In our annual holiday letter to friends and family I wrote, “This year feels exceptionally heavy … but we remain determined to practice hope.  It’s the only thing we know to do—but the work is hard.  We draw comfort from the accompaniment that each of you offers us throughout the year.”

One of the people who gives me the most hope is my great-niece Gabby, a most amazing high-school sophomore living in my hometown of Kansas City.  Gabby has had to contend with more suffering—physical and emotional—from an early age than I ever knew, but it has given her insights and wisdom beyond her years.  Fortunately, she is also an extraordinarily gifted writer who isn’t afraid of tackling the hard stuff in life.  We have found each other to be kindred spirits despite the 55 years separating us.

So I wanted to start off the New Year by sharing a reflective piece that Gabby wrote two years ago; it received much acclaim at the time, and she has continued to refine it since.  As long as she and others of her generation are hopeful, I too am hopeful.

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I Am Hopeful

People often ask me how I continue to smile after all that’s happened. The polite ones wonder how I still laugh like I used to, while the blunt folks question how happiness still dances throughout me, how my heart still bursts with joy. The rest ask how I manage to wake up each morning and see the day through, how I continue to write and paint with the relentless passion that’s grown alongside me. They compare me to sunshine, as if light can’t exist alongside ruin. They call me strong, as if thicker skin is what I’ve dreamt of. Everyone asks how I’m still hopeful, but no one has stuck around to hear the answer.

If someone did choose to listen, even just for a moment, I’d explain that I still laugh, paint, and write, because I have no other choice. Hope is the last thing I have left to turn to, thrusting my broken heart into its arms, and begging for just one moment of peace. Praying for a day without the haunting of memories, and a vase full of something other than dried flowers. I’m forced to believe that time will mend my crimson wounds, but I don’t want the scars that linger, just a mere moment without pain. I go through the motions of each day with hope, not because I believe in lucky coins, or horseshoes, but because I have nothing else.

I hope one day for silence. A single moment without the endless chatter of my thoughts, or the grief that clouds my heart like a smoker and their diseased lungs. I hope that when I finally glue together the pieces of my soul and scraps of my emotions, I’ll be content. I wish upon every stupid star that one day my misery will end, and I’ll find myself painting something other than a troubled girl, but until then I’ll wait. I’ll lay in bed at night, clutching onto hope like a young boy and his teddy, waiting for the day when everything is better. Not because I’m hopeful for death, for I’m hopeful that one day I’ll be able to live.

Photo credit: A Student