Hope

How do we hold on to hope when what we're hoping for hasn't happened?
Hi friends,
Hope has been a challenging word for me over the last few years. In the midst of personal loss and grief, I’ve wrestled with what it means to continue to hope—to believe that something good might still be possible when so much of what I had hoped for hasn’t come to pass.
Last month, I practiced what it meant to be WITH myself in the places that felt difficult, uncertain, or painful rather than always trying to fix or move away from them.
And as I practiced being WITH what was here, another question began to emerge:
Can I be WITH what is difficult and still hold hope for what might be?
Recently, I decided to explore this word a little more deeply.
I spent ten weeks attending a class at The Refuge Center for Counseling called Hope Forward, where we broke down what hope is, what it isn’t, and what it actually means to practice it.
And you know what?
After ten weeks, I’m still trying to understand it.
Hope feels tricky to me. How do we hope without attaching ourselves so tightly to a particular outcome that we’re devastated if it doesn’t happen?
And perhaps the question I’m wrestling with most:
How do we keep choosing hope when life has given us reasons not to?
I don’t have all the answers yet.
But I’m beginning to understand that maybe hope isn’t something we either have or don’t have.
Maybe hope is something we practice.
And this month, I want to explore what that practice might look like.
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WAYS TO PRACTICE WITH KATE
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In-Person Practice

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Renew & Restore is a deeply nurturing class designed to help you release tension, relax the nervous system, and reconnect with your body and breath. Using supported postures, gentle stretches, and mindful breathing techniques, this practice creates space for quiet reflection and deep restoration. Perfect for all levels, it’s an invitation to pause, replenish, and honor yourself.
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For a long time, hope was actually one of the things that got me through some of my darkest and most difficult days.
I held onto the hope that eventually the sun would come out again, that things would get better, that somehow something good would come from so much pain, and that maybe all of this had happened for a reason.
Hope gave me something to hold onto when I desperately needed it.
But then the sun did begin to come out.
And what I had been hoping for wasn’t there.
There was just...blank space.
If I’m honest, I felt a little betrayed by hope.
This thing that had helped carry me through so much suddenly felt like it had let me down.
Without realizing it, I had attached hope to very specific outcomes and to what I thought my life would look like on the other side of all that pain. When those things didn’t happen, I didn’t just lose hope in those outcomes—I lost my trust in hope itself.
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