On hope, desire, and dream catching.

In high school, I wrote a short story inspired by the book “Living Dead Girl” by Elizabeth Scott.

It was a pretty dark read, but I felt a deep longing to experience the freedom the main character felt towards the end of her story. I envied the brightness of her reaching the reality of hope imagined and finally escaping her captor; the warmth that illuminated those chapters produced a deep ache in me. She was able to leave her prison, allowed to make her own decision on her life, no matter how brief.

A brightness I tried to replicate through my own story about gypsy girls and the turmoil of traveling so often with their mom. It was then that I realized my own talent as a writer, though my English teacher’s feedback brought me back to earth with a simple “that was very creepy”.

I think what really stuck with me was her hope. It may have been tied to the author trying to illustrate her stunted development, but the desire to “keep hope alive” in difficult circumstances was impactful.

However, I was younger when I felt that way, and in becoming a woman, I see it a bit differently.

Realistically, her hope was from a place of delusion or primal need, somewhat parallel to the idea of the “strong black woman”. That is why hope can feel so sadistic sometimes. After experiencing things not working out consistently time and again, even after honest trying, are you really being hopeful or just naive?

Something that can be even truer if you have felt “robbed” of certain milestones. If you were sheltered or “parentified” young, does it make sense to explore passions after becoming an adult by age, even if you performed maturity since adolescence?

I have become so unsure about many things; childhood feels distant, and hope feels very stupid, but it burns beneath my skin. The desire for my own agency, my own right to fuck up my life or make something of it as I see fit.

I love and hate hope; it is very foolish to have, but it has the potential to push you toward your deep passions. I just struggle to know if they are fervors fit for an adult or if it is the younger me acting out like a child.

Optimism has been my lifeblood; it has been a friend since I was very young. I’d dance in my room and hope the future me was happier, but I’m slowly learning that hope can only be a gift if you allow yourself to imagine past its potential to bring joy. It has to be more measured, in the daily trying to unravel what you desire for yourself, instead of when you are a different, more competent version of who you hope to be.

I really hope that you get to be the version of yourself you always wished to be, even if it feels frivolous to pursue. I just hope that our dreams, like children, get to explore and someday mature into a version that may be unexpected, but alive, nonetheless.

Have the loveliest weekend.