Released On 30 June 2025
Sheila's blog: Hope As Possibility
“Hope you have a good day.”
“I hope it doesn’t rain.”
“I hope you’re well.”
We say the word hope all the time. It slips into our conversations so easily that we barely notice it. A kind word, a warm gesture, a soft thread of connection.
But the sentiment also shows up in life’s deeper moments—
“I hope you get through this,”
“I hope you’re not in pain,”
“I hope you find peace.”
It’s the word we reach for when things are uncertain, or when something really matters. Recently, I’ve been sitting with this word. Turning it over. Letting it settle.
And this is what I’ve come to: hope is a sense of possibility. Not a promise, not a plan—but a willingness to stay open to what might still be ahead. A good friend said to me recently—while I was ruminating on all things hope—that it’s a spiritual sentiment, and I think he was right. It doesn’t deny the hard stuff—it simply suggests there’s more to the story.
Nick Cave called hope a warrior emotion (https://www.theredhandfiles.com/do-you-still-believe-in-us/). I love that. Because hope isn’t soft or naïve. It’s strong. It takes courage to keep showing up with an open heart, especially when life is uncertain. Living with a chronic illness that has no cure, I’ve learned that hope isn’t about fixing what’s unknown—it’s about living alongside it. And doing that with grace.
What I’ve discovered is that hope is something we practice. Some days it lands easily. Other days, I have to go looking for it. But when I do—when I remember to notice it—I feel a shift. A bit more steadiness. A bit more space. A bit more me.
Hope, I’ve realised, is a soul-soothing sentiment. It doesn’t demand that everything feel perfect. It just makes room—for kindness, for imagination, for something gentle to take shape. It lets the messiness and the beauty sit side by side, without one needing to win.
And maybe that’s the quiet power of it. Hope doesn’t mean ignoring what’s real. It means meeting it with curiosity, with care, and with the sense that something good might still be possible.
Hope isn’t a guarantee. But it is a choice. A grounding one. A generous one.
And for me, it’s the choice that helps the world stay open.
“I hope you get through this,”
“I hope you’re not in pain,”
“I hope you find peace.”
It’s the word we reach for when things are uncertain, or when something really matters. Recently, I’ve been sitting with this word. Turning it over. Letting it settle.
And this is what I’ve come to: hope is a sense of possibility. Not a promise, not a plan—but a willingness to stay open to what might still be ahead. A good friend said to me recently—while I was ruminating on all things hope—that it’s a spiritual sentiment, and I think he was right. It doesn’t deny the hard stuff—it simply suggests there’s more to the story.
Nick Cave called hope a warrior emotion (https://www.theredhandfiles.com/do-you-still-believe-in-us/). I love that. Because hope isn’t soft or naïve. It’s strong. It takes courage to keep showing up with an open heart, especially when life is uncertain. Living with a chronic illness that has no cure, I’ve learned that hope isn’t about fixing what’s unknown—it’s about living alongside it. And doing that with grace.
What I’ve discovered is that hope is something we practice. Some days it lands easily. Other days, I have to go looking for it. But when I do—when I remember to notice it—I feel a shift. A bit more steadiness. A bit more space. A bit more me.
Hope, I’ve realised, is a soul-soothing sentiment. It doesn’t demand that everything feel perfect. It just makes room—for kindness, for imagination, for something gentle to take shape. It lets the messiness and the beauty sit side by side, without one needing to win.
And maybe that’s the quiet power of it. Hope doesn’t mean ignoring what’s real. It means meeting it with curiosity, with care, and with the sense that something good might still be possible.
Hope isn’t a guarantee. But it is a choice. A grounding one. A generous one.
And for me, it’s the choice that helps the world stay open.
Sheila has worked in the asset management industry for over 15 years. She is married to a wonderful husband, is mother to two amazing children, has Secondary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis and lives in London. Sheila goes to the MS Therapy Centre in Harrow for physio and hyperbaric oxygen therapy once a week. Donations to support this wonderful organisation are very welcome. Sheila can be found on Instagram @MS_in_the_City.
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