The Most Intimate Thing I’ve Ever Done Is Let Someone See Me Hope

I’ve worn shame, anger, even glitter. But hope? That’s the outfit I never feel safe in.

I’ve shared my grief more easily than I’ve ever shared my hope. Grief is socially acceptable. Hope feels like streaking through a church. At least with grief, people nod along. Offer tissues. Give it a name. But hope? Hope invites commentary. Hope dares people to look at you and wonder if you’ll make it. And I can’t stomach that. Not while it’s still growing.

I don’t tell people what I’m working on. What I want. What I’m building in the quiet corners of my life while everyone else is on Instagram pretending they're fine. It’s not because I’m mysterious. I’m just... careful. Hope feels sacred. And once you say it out loud, people start handling it like it’s public property. Like your dreams are a group project they get to assess, or worse — politely doubt with a well-meaning nod.

I’ve never feared failure half as much as I’ve feared the expression on someone’s face when I tell them what I’m dreaming of. That slight pause. That invisible twitch of “oh.” I can survive failing. But not the sound of someone doubting me while I’m still mid-belief. Hope makes me feel like I’ve walked into the world in clothes that don’t quite fit yet (and everyone’s looking.) And I don’t want to be perceived while still unfinished. (I barely want to be perceived at all.)

So I keep it quiet. Tucked away. I hold it close like it’s still too soft to survive the air. I know people think I’m private. They think I’m hard to read. They think I’m playing something close to my chest. But the truth is, I’m not hiding. I’m protecting something gentle from becoming a punchline before it gets to become a truth.

Hope is the most intimate thing I’ve ever worn. Not in a romantic way. Not in a tragic way either. In the way that makes your throat close a little when someone asks what you’re working on, and you have to decide whether to lie or to flinch in public. It’s childlike, but not in the way people think. Not naive. Not cute. Just pure. Like belief before it’s been voted on.

Letting someone see your dreams before they’re real is brutal. It feels like being caught mid-sentence in a story you’re scared might not have a good ending. I don’t share what I’m building until I have proof. Until it’s stitched. Until it breathes. Because hope is soft and people are careless, and I’d rather carry it quietly than have it flattened by someone’s polite silence.

I remember once someone asked what I saw myself doing in a few years and I answered honestly, without armour. It was the kind of answer that tasted like wanting. The room didn’t explode. They didn’t mock me. But they didn’t meet me there either. They nodded. Smiled. Looked at their drink. And I felt like I’d walked out naked for no reason. That version of me (the one who spoke) still hides from the light sometimes. I don’t blame her.

But I’m still hopeful. Still quietly working. Still following the weird thread I’ve been tugging at since I was a kid asking teachers why rules existed if they weren’t fair. I haven’t given up. I’ve just stopped inviting people into the room before the walls are painted. I know what I want. I’m just not ready to watch someone blink at it.

I’m not hiding. I’m holding it close until it’s ready. That’s not fear. That’s faith.

And maybe one day, I’ll say it all out loud again. Not like a confession. Like a spell. Something real. Something alive. Something that finally belongs to the world — but was mine first.