People keep telling me to stay hopeful. To keep fighting. To believe it gets better. But hope is exhausting when it's constantly disappointed. Hope is painful when reality keeps proving it wrong.
I want to hope. God, I want to believe that tomorrow will be different than today. But every tomorrow has been the same. Every "it gets better" has been a lie. And I'm tired of hoping for something that never comes.
I used to think hope meant believing in a happy ending. But maybe hope is simpler than that. Maybe hope is just choosing to see tomorrow, even when today is unbearable.
Maybe hope isn't optimism. Maybe it's defiance. It's saying to a world that wants me to give up: "Not yet. Not today. I'm still here, and that matters."
I've felt hopeless. I've stared into the void and felt nothing stare back. But I've also had moments—brief, fleeting moments—where something shifted. A conversation that made me feel seen. A sunset that reminded me beauty exists. A stranger's kindness that restored a fragment of faith in humanity.
Those moments don't fix everything. They don't solve my problems or answer my questions. But they remind me that even in darkness, there can be light. Even if it's just a spark. Even if it only lasts a second.
What if my cynicism is just pain talking? What if my hopelessness is depression lying to me? What if the world really does have room for people like me, and I just haven't found my place yet?
I don't know if I believe that. But I'm willing to entertain the possibility. Not because I'm naive, but because giving up completely means I'll never know what could have been.
Maybe hope isn't about expecting things to get better. Maybe it's about refusing to let them break me. The world wants me to be silent, to disappear, to accept my place at the bottom.
But I'm speaking out. I'm sharing my pain. I'm refusing to pretend everything is fine. And if that's not hope, maybe it's something better—maybe it's rebellion.