Hope is a discipline — a writing practice — a way of returning to the page even when the path ahead is foggy. For many writers, hope in writing becomes a form of creative resilience: a steadying force that keeps us imagining, shaping, and crafting stories even when energy is thin or life feels uncertain.
Hope isn’t a feeling that floats in when life is easy.
Hope is not the opposite of struggle.
Hope is what grows in the cracks.
Hope in Writing as a Collective Creative Inheritance
Hope has never been passive for marginalized communities.
It has been a strategy, a craft, and a survival technology — a way of imagining ourselves into a future that did not yet exist.
For generations, writers from marginalized groups have used hope to shape the world:
- Black writers envisioning liberation long before emancipation
- LGBTQ+ storytellers imagining joy and safety in eras that denied their existence
- Disabled activists crafting futures built on access, interdependence, and dignity
- Immigrant and religious‑minority writers telling stories of belonging
- Women writing themselves into agency and autonomy
- Laborers imagining solidarity, dignity, and collective power
Hope has always been a future‑building practice — a way of saying, “We are still here. We will still imagine. We will still create.”
Hope as a Writing Practice and Democratic Imagination
As we approach the 250th anniversary of the United States, I keep returning to the phrase in the Constitution’s preamble:
“…a more perfect union.”
Not a perfect union.
A more perfect one — something unfinished, something we are still shaping.
Every time a marginalized writer tells a story rooted in dignity, justice, or possibility, they participate in the ongoing project of imagining a nation that lives closer to its ideals. Hope becomes a form of civic imagination — a way of writing toward a future where more people can belong, thrive, and be free.
And during Pride Month, this feels especially resonant. LGBTQ+ writers and activists remind us that hope is not abstract. It is embodied. It is lived. It is fought for. It is celebrated.
The Kind of Hope That Gets You Home
Three years ago, my husband and I loaded up our two youngest sons and drove 1,500 miles across the country to visit our two oldest in college. We were delivering a “new‑to‑them” car so they could get around their small college town. The first couple of days were everything I’d hoped for — campus tours, local food, long conversations, the rare joy of having (almost) my whole family together.
On our last planned day, we strapped rented kayaks to the roofs of both cars and drove twenty‑five miles out of town to explore the nearby river. We dropped the kids and kayaks at the put‑in spot, then my husband and I took both cars down the rocky dirt road to the take‑out point.
That road did something to the brakes of our family car. They locked up hard, and it took everything to coax the car into the gravel parking area. I told my husband to go back and enjoy the kayaking with the boys while I waited for the tow truck. The operator was two hours away on another job, but he promised he’d come.
The family had a great time on the river. Then reality set in: we had one working car, six people and three kayaks which needed to get back to town. We crammed the long‑legged teens and college kids into the little car, strapped on one kayak, and shuttled them to the AirBnB. Then I went back for my husband.
By the time the tow truck arrived, the sun had set and the wind had picked up. We loaded the last two kayaks onto the little car, but the gusts kept blowing them sideways. We couldn’t risk the highway. We took the back roads, creeping through dark farmland, hoping the straps would hold.
The next morning, the mechanic two blocks from our AirBnB said it was probably dust or gravel jammed in the brake calipers. “We’ll take it apart and get it sorted,” they said. We asked our host for a late checkout.
But one day became two. Two became three. Each time the mechanics thought they’d fixed it, they lowered the car, started the engine, put it in gear… and the wheels refused to move.
Time passed. Expenses mounted. Work deadlines loomed. School was starting soon for our younger kids. We were stuck.
On a whim — or maybe out of desperation — my husband and I walked a block and a half to a tiny used‑car lot on Main Street. Twelve cars total. A father‑son duo running the place. They were so friendly it almost felt unreal. They offered a more‑than‑fair trade‑in on our immobilized car. We picked a little economy car with low mileage. The son drove us to a local credit union, where we opened an account with twenty‑five dollars, transferred our savings, and financed the rest.
The whole time, my husband and I kept asking each other, “Are we making the right choice?” But we needed to get home. We needed to keep moving.
When the paperwork was done, the son drove us to the pizza place so we could bring dinner back to our waiting family. The next morning, we loaded our luggage into the tiny trunk, hugged our college boys goodbye, and started the long drive home.
We held our breath halfway across the country. But that little car didn’t have a single problem. In the three years since, we’ve driven it 60,000 miles. It’s been steady, reliable, exactly what we needed.
And that whole experience — the breakdown, the waiting, the uncertainty, the improvising, the kindness of strangers, the leap of faith — has stayed with me.
Because that’s what hope feels like.
Not certainty. Not ease. Not a clear path.
Hope is the quiet belief that even when the road is rough, even when the plan falls apart, even when you’re stranded far from home, there is still a way forward.
Hope is a practice — one decision at a time, one step at a time, one imperfect, courageous choice at a time.
How Hope Shapes Your Personal Writing Practice
There have been seasons when my writing journey felt like walking through fog — slow, disorienting, heavy. In those moments, hope wasn’t a feeling; it was a practice. A sentence. A paragraph. A small act of belief that the story still mattered, even if I couldn’t see the whole shape of it yet.
Hope is what brings me back to the page on days when my bodymind needs gentleness.
Hope is what lets me imagine disabled futures that are expansive, joyful, and whole.
Hope is what keeps my characters alive in my imagination until I can return to them.
Practicing Hope: Sustainable Writing Practices
Here are the practices that help me cultivate hope in my writing life:
- Micro‑hope sessions — one sentence that feels possible
- Hope journaling — asking, “What future version of this story am I writing toward?”
- Character‑based hope — what does this character believe is possible?
- Community‑rooted hope — who helps you keep going?
- Hope rituals — a playlist (I’ve been building one with you at the end of every post), a walk, a sensory reset, a grounding practice
I wrote more about sustainable writing practices here.
Remember… Hope is not a mood.
Hope is a method.
Hope: a Shared Future‑Making Practice
Hope is what grows in the cracks.
It’s what keeps me writing, even on the days when my energy is low or my creativity feels thin.
When I practice hope in my writing, I’m joining a lineage — disabled writers, queer writers, Black writers, immigrant writers, women, laborers, dreamers — all of us shaping a future that is more just, more accessible, more joyful, more possible.
Hope is a practice.
Hope is a craft.
Hope is a way of writing ourselves toward a more perfect union.
And sometimes hope arrives in the form of ordinary people doing something kind — like the father‑and‑son team at a tiny used‑car lot in Rexburg, Idaho, who helped us find a way home when everything felt uncertain. Hope often looks like that: small, human, steady.
Hope gets us home — on the page, in our lives, and in the futures we’re still writing.
Now, what songs should we add to our playlist today? Here’s what I’m thinking:
I Lived – by OneRepublic – because this song got me through a couple of rough years
Good Day – by Brett Eldridge – feeling optimistic on a rainy day (literally or metaphorically)
What About Us – by P!nk – a circle of questions echoing societal issues which I hear as a call for us to tackle and wrestle and add our contribution. Let’s make this world a better place.
What does hope mean in writing?
Hope in writing is a creative practice — a way of returning to the page with resilience, imagination, and belief in future possibilities.
How do I build a hopeful writing practice?
Use small, sustainable habits like micro‑writing sessions, hope journaling, and community‑rooted support.
How can writers stay motivated during difficult seasons?
By treating hope as a method, not a mood — one sentence, one choice, one act of belief at a time.
How does disability shape creative resilience?
Disabled writers often practice hope through bodymind rhythms, interdependence, and future‑building storytelling.