Tomorrow Will Be Better

Hearing that tune still lights me up — 'tomorrow will be better' (Chinese: '明天會更好') is credited to the iconic Taiwanese songwriter Lo Ta-yu (羅大佑). He penned the piece in the mid-1980s as part of a charitable effort, and it quickly became an anthem of optimism across Mandarin-speaking communities.

The song was recorded as a collaborative single featuring a huge roster of singers from Taiwan, Hong Kong and beyond; think of it like a regional equivalent of those big charity supergroup tracks. Lo Ta-yu’s lyrical touch — simple lines that carry both melancholy and hope — combined with an instantly hummable melody, is what gives the song its staying power. Over the years it’s been covered, translated, and used in school performances, fundraisers, and TV specials. For me it’s that rare pop song that doesn’t overstay its welcome but still manages to make you look up and breathe a little easier.

I love how little phrases travel across languages, and 'tomorrow will be better' is one of those tiny hopeful things that shows up almost everywhere. In European tongues you'll find: Spanish 'Mañana será mejor', French 'Demain sera meilleur', German 'Morgen wird es besser', Italian 'Domani sarà migliore', Portuguese 'Amanhã será melhor', Dutch 'Morgen wordt het beter', Russian 'Завтра будет лучше' (Zavtra budet luchshe), Polish 'Jutro będzie lepiej' and Romanian 'Mâine va fi mai bine'. These feel familiar and direct, often used in songs or pep talks.

Across Asia the phrase shifts shape but keeps the comfort: Chinese '明天会更好' (Míngtiān huì gèng hǎo), Japanese '明日はもっと良くなるよ。' (Ashita wa motto yoku naru yo), Korean '내일은 더 나아질 거예요.' (Naeil-eun deo naajil geoyeyo), Hindi/Urdu 'कल बेहतर होगा.' / 'کل بہتر ہوگا.' (Kal behtar hoga), Arabic 'الغد سيكون أفضل.' (Al-ghad sayakūn afdal), Vietnamese 'Ngày mai sẽ tốt hơn' and Thai 'พรุ่งนี้จะดีกว่า' (Prung-nee ja dee gwaa). I like how some are gentle promises and some read like firm statements.

In other regions you get warm variants: Swahili 'Kesho itakuwa bora', Turkish 'Yarın daha iyi olacak', Greek 'Αύριο θα είναι καλύτερα' (Avrio tha einai kalitera), Hebrew 'מחר יהיה טוב יותר' (Machar yihiye tov yoter), and many more. Saying a few of these out loud feels like collecting hope from around the world — small, portable optimism that I tuck into playlists and late-night chats.

On slow rainy mornings I find myself humming lines that promise better days, and that simple phrase 'tomorrow will be better' has a million tiny faces to me. At its warmest it reads like a hand on your shoulder — a gentle pact between listener and song that insists pain is temporary. Fans who lean into that reading will make playlists and late-night mixes, they’ll tattoo a single word or stitch it into fandom merch, and it becomes a ritual: press play, breathe, believe for the next 180 seconds.

But there's a grittier interpretation floating around too. Some people treat the lyric as a coping strategy, something to repeat when therapy feels too expensive or stigma keeps them quiet. Others push back, saying it can be a kind of pressure — as if expecting immediate improvement erases the messiness of recovery. In fan threads you'll see both takes clash and then somehow stitch together: hopeful edits next to honest threads about setbacks. I keep a sticky note with that line, not because it fixes anything, but because some days it reminds me I can survive until the next one — and that, for me, matters more than a promise being perfect.

Hunting for a legal stream of 'tomorrow will be better' can feel like a little treasure hunt, but there’s a straightforward way I go about it that usually pays off.

First, I check the big, global services — Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, Apple TV/iTunes, Google Play Movies, and YouTube Movies — because many films and shows land there for purchase or rental even if they’re not included with a subscription. If nothing shows up, I switch to region- and genre-specific platforms: for East Asian releases I’ll try Bilibili, iQIYI, Tencent Video, and Rakuten Viki, and for indie or festival titles I look at MUBI, Kanopy (if I have a library card), and the Criterion Channel.

When I can’t find a direct stream, I look at the official social media or website for 'tomorrow will be better' — distributors often post links to legal viewing options. I also use aggregators like JustWatch or Reelgood to confirm current availability in my country. Personally, I prefer buying or renting the piece on a trustworthy platform rather than relying on doubtful uploads; it’s better for the creators and avoids sketchy sources. Hope that helps you find a good, legal way to watch it — I always feel better supporting the real deal.

The chorus of 'tomorrow will be better' has this weird way of sticking in my head, and that stickiness has definitely spilled over into fan creations. Back in college I fell into a rabbit hole of songfics where writers would stitch the lyrics into a character’s internal monologue, turning hopeful lines into quiet pep talks after a big fight or loss. Some writers used the song as a literal plot device—characters sing it on a rooftop, a radio plays it at a turning point, or a taped message with the song on it becomes a talisman.

Beyond text, I’ve seen amateur filmmakers and cosplayers make short adaptations that feel more like mood pieces than straight retellings. There were YouTube collabs where people from different fandoms sent clips of their characters’ smallest, loneliest moments set to 'tomorrow will be better', and the edits were surprisingly moving. Those projects often inspired micro-fics and poetry in the comments, which then grew into small communal zines.

All this taught me that a simple hopeful chorus can seed an entire ecosystem of creative work—songfics, AMV-style videos, fan comics, and even staged readings posted online. For me, seeing strangers interpret hope in so many ways felt like a reminder that art keeps you company, even on shaky days.

The phrase 'tomorrow is another day' has always felt like a warm hug after a rough day. It’s not just about optimism—it’s a reminder that failure isn’t permanent. I’ve had moments where everything felt overwhelming, like when I bombed a presentation or got rejected from a project I really wanted. But clinging to that idea helped me dust myself off and try again. It’s like Scarlett O’Hara in 'Gone with the Wind'; even when her world crumbles, she bulldozes forward because there’s always tomorrow.

What I love is how universal this mindset is. In anime like 'Clannad', characters face brutal emotional lows, but the story often hinges on small moments of hope—the next day, the next chance. It’s not naive; it’s strategic resilience. Real life doesn’t have plot armor, but believing in 'tomorrow' gives us the energy to write our own comeback arcs.

I get curious about who actually holds the rights whenever an old charity record pops up, and 'tomorrow will be better' is a classic example. Broadly speaking, there are two separate copyrights to think about: the composition (lyrics and melody) and the sound recording (the specific performance captured on a record or tape). In most cases the composition copyright belongs to the songwriters or their publishers, while the recording copyright belongs to the label or production company that funded and released the recording.

For 'tomorrow will be better' specifically, the original creators—those who wrote the melody and lyrics—would normally own the composition rights unless they assigned or licensed them away. The record company or collective that organized and produced the 1985 charity single typically owns the recording copyright, unless the performers or organizers agreed to different terms for a charity release. To be sure, I always check the liner notes, look up performing-rights databases (like ASCAP, BMI, PRS or a local equivalent), or the release credits; that often tells you who the publishers and labels are.

In short: expect the songwriters/publishers to control the composition and the producing label or rights administrator to control the master recording, though charity releases sometimes have special agreements. It's a neat piece of music history that still tugs at me.