Reclaiming Hope

January 15, 2026

This year I have not made formal new year’s resolutions. It is not that I don’t have areas that could use improvement. I just find that grand resolutions are hard to keep.  I probably should lose those 10 pounds that have been hanging on since COVID. Yes, I could work out more to get in better shape. Sure, I could eat healthier and limit my sugar intake. I could take a new class or embark on a big project that stretches my brain.

Instead, my focus at the beginning of 2026 is reclaiming hope. This may seem like a small goal, but it is an important step in my healing.  Prior to the untimely death of my eldest son in 2023, I always had hope he would get better. Recovery was just around the corner, I felt certain, and I believed whole-heartedly that Alex would get back there and this time it would stick. I was unrelentingly optimistic. Even in very tough situations, I could find a silver lining or focus on the bright side. In general, I expected that things would improve in my life, in my family, with my finances and in the world. Where I could take action to ensure positive outcomes, I did. Working harder, learning new tools, and being helpful without enabling served me well as I tried to make my tiny corner of the world a better place.

Grief has rocked me to my core. Layers of pain, anger, sadness and regret have buried my sense of hope. Accessing my inner resilience has been hard over the past few years. Despite those tough emotions, I have continued to show up and do my job, pay the bills, exercise, and spend time with family and friends. Some close friends recently reminded me that I have continued to be supportive of students, colleagues, and friends like I was in the past. The shift has been internal. I have not felt happy as often, nor have I felt my efforts were making a noticeable difference. I continued, however, going through all the motions of my former life, albeit with less energy and enthusiasm. I thought that I had lost hope altogether, in addition to my son.

Recently, my counselor pointed out that my hope is still there. It is simply buried beneath layers of sadness and disappointment. She cited examples of several new projects I have started in the community since Alex died: working to stabilize a hillside in a neighborhood cemetery, learning to teach reading to those with low literacy and working with men who are recovering from addiction.  “Volunteering is not something you do if you have no hope,” she asserted. Later, I shared my fear that my hope is gone with my writing instructor.  Since our conversation, she has gently pointed out multiple instances in which I have written optimistic passages that depict my underlying hope.

Perhaps hope is starting to emerge from the layers of crud piled on top? I’d like to think that I will notice it more now that I have decided to pay attention to it in 2026. Just like the lengthening daylight, hope stays with me a bit longer each day as January progresses. Who knows before long I might find a new direction and a sense of purpose for the future? There I go again. I surprised myself with a bit of optimism. Hope keeps peeking out like the sun through the clouds after a passing storm. I’d like to encourage it to stick around.