NothingPerSonal

There are years you remember because something wonderful happened.

And then there are years you remember because you kept wondering how much more they could possibly hold.

This has been one of those years for me.

It began with uncertainty around work.

A professional pause that lasted longer than I expected, with conversations, possibilities and plans that did not quite fall into place.

It was frustrating, of course.

But before I could spend too much time worrying about what came next professionally, life very quickly gave me other things to think about.

My mother fell ill.

Suddenly CVs, applications, interviews and unanswered messages did not feel quite as urgent.

There were doctors. Tests. Reports.

Words you never want to hear attached to someone you love.

And that strange feeling of trying to stay calm while your mind is running everywhere.

There are moments when someone you love is unwell and you realise how quickly priorities rearrange themselves.

You stop asking life for excitement.

You stop asking for success.

For a while, you just want someone to say,

‘Everything is okay’.

Then came my husband’s illness.

Another worry.

Another kind of fear.

Another situation where I wanted answers before answers were available.

And when you care deeply about someone, their illness does not remain theirs alone.

You carry pieces of it with you.

Into your mornings.

Into your conversations.

Into those quiet moments at night when everything you managed not to think about during the day suddenly returns.

And then, as though the year had not already asked enough, my eldest sister too became unwell.

At some point, I remember thinking..

Can we please just have one normal month?

Nothing extraordinary.

Nothing exciting.

Just normal.

No doctors.

No frightening conversations.

No waiting for reports.

No wondering what the next phone call might bring.

Just ordinary life.

It is strange how ordinary becomes something you crave only after life stops feeling ordinary.

And yet, through all of this, something surprised me.

I never completely lost hope.

I lost patience many times.

I felt frightened.

Angry.

Exhausted.

There were days when I felt sorry for myself.

Days when I wondered why everything seemed to be arriving together.

Days when optimism felt almost irritating.

But hope was different.

Hope did not always sound like,

‘Everything is going to be wonderful’.

Sometimes it sounded like,

‘Maybe tomorrow will be a little easier’.

Sometimes it was waiting for a better report.

Sometimes it was believing that treatment would help.

Sometimes it was trusting that the right professional opportunity would eventually come.

Sometimes it was simply getting through a difficult day and waking up willing to try again the next morning.

I used to think hope was a big, bright feeling.

Something confident.

Something certain.

I don’t think that anymore.

Sometimes hope is incredibly quiet.

It sits somewhere in the background while you are frightened.

It does not deny what is happening.

It does not tell you everything is fine when it clearly isn’t.

It simply refuses to let today become the definition of tomorrow.

And perhaps that is what this year has taught me.

You can be scared and still hopeful.

You can be tired and still keep going.

You can have absolutely no idea how something will work out and still believe that somehow, eventually, life can look different.

I wish I could say this year turned around beautifully.

That everyone recovered.

That all the uncertainty disappeared.

I cannot say that yet.

I am still somewhere in the middle of the story.

There are still worries.

Still unanswered questions.

Still things I desperately want life to fix.

But there is also something inside me that keeps saying…

Not yet does not mean never.

Maybe that is what hope really is.

Not believing that bad things will stop happening.

Not pretending that difficult days are secretly blessings.

Just believing that a difficult chapter does not get to decide the ending.

This year has taken a lot out of me.

But somehow, it has not taken that.

I still believe something can change.

Someone can get better.

A phone can ring with good news.

A door can open.

Life can surprise us in the other direction too.

And until it does, I think I will keep making room for that possibility.

Because after everything this year has brought, I am still here.

And somehow, so is hope.