What If You Let Yourself Hope?
If you’re like me, you’ve been taking stock of the year and beginning to dream about 2025. It’s a ritual I usually cherish—a sacred pause to reflect on the past and imagine what could be.
But this year, something felt different. As I started setting intentions, I noticed a pang of resistance. Maybe it was the weight of this year—the two hurricanes in two weeks, the growing instability of the world, or the heaviness that seems to seep into everyday life. Or maybe it was something quieter, a doubt that whispered, Why bother hoping?
And then it hit me: I was afraid to hope.
At first, I thought it was about avoiding disappointment. After all, dreaming big carries the risk of unmet expectations. But the more I sat with it, the clearer it became. This wasn’t about fear of failure—it was fear of my own vulnerability.
Hope asks us to open the tenderest parts of ourselves—the part that longs, that dares to believe in what hasn’t yet materialized. It’s an act of courage to admit that we want more, that we desire a future bigger than our current reality.
Yet hope also asks us to step into uncertainty. It invites us to loosen our grip on control and trust that life, even with all its twists, is still worth dreaming for. And that’s terrifying. The ego craves safety, even if it keeps us small, because safety feels easier than possibility.
But here’s what I’ve come to realize: when we resist hope, we’re often protecting ourselves from past pain. Maybe there was a time you dared to dream, and life let you down. Maybe disappointment left a mark so deep that part of you decided it’s better not to want too much.
And yet, hope is not weak or naive—it’s courageous. It whispers, Yes, I’ve been hurt, but I’m still willing to believe in what’s possible.
This isn’t shallow hope that clings to perfection. It’s the kind of hope that holds space for the messiness of life while still daring to imagine more. Hope doesn’t guarantee outcomes, but it transforms us in the process. It reminds us that even when life feels uncertain, the act of dreaming itself is a powerful declaration of love—for ourselves, for others, and for the world we want to create.
So, as I reflect on 2025, I’m daring to hope. Here’s what that looks like for me:
For myself: Hope to create true offerings of my heart—new courses, a book, and a space for transformation. I want to lean into my creativity with courage, trusting the path will reveal itself as I go.
I hope to cultivate joy, to find magic in quiet moments, and to trust that simply being present is enough.
For the world: I hope for healing. For systems rooted in compassion. For leadership centered in love. For communities that choose connection over division.
I hope we, as a collective, embrace change—even when it’s uncomfortable—and dream boldly of a world where possibility outweighs fear.
What about you?
What dreams have you set aside because they felt too risky?
What past pain might be asking for compassion, so you can make space for hope again?
What would it feel like to hope without clinging to the outcome, trusting that the journey itself will shape you?
This year, I’m choosing to hope with my whole heart. To dream boldly, not because I need guarantees, but because the act of hoping reminds me who I am—a creator, a dreamer, and a believer in possibility.
What about you? What would it look like to hope deeply in the year ahead? ✨
