Joanita Male
If you’d asked me years ago what hope looked like, I would have had no trouble describing her.
She was perfectly dressed, standing by a window, gazing into the distance with quiet certainty. Hope looked delicate. Composed. Almost effortless, as though all she had to do was believe.
If you asked me to draw what hope looks like today, I don’t think she’d be standing by a window.
I’d draw her catching her breath after a tough wrestling match. Hair untidy. Bruised. Looking tired, but already turning back towards the mat.
I don’t think hope is certainty anymore.
I think hope is the fierce determination to hold on to your dreams and your plans long before there’s any evidence they’ll work out.
Maybe we’ve misunderstood hope all along.
It was never fragile.
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