Read this slowly.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard,
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm,
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea,
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Emily Dickinson
You don’t notice hope when life is easy. It’s quiet then, almost invisible. But when things begin to fall apart, when everything feels uncertain, that’s when it becomes clear it was there all along.
Not loud, not dramatic. Just something small inside you that refuses to disappear. Even when you’re tired, even when you stop believing in outcomes, something still keeps going.
Hope is not always a feeling. Sometimes it’s just the fact that you keep moving, even when you don’t fully understand why.
Maybe strength was never loud. Maybe it was just the part of you that didn’t leave.
