Pandora's Box

I reread the story of Pandora’s Box this week, and for the first time I noticed something I had never seen before. 

In Greek mythology, Pandora’s Box refers to a jar that contained all the evils of the world, released by Pandora, the first woman created by the gods.

Pandora was created by Hephaestus, the god of craftsmanship, at the request of Zeus, the king of the gods. Her creation was part of Zeus’s punishment for humanity after Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind. Each god bestowed a gift upon Pandora, making her irresistible. She was given to Epimetheus, Prometheus’s brother, as a wife—despite Prometheus’s warning never to accept gifts from the gods.

Pandora was left to care for a sealed jar. When she opened it, sickness, death, and many other evils escaped into the world. Though she quickly tried to close it, only one thing remained inside: Hope.

For much of my life, I have described the trauma I carry as the devils inside my own Pandora’s box. When things in my life spiral and darkness creeps in, I’ve often said that the lid must have fallen off my box.

When I first started counseling to face my trauma, I wasn’t even sure where the lid was. It felt like I was lost in a swirling mist of painful memories and experiences. I couldn’t even find the words to describe the pain I was trying to overcome.

Slowly, over time, things began to change. Little by little I started working through those experiences. Today, I was able to speak about one of those events—something that once felt completely unspeakable. No tears. No panic. No fight-or-flight response. Just a simple statement.

I still have moments when things feel overwhelming and I start to spiral. But I’ve learned to recognize those moments sooner and to ask for help before I go too far down that path.

This past month has tested that in ways I never expected. My mom passed away. Someone broke into my home and killed my pet. At the same time, I have been working in a very hostile work environment where I’ve been told to leave my personal life at the door. But grief and fear don’t stop at a door just because someone tells them to.

I kept trying to push through. Eventually my body started showing the cost of that stress—shingles and an ulcer. That was the moment I realized I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine.

As panic started to set in, I felt like the lid had come off my Pandora’s box again. So I went back and reread the story.

For the first time, I noticed something I had missed before: the only thing left in the jar—sometimes described as an urn—was hope.

Some versions of the story say hope was the only thing that remained inside. Others say everything else was put back and hope alone was left behind.

After recently burying my mom, the image of an urn struck me differently.

If the evils, trauma, and pain are what remain in the urn, then those are things that are already dead. And dead things belong buried.

I like that version.

My trauma is something that can be buried, but hope is something I carry with me.

To me, hope is like a butterfly—fragile, beautiful, and capable of appearing even in the darkest moments.

I’m grateful that I’m learning how to manage my trauma, and that I’m no longer afraid to say when I need help during difficult times.

The devils can stay buried with the past—because hope is what I choose to carry forward.