Hope Isn’t Pretending
Last year was one of the hardest years of my life.
Between navigating my mom’s decline into dementia and what was happening in the world, there were moments when everything felt… incomprehensible. How could this be happening?
And then, there was a shift. In the middle of fear and grief, my heart opened to more hope and connection.
I sat alone, quietly thinking of my mom, and began talking to her telepathically.
And then, I heard her respond.
You can call it imagination if you want. That’s fine.
What matters is that something within me shifted.
I felt my mom’s presence. I heard the tone of her voice. I connected with her as I’d always known her. And what came through very clearly was this: Her experience isn’t as bad from her side as it is from mine.
For most of last year, I’d agonized over my mom’s falls and pain, fearing her death, imagining her suffering. This message made me question the story I’d been telling.
Yes, my mom’s body and brain are deteriorating. Yes, in many ways, I’m losing her. And at the same time, there is another story. One where my mom is never fully lost to me. I can still connect with her. I can still “call” her with my mind. She lives within me, and I believe we can connect in a non-physical way.
All of this reminded me of something essential:
The stories we tell ourselves shape how we feel and how we live.
My mind has manufactured heartbreaking images of my mom, imagining her seeing herself now. It’s projected a future where her absence is more painful than this moment, causing my chest to tighten and my breath to shorten. Fear takes over. Grief settles in like a weighted blanket. Life becomes something to brace against.
Our minds tell stories to keep us safe, but those same stories can close us to life.
So, let me ask you this:
What story are you telling that’s keeping you braced instead of open?
When I look for goodness and beauty, toward God, toward what is still alive, I notice something else.
It’s always there.
The sun illuminating Mount Hood against a blue sky.
My daughters holding hands as we walk together.
The way my youngest giggles and says, “I love you too, mama.”
The quiet presence I feel when I slow down enough to notice it.
This isn’t about looking on the bright side. It isn’t about bypassing pain or pretending things aren’t devastating. They are.
It’s about refusing to abandon awe, gratitude, and love—especially in hard times.
Because when I let those in, something happens. I soften. I remember who I am. I remember who we all are. And I feel flooded with a steady, grounded gratitude that makes life feel more alive again.
Grief is brutal and unpredictable and, I believe, also sacred. Fear lives in our survival instincts, and it makes sense that we’re feeling it.
And still, the awe of life keeps seeking us.
Sometimes quietly. Sometimes unexpectedly.
But it’s there.
Hope, for me, isn’t pretending things won’t end or be painful. I know my mom will die. I know there will be hard times ahead. And still, I believe everything will be okay.
Not because I’m turning away from the pain of loss, but because even in loss, life keeps offering us growth, connection, meaning, and love.
Our circumstances may not change, but the story we live inside them can. And what may be one of the hardest seasons of our lives can also become sacred.
I write regularly about fear, aliveness, and the inner choices that shape our lives. More of that writing lives on Substack.
