Encountering hope. Once, then, and now.
Over my lifetime hope has meant different things. The dreams and wishes I had as a child are returning, replacing, and reframing the wishes of many years.
I recently had a conversation about how to lead people to a place where hope feels both possible and safe. This led me to later look back at the aspirations I had and how they were shaped by both my environments and my connection to the world around me, also moulded by my disconnection from myself and from a safe space to dream.
Once
As a little child I hoped the world be like my story books, like the magical worlds I read about or that mum would tell me about at story time. Full of mystery and magic. I hoped for warmth, for giggles, for my favourite meals and sweets, for trips to my favourite places. Little wishes along with big hopes, mostly coming true. I felt safe with my mum and her family. I felt safe on dog walks by the river, days out by the beach, in our home.
Then
As a young child my hopes changed when safety was lost. The innocent dreams and wishes turned to dust as I saw the monsters come to life. My only wish was for it to stop. For the pain and confusion to go away, for them to go away. I could only look ahead in terms of days or a week, counting the sleeps until I would be back home and safe. Possibilities shrank and doors to escape were lost or locked. There were still glimpses of hope, family holidays far away from the threats, happy Christmases in hotels, time spent with safe people and loved pets. School reports congratulating my work, confirmations of my polite manners and gentleness. Mini adventures with friends in the village, down by the river or in our rooms playing the latest pop music.
As my childhood ended and adulthood crept in, my hopes shrank again, my trust of hope became more fragile. Throughout my teens until around 40 years of age, hope was a word I rarely heard and when I did it scared me. Disconnection from myself and from positive possibilities had set in during my childhood but my teenage and adult experiences compounded it. I had jobs, homes, relationships and family but I was also trapped in a world of exploitation, as a child and adult. Juggling lives erased hope bit by bit as there was no way of building safe or solid foundations. Hopeful situations became the threat as I tried to navigate my way through a web of deception, the events that could have built hope I viewed as bewildering and dangerous though thereal danger was all around me. My hopes were limited to that day, getting through, surviving the next 24 hours. Manoeuvring in a way that kept me hidden. Hoping no one would see me, hoping no one could see the reality behind the masks and roles I wore so well. Food, shelter, temporary visits to safety and comfort, paying the rent, props and supplies to keep me hidden. I’d once dreamt of being a journalist, or a writer. I’d once hoped for a quiet home where mum and family would have laughter and lightness, I’d once hoped for friendship without a cost. Abuse and exploitation, my survival instincts and responses, my need for connection, their need for control had turned hope into an impossible illusion.
Now
As I heal, bit by bit, hope is becoming a friend again. Small goals met, little wishes turning into reality, each time letting hope feel a bit safer.
Connection and trust opened the door to hope for me, let me see another possibility of being.
My hopes now are a mixture of big and small; all feel warm to me now instead of cold and unreachable.
From daily tasks losing their sense of pressure, to creativity taking root after a long, long time. From friendship being sensed and experienced as a trade off, a transaction, to the presence of authentic friends feeling happy and safe. Joyful.
Hope was something I had lost, given away, had stolen from me, like a treasure in those stories I read as a child. Trust and compassion gave me the treasure map as well as the belief that it was always mine to find. Truth and love for myself as well as others has given me the faith that this time I can hold hope, for ever.
This a space of being that many cannot reach, through no fault of their own. Hope is vital for us all, for every survivor. It’s a gift that we sometimes take for granted but one more valuable than I can explain. A gift we cannot simply give ourselves out of nowhere without a foundation, together protectors and safeguarding, survivors and advocates can build that foundation.