Hope

I think a lot about the tenuous nature of hope in my current job as a "rehab professional". Many individuals come in to the voluntary psych unit where I work using a vernacular of hopelessness. Part of my role is to scout out signs of potential improvements in physical and emotional wellbeing and to work hopefulness into the education and treatment of my clients.  I carve out space in conversations to reflect on past wellness and current strengths. As a team, we create opportunities to engage in activities that produce glimmers of hope for the future. These aspects of my job are beautiful beacons of specific hope for which I am grateful.


Unfortunately, other demands of my job feel as though I am engaged in actively decreasing hopeful attitudes, or at least unrealistically hopeful ones. I watch for signs of improvement, but am also required to be vigilant about potential for plateau, stagnation, or even decline. "What problems do we need to anticipate and circumvent if this is as good as it's going to get?" Many times, it is my role to explain to clients and their families that, in all likelihood, certain aspects of their health will not get better in the near future, or in some cases, at all.


I find myself very conscious of the tension of wanting to help by providing hope while allowing the weight of seemingly hopeless situations to be validated and acknowledged. Of course, we sit with people in these dark places. Hope presented without acknowledgement of the tension feels dismissive, obtuse. We aim to arrive at hope, but it's a slow uncovering -a delicate journey. Mostly, I find that I'm able to bear this hope tension at work.


Unfortunately, sometimes it feels like I'm drying the well. Recently in my personal life, I've realized that I've become a little less brave about my hopes: both personal/particular and overarching/vague. I'm not sure if I've gotten to the root of this issue, but I'm fairly certain it has something to do with fear. I'm feeling a little bit guarded about the parts of me that hope, or that experience the excitable joy that accompanies my particular form of expectant hope. Living out hopefulness is exposing, vulnerable, and apparently sometimes uncomfortable to witness. I am afraid of what my hope says to others who feel they cannot access my experience, and how it may change their perspective of me. So I've been making some broad and reactive hopeless statements, and leaving opportunities to acknowledge hopefulness unexplored. (I may even need to make some apologies in this regard.)


When I am challenged to reflect on my true position -and thankfully, I have friends who nudge me to do just this- I find that, regardless of my dark-side leanings, abstract hope remains inextricably part of my undercurrent. It is part of my contradiction. I see the worst and hope for better. I guess my current goal is to be watchful of my self-protective fear-filled hopeless statements, and to continue to cultivate environments and relationships where thoughtful hope can grow.