The Thrill of Hope

—Anna-Marie—

I think it was August. Maybe July of 2023. 

My then 14 year-old son Knox was playing video games, and I came to sit by him on the couch. The two of us had gone through a hard situation together, and I felt like we needed to debrief. 

He’s playing his video game, and I’m sitting beside him and I say, “It really hurt my feelings, what so-and-so did. And I’ve been thinking about it a lot. And it just makes me sad. I just wanted you to know that I noticed it, I felt it, and it hurt my feelings.”

And my son says, “I don’t know why you let it get to you, Mom. It’s always been that way.”

“I guess I just always hope things will be different.”

“It’s always been like this, Mom, so I just don’t think you should let it get you down. It’s just the way it is. So you need to stop hoping things will be different.”

A pause lingered while I processed and he pitched for the Cardinals from the couch.

“I don’t always think about this, you know. Just sometimes at night sad things come up, and I think about them.”

Silence.

I try again.

“What do you think about at night, Knox?”

“I think about what could happen the next day.”

“Like, the plan?”

I knew the plan for the day included Knox mowing the grass. His friend, Will, was supposed to come over and his cousin had talked about coming to visit a day earlier than expected.

“No, like what could happen.”

“What do you mean?”

The whole time we’ve been talking, he’s never looked away from his game. Normally, I might say something about it, but I’ve come to meet him where he is… 

“Like, maybe it rains tomorrow, so I don’t have to mow. And maybe Will comes over and Rhett comes early, so I get both of them here at the same time. And we hang out and stuff.”

I had no idea he did this at night, but it set up my point so well. 

“How is that any different than what I do? Aren’t you hoping for things to be different tomorrow?”

He was so quick with his response.
Sitting there, choosing his lineup, or whatever baseball thing he was doing in his game. Just looking at the TV screen, fiddling the controller in his hand. 

“No, Mom. I think about possibilities. So I’m okay if they don’t happen.

You put expectations on hope.”

___________________

Expectations on Hope.

It’s been over a year now, and I haven’t been able to shake that line since he spoke the words.  

It keeps resurfacing. And I keep wrestling with it.
Because Hope is an important word, concept to understand…
if I want it to be a part of my life. 

And I do want it to be a part of my life.

I’ve had so many well-meaning, loving people offer me cliches about Hope.
Because sometimes the word “hope” gets thrown around like a greeting card sentiment. 

Often I think the person saying it isn’t really sure what it means, 
they just know Hope is what is necessary to keep on keepin’ on.

And I agree with that.

Sometimes the word “hope” seems like something you should believe, a knowing that someday in the future–probably not while I’m here on earth–everything will end up okay.

But I’m in the right now.

And we’re still here. 
Years of therapy, of prayers, of tears, of prayers, of medicine, of natural remedies, of prayers, of “tips from moms who’ve been there,” 
and our Tobin is still locked up tight behind padlocks and key locks and punch-code locks and deadbolts: bound and gagged by Profound Speech Apraxia, ADHD, OCD, all wrapped up in Autism.

We’re still here. 
Years of therapy, of prayers, of tears, of prayers, of medicine, of natural remedies, of prayers, of “tips from moms who’ve been there,” 
and our Tobin still becomes a wild animal at a millisecond’s notice, kicking and hitting and yelling and running away, throwing and destroying and pushing everyone he loves to the brink of breaking, of giving up–and 99.78% of the time he wins.

That’s the part. That’s the part I can’t get a grip on.

The destructive, harmful behavior.

That’s the stuff.
All it does is put a cage around him. Around our family. Around everyone else.

So. 
To be completely honest and vulnerable, most of the time cynicism and resignation takes the place of Hope.  

___________________

We live from the stories we tell ourselves, and Hope is something I’ve been struggling to have, to hold onto. And I can’t cling to something I don’t truly believe in.
Most of my reflecting this year has left me realizing more of what Hope isn’t than what it is: 

It’s not about wishing 
It’s not about the amount of belief I have, or the amount of “rules” I follow
It’s not about trying to empty my desire for the best outcome
or pretending something isn’t hard
or pretending the very worst thing won’t happen.
It’s not about manifesting. 
It’s not about finding some sort of silver lining.
or even trusting that there will be a silver lining I can’t see.
It’s not about pushing down my hurt or fears or anxieties.

I want to understand more about what Hope is. 
Because I have felt it, I do feel it. Hope. In so many areas of life. 
That inexplicable peace, optimism when there’s no obvious reason to have it. 

My weary soul rejoicing with the Thrill of Hope.  

___________________

I’ve tried to write this piece three different times. 

Each time it was when something really good had happened, something that directly related to the bad. I’d feel a brief exhale and start to anchor myself in a Hope that things would get better and the very worst situation I imagined would flip over and things would be okay. I would find myself grounding in a new reality where things have a happy ending, and I would think, “Now I’m ready. I’ve figured out what Hope means and I can finally write that thing I’ve felt I’m supposed to write.”

I write to figure out what I think.

Three different times I thought I had figured out what I think, only to find that the ground I’d tried to root into was actually sand.

My favorite attempt was after I found out Tobin had made a friend. 
Not only had he made a friend, but the friend had referred to Tobin as “the best friend.” Tobin had had an amazing week after several weeks of great reports. Maybe we’re in a new reality. Maybe I can quit bracing myself every single day for the call I’ll inevitably receive from school. I felt a little exhale, a little lift. 

I picked him up that day and heard the glowing report, saw the glowing smile on his face, felt the same one glow across my own, and when I pulled out of the parking lot the lyrics to this song came on the radio, “What if love is the measure of a life?” 

I drove home reflecting. What if it’s not about whether or not he can communicate or demonstrate all of the amazing things he thinks and feels that are locked up inside him? What if it’s not even about him unlocking?  

And it was all there. 
I had found it, and it was going to tie up neatly in the reality that “love is the measure of a life.” That was the lesson I’d learned, it was a truth I could cling to.
It was Hope. 

All those academic goals, all those goals about functioning in society, living as independently as possible, they weren’t as important as relationships. I just had to shift my focus to what is important in life, teaching him how to show his love to others. I had the answer and I could hope for a better future again. 

Kissed Tobin’s sweet face goodnight. Dropped him off the next morning and didn’t feel the heavy in my chest as I watched him walk into the school.

I did my chores a little lighter and kept thinking about his new friend. I allowed myself to entertain the idea that maybe we could have him over for a playdate someday. It made me laugh at the thought, but it hung there as a “what if.” Maybe Tobin could try to add another full day at school? Maybe we had finally turned the page.

That morning he received a Character Award at school.

That afternoon I received a phone call to come pick him up after one of the worst, most destructive meltdowns he’s ever had. 

My dreamer heart felt stupid for doing what it does.
So I put away my laptop and went about life.

Yesterday, I started feeling a nudge to come back to the keys. I was dreading Monday’s dropoff and the anxiety that would take Tobin’s place in the backseat.

But a message at church had stirred something in me.

I sat, once again, at my laptop, skimmed through the different drafts, and I even found another unfinished essay I had written in 2021 related to this topic titled “What If the Worst Thing Really Does Happen?” 

Fingers at the keys, I remembered a voice memo I had recorded back in September.
I had forgotten all about it, even though I had even titled the recording “The Thrill of Hope.”

It was a recording from the morning Tobin returned to school after his epic meltdown.

I remember I had just dropped him off, and I was pacing upstairs replaying the incident report in my mind, all the details of Tobin’s behavior. 
Pacing, feeling familiar desperation, feeling stupid for hoping.

Hearing Knox’s words: “You put expectations on Hope.”

Raw and vulnerable and broken, the truth I’d been searching for began to focus. I remember quickly grabbing my phone and talking into it, recording it, not wanting to forget what was so clear in the moment.

Listening back, I hear the tears through my voice, the pauses for composure, yet there’s a steadiness beneath the emotion. The peace that comes from grounding yourself on something solid. 

I tried to transcribe my recording.
But there was something about actually hearing the truth, hearing the power of Hope push through my hopelessness.

Something about truly experiencing it with myself in that moment.
Something about the timing of this recording finding its way back to me today,
during a time when hopelessness lurks all around.

And because Tobin teaches me so much about what’s truly important in life, 
and this is something important I needed to learn.
Because Tobin constantly, consistently forces me to shed any form of fig leaves I try to wear, 
forces me to be brave like he is,
I’m going to be more vulnerable than I’m comfortable with and share my recording below–if you’re still with me here.

If you are still on this ride, you should know that at the time of the recording I had just rewatched Good Will Hunting.

But if you’re ready to go on with your day, that’s okay.

Here’s the gist:
Knox was more right than he even knew.