There’s a kind of hope that glows quietly — and then there’s the kind that lingers like a weight you carry every day.
Hope can be heavy.
It settles in my chest — not as a lightness, but as a quiet, aching weight.
Not painful, exactly. Just… persistent.
I almost don’t want to name it.
My hope for motherhood feels too sacred to say out loud — too fragile.
What if I jinx it? What if I let myself believe too much, and it doesn’t work out?
I want to believe — but I’m scared to trust it fully.
As if speaking it out loud might cause it to slip through my hands.
So I don’t speak of it often.
But it’s always there — humming beneath everything.
When I see a pregnant woman pass me in the supermarket.
When a baby’s cry cuts the air, and my body tightens in a way I didn’t invite.
When parents are laughing in the playground and something stirs in me so deeply it almost hurts.
Hope pulses in those moments.
It’s quiet, but it’s fierce. And sometimes it’s too much to carry — and yet I carry it still.
Maybe you know that kind of hope too — the kind that lives quietly in the background, even on the days it hurts to hope at all.
Hope doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives suddenly — a flutter in my stomach, or a flash of an image in my mind: me, with a round belly, hand resting gently. It can take me by surprise, rushing through me with a wave of emotion I didn’t expect.
It tends to visit in the quiet moments. When the house is still. When I’m not focused on something else. That’s when the thoughts rise — soft, but distracting. They pull me away from what I’m doing and into what might be.
I’ve learned not to resist them, but not to stay in them either. I notice the feelings. And then, if I need to, I reach for something else — something grounding. A task, a walk, a breath.
In those moments when the thoughts start to spiral, I’ve learned to turn toward what steadies me.
Sometimes, that’s fiction — fantasy stories that lift me into another world for a little while. Other times, it’s movement. I’ve started a new fitness routine, slowly building strength as I gently prepare my body for what I hope will come.
It’s not just about changing my body — it’s about reminding myself I can do hard things. That I’m stronger than this waiting. That I can meet the future with steadiness, whatever it holds.
I’m lucky to have people who love me. My husband, close friends, family. But these feelings — the real weight of hope — they’re hard to put into words. Sometimes they feel too big. And sometimes they feel too precious. So I hold them close. Quietly. Privately. Like something sacred.
Maybe that’s what hope is — not loud or certain, but something we carry quietly. Something we honour in our own way, even if no one else can see it.
If you’re carrying the weight of hope too, I want you to know:
I see you.
It’s hard.
But you are strong — even if you don’t feel it all the time.
Hope and fear are two sides of the same coin on this journey.
They arrive together, tangled and inseparable.
But I believe this: hope is stronger than fear.
Fear pulls us down.
Hope lifts us — even if just a little.
Even when it’s fragile.
Even when it hurts.
Hope means we care.
Hope means we’re still here, still moving forward, even when it’s slow.
It means doing the next little step — making the call, going to the appointment, getting through the day — even while carrying the uncertainty.
You can be scared and hopeful at the same time.
You don’t have to choose.
If this is you — if you’re holding quiet hope in your chest and wondering what comes next — I’m walking this with you.
Let’s take the next step together.
🌿 I’m putting together a gentle collection of affirmations for hopeful hearts — soft words to carry you through the waiting.
If you’d like to receive it when it’s ready, you’ll be able to join my email list soon. I’ll share it first with those who’ve been walking this path beside me.
Bloom + Flourish Collective 