Feeding Hope

Chapter 9Hope Is a Verb

Hope used to be something I wished for. Something I crossed my fingers about. Something I released into the universe like a balloon floating into the sky, trusting that somehow it might land somewhere good. For most of my early life, hope felt like a soft, gentle belief that maybe things would get better. I hoped for better jobs, hoped for opportunities, hoped that things would fall into place, hoped that God or luck or timing would swing a door open for me. Back then, hope was almost like making a wish, a quiet internal desire that lived in my mind and heart.

But as I've grown, lived, led, and built through some of the hardest seasons of my life, my definition of hope has changed drastically. Hope now feels more like a promise—a commitment between me and the future I'm working toward. It's less of a wish and more of an agreement: if I keep showing up, if I keep doing the work, if I keep trusting the calling God placed on my life, then something better is possible on the other side.

Hope isn't something that floats for me anymore. It's something with weight. Something with muscle. Something I lift every day. Hope is not passive. Hope is active. It doesn't simply sit in your chest or your imagination; it gets into your bones and tells you to keep moving. Hope is alignment—between faith and effort, belief and practice, the vision in your mind and the work of your hands.

I used to think of hope as an emotion. Now I think of it as a discipline.

People often ...