You’re going to make it.

I know you don’t feel great right now. I know you’re having a crappy day. A crappy month. A crappy decade. I know this isn’t your best life.

I know your whole world is falling apart. I know your father is dying of pancreatic cancer. I know your daughter just passed away from a drug overdose. I get it.

Your grandchild has life threatening bone cancer. Your car was repossessed last night. Your dog died. You’re ill.

Your husband cheated on you with a younger woman. Your dad has a neurological disease. Your mother passed away. Your mom died by suicide. Your son is going blind.

You have breast cancer. You’ve lost everything. You’re a young man who was convicted by a jury of your peers, and now you’re probably going to prison. You are an alcoholic, and you don’t know what to do about it.

You’re scared. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. The doctor is suggesting chemo.

At night, sometimes, you lie there wondering what the point is. Why keep living? Why live a life that’s nothing but pain? You’re starting to lose steam. You’re starting to get tired.

I don’t blame you. But—and I want you to listen to me closely here—you are going to make it.

I actually believe this. Wholeheartedly. In fact, I would bet a million dollars on it.

Sadly, I don’t have a million bucks because I am an English major. So—let just me empty my wallet here—I will happily bet $11 cash that you are going to be okay.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:

“This schmuck doesn’t even know me. How the heck can he know whether I’ll be okay? He’s just writing a bunch of hyper-emotional B.S. He doesn’t know my life.”

And you know what? To be frank, you’re absolutely right. For starters, I DON’T know anything, so how can I know whether you’ll be okay? Secondly, my name isn’t Frank.

Still, here’s what I DO know.

I know pain. I know pain intimately. In fact, pain and I are old friends. And I know sorrow. Sorrow and I grew up together; we’re tight. Sorrow and I are just like this. I know failure. Failure has been my constant companion. If you name it, I have failed at it. But my story doesn’t matter. Right now, we’re talking about you.

A long time ago, when I started writing for newspapers, I used to visit random nursing homes to find stories. I love collecting stories about olden days, the Great Depression, or hard times.

Once, I met an old woman in Lower Alabama, she was 100 years old. She spent her days in the game room playing cards with anyone who dared to challenge her, drinking Miller Lite for medicinal purposes.

One summer day, I asked if I could interview this woman. She replied, “Only if you play Rummy and drink beer.”

We were a match made in Heaven.

So we played cards. The Miller was cold enough to crack my molars. And she talked.

The arthritis made it hard to shuffle. And age made her words difficult to understand. But she said something I’ll never forget.

“When I was a little girl,” she said, “all I ever wanted was for Mama to hold me and tell me I was going to be okay. That’s all anyone wants. To know you’re going to be okay. The secret to life is believing that.

“Even now, at my age, I replay my mama’s voice, telling me it’s all going to be okay, because I need to know this.”

And I started to weep. Because at the time, my life had been anything but okay. Mine has been a life riddled with suicide, death, heartbreak and failure.

This ancient woman wheeled her chair to me and placed her thin, frail arms around me as I sobbed. She smelled like a brewery. “It’s gonna be okay,” she said.

So please listen to me. Do not let go. Do not give up. Do not pull the trigger. Don’t quit trying. Don’t give in. And someday, when you’re through all this crap you’re going through, buy me a Miller Lite. And we’ll swap stories.