This kind of hope isn’t light and fluffy.
It’s not about believing everything will be okay.
This is grief’s gritted-teeth kind of hope.
The one that whispers, “Just keep going,” even when nothing makes sense.

If you're here, you’re still searching.
Still reaching.
Still showing up.
And that, in itself, is a form of hope.

You don’t need to feel hopeful to be held by hope.
You just need to not give up on this one breath.

Journal Prompt

If you want to write, here’s a gentle place to begin

What would I say if hope could hear me?
If I wrote a letter to the part of me that’s barely holding on, what would I say?
If that part of me wrote back, what might it need?

Gentle Ritual

If writing feels too much, try something with your hands

The Tiny Light Practice (3 minutes)

1. Light a candle, or hold something that brings the smallest comfort, a cup of tea, a photo, a smooth stone.

2. Sit in silence. Or cry. Or breathe.

3. Whisper:

“This is hard.
But I am here.
And that is enough for now.”

Let the light burn for five minutes.
Let it be your flicker of “not done yet.”

Optional: Try This

Or just walk with me for a minute. No pressure, just presence

The One True Thing Walk
As you walk, even if just around the room; name one true thing:

“I am standing.”
“I am breathing.”
“I am still here.”

No pressure to feel grateful. Just practice presence.
It’s the quietest form of hope.

Please Remember

You don’t need to know how to fix this.
You don’t need to see the path.
You’re allowed to just hold on; one breath, one heartbeat, one moment at a time.