I live in the South. Temperatures had been in the 90s the past month. Then last Friday, the high was only 60 degrees. It felt like Mother Nature flipped the switch between summer and autumn overnight.
With the cooler weather, I noticed the sunrise arriving a little later. The evenings grow dark a little earlier. The whole autumn vibe is ready to be embraced:
- Sweaters
- Blankets
- Soup
The slower rhythm of the cooler months is enticing. After the first few months of back-to-school and bustling schedules, autumn feels like an invitation to exhale.
But with all the cozy vibes comes a feeling of dread. For me, anyway.
I’ve lived with seasonal depression long enough to know what shorter days can bring. As I’ve lived in the South the past fifteen years, it’s not nearly so difficult. After all, I know there will be daffodils in my neighborhood the first week of February. I can enjoy the Thanksgiving prep and the Christmas celebrations and the fresh New Year. Then, I just have to white-knuckle it until February, and I’ll be fine. Even so. With the darker months approaching, that dread – borne from experience – warns the next few months may be tough going.
Maybe that’s one of the strange gifts of growing older.
At some point, we stop believing every season will be pleasant and start recognizing that difficult seasons return on a regular schedule.
Not just in weather.
In life.
The Difference Between Young Hope and Older Hope
When I was younger, hope and optimism felt almost interchangeable.
The future stretched out before me, full of possibilities. If I worked hard enough, cared deeply enough, and stayed the course, surely things would work out. Progress felt inevitable. Dreams felt achievable. The road ahead seemed reasonably straightforward.
Life has a way of complicating that perspective.
As the years pass, we accumulate evidence. We experience setbacks. We watch opportunities disappear. We endure losses. We discover that some battles we thought had been won need to be fought again. We learn that progress is rarely a straight line. And yet, something surprising can happen.
Hope survives.
Not unchanged.
Not untouched.
But hardened. Strengthened. Refined.
Experience strips away certainty, but it doesn’t have to destroy hope.
In fact, I wonder if it sometimes creates a stronger version.
Hope in the Middle of Unfinished Things
As I write this, I’m entering the final stretch of a novel.
The finish line is visible now. That’s exciting.
It’s also terrifying.
I have a self-imposed deadline looming at the end of November, and while I can see the path ahead, I can’t guarantee I’ll cross that finish line when I’d like to. There are words yet unwritten, scenes yet untangled, problems yet unsolved.
At the same time, I’m spending time critiquing other writers’ stories.
Many of those stories are unfinished too.
The authors don’t yet know if they can pull off the ending they envision. They don’t know if the revision will work. They don’t know how readers will respond.
They’re showing up anyway.
Outside the writing world, I’m watching my sons navigate employment and career decisions. I’m cheering for them, hoping with them, and wishing I could smooth every obstacle from their path.
I can’t.
No parent can.
I’m also paying attention to disability policy, elections, and decisions that will shape the opportunities available to people in my community and throughout the country.
I don’t know how every vote will turn out.
I don’t know which policies will ultimately prevail.
I don’t know what challenges lie ahead.
Every one of these situations exists in the realm of uncertainty.
But isn’t that the kernel of truth?
Hope isn’t necessary when the outcome is guaranteed.
Hope is what we cling to because we don’t know the ending.
Perhaps Hope Isn’t All Blossoms and Butterflies
When we talk about hope, we’re usually drawn to springtime imagery.
Seeds.
Blooms.
Fresh starts.
New life.
That’s understandable. Spring is hopeful.
But I wonder if some of the deepest forms of hope look less like spring and more like autumn.
Trees don’t pretend winter isn’t coming. They don’t cling desperately to every leaf. They prepare. They conserve resources. They adapt to changing conditions. They release what cannot be sustained.
None of those actions are signs of despair. They’re signs of wisdom.
Perhaps hope isn’t always found in beginnings.
Perhaps hope looks like preparation.
Perhaps hope isn’t pretending all the tough days are in the past.
Perhaps hope is making ready for the hard times while believing they won’t last forever.
The Hopes We Carry for Other People
One of the things I’ve noticed about middle age is how much hope expands beyond ourselves.
When I was younger, most of my hopes belonged to me.
- My future.
- My goals.
- My dreams.
- My plans.
Now, many of my hopes belong to other people.
- I hope for my children.
- I hope for younger writers finding their footing.
- I hope for disabled neighbors navigating systems that still have too many barriers.
- I hope for communities wrestling with difficult decisions.
I hope for a world that is a little more accessible, a little more compassionate, and a little more just than the one we inherited.
Honestly, carrying all those hopes is exhausting sometimes.
But it’s also meaningful. It’s what matters.
Perhaps that’s part of growing older too.
Realizing that hope isn’t only about what happens to us.
It’s also about what we’re willing to invest in for others.
The Long Work of Hope
I’ve been looking forward to Being Heumann, a film adaptation connected to the disability rights history I studied years ago while earning my sign language interpreting degree.
Those that were engaged in the civil rights struggles – race, disability, gender – those people weren’t operating from certainty. They weren’t guaranteed success. They weren’t promised progress. Many had spent years facing barriers, exclusion, and resistance.
Yet they organized. They advocated. They persisted.
Looking back, it’s easy to focus on the victories, because we know they already won.
But those victories only exist because people continued working toward a future they couldn’t fully see.
Every right we enjoy today exists because someone chose hope in the face of uncertainty. Someone planted a tree whose shade they might never sit beneath. That kind of hope is rich and powerful. It’s not optimism. It’s not wishful thinking.
It is persistent action.
Experience-Hardened Hope
I still like fairy tales, and romance novels, and action films where there is a guaranteed Happily-Ever-After. The monster is really a prince. The couple does the work to stay together. The hero always wins against the bad guys.
Life doesn’t always land on its feet like a novel or a movie.
I’m learning to appreciate a sturdier kind of hope. The kind that survives setbacks. The kind that keeps working after disappointment. The kind that understands that progress is fragile and still chooses to participate.
Maybe it looks like writing another chapter when you’re unsure you’ll meet your deadline.
Maybe it looks like submitting another application.
Maybe it looks like mentoring another writer.
Maybe it looks like casting another vote.
Maybe it looks like speaking up for a neighbor whose rights or opportunities are under pressure.
Maybe it looks like preparing for difficult days instead of pretending they aren’t coming.
As autumn settles in, I’m still writing toward a dream that isn’t finished yet. I’m still cheering for people whose futures are uncertain. I’m still advocating for a world that doesn’t yet exist. Not because success is guaranteed. Not because progress is inevitable. But because some things remain worth building, worth defending, and worth believing in even when the days grow shorter.
Perhaps that’s what hope becomes when it grows older.
Not certainty. Not optimism. Just the stubborn decision to keep moving toward the light after you’ve learned how much darkness exists.
I think that’s the most powerful kind of hope there is.
—–
This post is part of a larger series about Hope Punk. I also write that Hope is Demanding, Hope is Rebellious, and I write about Hope as a Writing Practice.
—–
Here are a few songs to add to our playlist. The first one feels like the Autumn vibe of stubborn, gritty hope. The second is spiraling disguised as a bop. And the last one makes me laugh every time I listen to it.
After the Storm – Mumford & Sons
Holding Out – eleventyseven
The Last Saskatchewan Pirate – Derina Harvey Band