When hope feels dangerous

I want to hope again.

But hope feels dangerous—

like standing barefoot on the shards of the last dream I dared to believe in.

I’m afraid to move, afraid to breathe,

because what if I open my heart

only for it to break all over again?

I’m still bleeding from the last time.

I hate waking up to this emptiness—

this hollow echo where once there was fullness,

where laughter lived and light spilled in.

It’s all been replaced with a silence so loud it rattles my bones.

I can’t pretend this hasn’t changed everything—

because it has.

The colors are muted.

The air feels heavier.

The ground beneath me, less sure.

And God, it hurts to watch the world keep spinning like nothing happened.

Like my loss was just a ripple

that faded too quickly to matter to anyone else.

But I’m still drowning in it.

My whole life has been turned inside out,

and I’m staring at the seams,

wondering if they’ll ever hold again.

How do I keep sitting at the same tables,

in the same rooms, with people who have already forgotten? How do I nod and smile while my insides are screaming, when the ache in me feels like it should stop traffic,

should halt conversations mid-sentence,

should bring the whole world to its knees for a moment?

I want to scream.

But I’m too tired.

I want to pray.

But I’m too angry.

I want to hope.

But I’m too afraid—

afraid of the crushing weight of disappointment,

afraid of believing in the dawn

and waking to more night.

And then I hear You—

not in the thunder,

not in the fire,

but in the still small voice,cutting through my weariness.

You remind me that even Abraham,

against all hope, believed in hope.

That David poured out his anger and sorrow,

but always returned to,

“Yet will I trust in You.”

You whisper that hope is not a reckless leap—

it is the mustard seed,

the trembling hand stretching for the hem of Your garment, the breath that says, “Help my unbelief.”

And so, here I am.

Not ready to hope,

but willing to be made willing.

Not ready to pray,

but too desperate to stop listening.

Not ready to stand in the light,

but too broken to stay buried in the dark.

I am both the wound and the waiting—

but You are the God who binds up the brokenhearted, the God who makes all things new, and the God who will yet cause my heart to sing again.

So breathe on these dry bones, Lord, until hope is no longer dangerous—but inevitable.