Hope’s a funny thing though

NOTE: i’m going through some old files as I do a study on the science of resilience in the decade since I first scholastically studied it and came across this essay that was written during that time.*

The caseworker’s cubicle is small and dreary with it’s flyers for job fairs and places to get financial help for things like keeping your electricity turned on. Things no one expects to need help with until you do and then it becomes a maze of unpleasant experiences of asking for help and being turned away that begins to eat away at your spirit much like a dead end job but with even less hope of a brighter future. It had that stale office smell that could have meant we were anywhere. But here I am, filling out form after form trying not to choke on the sense of overwhelm I was experiencing. Trying to have hope things were going to work out ok this time somehow. 

Hope’s a funny thing though.

There’s only so many times it can get dashed against the jaggedy rocks at the water’s edge before you begin to think it’s probably best to not take that boat out to sea anymore. I’ve moored my own boat for the past couple of years. Taking time for repairs to the hull and sails, reading stories of successful sailors, teaching myself how to imagine setting sail again.

But today, checking off boxes, handing forms back and forth, I feel a glimmer of hope fluttering against my breast. With a quiet, unsure voice I ask my caseworker when I will know for sure if I’m getting the grant that will enable me to attend university and finish my long dreamed of degree. 

“Kat, you’ve got this. You’re already approved. That’s why you’re filling out all this paperwork.” 

I almost forget to keep breathing as I look up at her startled. Her kind face framed by her window, beautiful Pacific Northwest sunshine shining like a halo as she smiles at me.

“What?” I manage to squeak out. My voice sounds so far away to me. This moment feels too surreal. This can not be happening. Things don’t work out for me. They never work out for me.

But she won’t stop smiling, “You’re going to school, Kat.”

I feel myself being unmoored, pulled out to sea and hoping again as I look at her smile. I’ve liked her smile since our first meeting. It’s such a genuine, ‘I actually really care’ kind of smile. A pressure is beginning to build behind my eyes, I know tears are threatening to form and fall and I know if they start I might not be able to stop them. I’ve dreamed of this for so many years, been told ‘no’ by so many people. 

But she’s not saying no. 

“I’m afraid I’m going to cry.” I say, an embarrassed self-effacing laugh escaping in a rush.

“Me too, Kat. I’m so happy for you.”

I just sit here, dazed, feeling the gentle rocking of my little boat. Slowly unfurling my carefully repaired sail, I lean back against the railing. Reaching out, my hand finds the till and I point myself towards open waters as a little breeze brushes past me, taking some of my fear with it and I smile back at her. 

“Thank you.”

. . .

. . .thank you for reading, and please keep loving each other.

kat