The Miscarriage of Hope

On Sept. 11, 2001, a teacher saw me crying and tut-tutted, “Don’t cry! It’ll be okay!” I can still feel the jarring within my belly as she tossed this phrase toward me while walking by. It was like we were living in two different worlds. Mine, a world where US civilians were facing our worst terrorist attack in history a short distance away. Hers, a world where… well, truthfully, I still can’t conceive of her world on that day.

As I’ve done copious research on hope and comfort, I have realized that many people use hope as a weapon at times we should be comforting. We see someone hurting deeply, and in an act of defiance of their circumstances, we promise, we implore, we swear, “It’ll get better!”

This is neither true comfort nor true hope, of course. This is a barrier we throw between us and them, a way we keep ourselves from having to sit with their present reality. Someone loses a loved one and we say, “They’re in a better place now” and “They’re not hurting anymore,” neglecting that the person we’re meant to comfort is indeed hurting at this very moment. Someone struggles with infertility and we say, “I know someone who tried for 17 years and finally got pregnant at year 18 so surely you can, too! Don’t give up!” Someone loses their job and we say, “At least you'll get to sleep in for a little while” like that will pay their rent and buy their groceries. Someone is diagnosed with cancer and we tell them, “You’ll get through this.”

Society has misinterpreted hope into a poor approximation that more closely resembles disconnection with reality. We sprinkle saccharine promises over people, promises we’re not responsible for keeping. “You’ll have a healthy baby! You’ll get a better job! You’ll find love! This diagnosis won’t change anything!” We may as well be telling people they’ll win an Oscar next year and become President the following.

When we dig into the truth about hope, we can disentangle hope from empty promises. Hope is about knowing where you are, where you want to be, and what needs to happen to make that possible, mindful of the very real obstacles that might prevent that. Hope is keenly aware of what today’s truth is. Empty promises might feel pretty and nice coming out of our mouths, but mostly what we’re saying is, “I do not want to hear about the impact this is having on you.”

I have a few theories about why we don’t want to sit with people’s pain, but my most prevailing is also the bleakest. As Americans, we can so easily curate our lives—or at least that’s what we want to believe—that we have come to regard big emotions and challenges as communicable diseases. Deep down, we get the same ickies about people going through real life with authenticity as we do about stomach bugs and pink eye. “You need to quarantine that. That is not suitable for the public eye. I don’t want to catch your bad luck and wind up like you.”

So what does true hope and comfort look like when someone is in the depths? Hope looks like acceptance and comfort like patience. Hope murmurs, “I won’t let you go through this by yourself. I won’t turn my back on you. I won’t shut my ears and eyes. I’ll drive you to appointments and do your dishes and watch your kids so you can get a night out.” Comfort listens. Comfort takes their hand and says, “You can say things out loud to me that are eating you up inside. You can give these things air and room to breathe instead of keeping them secret.” Both hope and comfort abide in still, quiet fellowship that feels like a blanket fort: warm, feeble, and magical. They don’t ward off the scaries or cast them out like demons. This blanket fort of connection isn’t going to stop the world from existing, but it will nurture its tenants and give them a retreat.

Sharing hope and comfort requires practice and training, which means there will be massive failures. There will be many times when the best you can offer is, “I don’t know what to say and I don’t want to say the wrong thing, so I’m just going to sit here with you,” which will be a salve for the person who has heard endless parades of, “You got this! You’ll come out on top! All your dreams will come true!” You’ll make occasional apologies and sincerely ask for do-overs, not in the name of your own performative pride but in the name of that feeble blanket fort. And in that little cocoon of excruciating humanity, the sweet aroma of the divine will permeate. You’ll get goosebumps of joyful satisfaction while you cry terrible tears together. You will know that you kept the only promise you could make in their tough time: “I am here. You are not alone.”

A snow-covered road flanked by snowy fields, under a bright blue sunny sky