An Ode to Hope

Good morning –

I’m writing this to myself.

To you.

I was ranking the most fantastic moments of my life last night,

while trying to fall asleep (not exactly the best strategy),

and I saw hope written there, someway, in



one of them.

These memorable moments

fan the spark into the flames of what is to be.

They ignite the present, while pointing to future days, whenever we recall them.

The day a child is born.

The day you meet your loved one.

The day you set foot in that place you wanted to be for long, longer than anyone could ever know.

A first day. A first time.

They all instil hope

They’re special in themselves

while quietly signalling what lies ahead.

Isn’t it fascinating?

I have written,




and read pain.

On being a human like anyone else, I’ve experienced it.

On carrying a mental disorder, I’ve felt it sometimes nearly beyond bearable.

But I’m still here

(apparently, so are you)

And it can’t.

It can’t.

It can’t be for nothing.

It can’t be

just so we get up and go to sleep and work,

just so we get around disguising feelings,

lowering our voices and going unnoticed

until we die.

It can’t be.




If you feel life with the same intensity as I (and many) do,

then please,


make noise.

Speak up and speak out.

Say what you want to say.

Dance if you want to dance.

We’re here to be brave.

To carry on this massive, gigantic engine that we were given by our parents, grandparents, and everyone before them.

To be human to the best of our ability.

To enjoy the ride.

To do weird shit.

To eat dessert before dinner.

To stand in line for a concert

and sing along with tens of thousands of people you’ve never seen.

To stop walking

and stare at something beautiful.

To cry

with joy.

I don’t need to remind you about how things are out there today.

Not today. Let that go for a second.

Just be here,

with me.

Put the armour down for a minute.

Nobody is watching.

Find yourself again.

Remind yourself of



are &


Find your ace in the hole.

Write stuff.

Silly stuff,

private stuff,

embarrassing stuff,

fictional stuff,

deep stuff.


Write a poem.

Write a song.

Draw something.

Code something.

Make a hat

where there never was a hat.

Put out what you got

in a way we can peek what’s in this brain and heart of yours

in a way we can relate to you and learn

from your unique and universal experience of humanity.

Look at things with the devotion

and sweet foresight of hope.

This thing with feathers

but no colour

or sound

or a precise physical sensation in our bodies.

This anticipation of something we can’t grasp,

but we know to be bright

as if we had been there already for a millisecond

and came back.

I can’t ask for anything now

but hope.

Every beautiful thing has intrinsic hope.

There’s nowhere to go without it.

I want hope.

I need hope.

With hope, I’m home.

I will build hope with my bare hands.

I will sew hope into every thread of every fabric.

I will write hope on my arms.

And I wish that




we ever create

can be a vessel of hope.

Let’s go.

Picture of Carol Milters

Carol Milters

Writer, facilitator and investigator of burnout, workaholism and the culture of mental health at work.

Share this post

Deixe um comentário

Esse site utiliza o Akismet para reduzir spam. Aprenda como seus dados de comentários são processados.

Further reading

An Ode to Hope

Good morning – I’m writing this to myself. To you. I was ranking the most fantastic moments of my life last night, while trying to

Read More »

Notes from the exile

It’s safe here. I feel safe. I’ve been given the tiny slice of freedom that should be granted to any human being at any moment. It’s predictable here.

Read More »

On Showing Up

It’s been a couple of days since I published my last blog article (about Morning Pages, and how helpful they’ve been in making me re-engage

Read More »