. This rhythm has been going since before you were born into your current life, and it will continue regardless of what’s happening in the news. Let the heartbeat ground you.
Step 3: Close your eyes and say (silently or aloud): “There is light in me that the darkness cannot extinguish.” Yogananda taught that every person carries a spark of the Divine within them. You don’t have to use religious language. The point is to connect with the part of you that remains whole and calm even when the world does not.
Step 4: From that place of inner connection, send a silent wish of peace outward. To the people in the news story. To the people in your neighborhood. To anyone who is suffering right now. You’re not fixing anything. You’re contributing your inner light to the collective field. Yogananda believed this was one of the most powerful things a person could do. “A saint’s prayers move mountains,” he said, but he also taught that every sincere prayer matters, not just the saint’s.
Step 5: Open your eyes and choose one concrete action you can take today that contributes to the good. It can be small. A kind word. A donation. A phone call to someone who’s lonely. An act of service. Faith without action is incomplete. Let the inner peace express itself as outer kindness.
Why This Matters More Than We Think
There’s a temptation, when the world feels dark, to conclude that inner work is self-indulgent. That meditation is navel-gazing while Rome burns. That the only useful response to suffering is external action: protest, donate, volunteer, organize.
I don’t believe that, and neither did Yogananda. He taught that external action flowing from inner turmoil produces more turmoil. The activist who is burning with rage may achieve short-term results but burns out and creates collateral damage. The person who acts from inner peace produces results that are more sustainable, more creative, and more healing.
This doesn’t mean sitting on a cushion while people suffer. It means getting your inner house in order before going outside. It means being the kind of person who responds to darkness with light rather than with more darkness. It means cultivating the faith that your own peace, your own clarity, your own love, is a real contribution to a world that desperately needs it.
I still scroll the news sometimes. I still hit the wall. But now, when the darkness presses in, I have a practice. Not a escape hatch, not a denial mechanism, but a practice. I stop. I feel my heartbeat. I connect with the light that Yogananda swore is there, in every person, in every moment, regardless of circumstances. And then I do one kind thing. And that’s enough. Not to fix the world, but to be part of its healing.
That’s faith. Not the belief that everything will be okay, but the commitment to keep lighting candles in the dark. Yogananda did it through two world wars. I figure I can manage it through a news cycle.
