“Hope born of experience is unshakeable.” — Leslie Noble

There are years that end quietly, and there are years that end with a kind of thunder—loss, betrayal, awakening, clarity, endings you didn’t choose, beginnings you didn’t expect. When your world has shifted, January 1st doesn’t feel like a clean slate. It feels like standing in the doorway between what was and what will be, holding your breath.

But here’s the truth no one says out loud: Hope is not a mood. Hope is a rebellion.

It is the quiet, stubborn decision to believe in a future you cannot yet see. It is the refusal to let disappointment harden you. It is the choice to keep your heart open even after life has broken it open.

Hope is not naïve. Hope is not passive. Hope is not pretending everything is fine.

Hope is the warrior’s discipline.

When the world changes, hope becomes an act of defiance

And maybe that’s why this time of year feels so tender. The calendar flips, but your heart is still catching up. You’re still integrating what happened, what didn’t, what surprised you, and what stretched you.

This is exactly where hope becomes radical.

When you’ve been hurt, hope feels dangerous. When you’ve been disappointed, hope feels foolish. When you’ve been betrayed, hope feels like a setup.

But here’s the paradox: The more life has shaken you, the more powerful your hope becomes.

Because hope born from innocence is fragile. Hope born from experience is unshakeable.

This is the kind of hope that whispers: “I know what pain feels like. I know what endings feel like. And still—I rise.”

And that rising is what carries you into the next part of this story.

Anne Lamott and the holy, hilarious art of hope

If you’ve ever read Anne Lamott, you know she has a way of naming the human condition with both reverence and ridiculousness. She’s a bestselling author, a truth-teller, and a woman who can talk about despair one minute and crack a joke about her hair the next. Her humor doesn’t avoid pain — it alchemizes it.

Lamott once joked in an interview that she shows up with her “little book of hope like a slightly cranky Teletubby,” offering joy in a world that feels like a fever dream. That’s her gift: she makes hope feel human, not heroic.

And she’s clear about this: hope is not passive. In a 2025 interview, she said she was “calling for us to move into a new phase of resistance: hope and joy. In ghastly times, these are subversive.”

That line could be the thesis of this entire blog.

Hope is not fragile. Hope is not polite. Hope is not passive.

Hope is subversive. Hope is rebellious. Hope is how we refuse to disappear.

And in true Lamott fashion, she reminds us that humor is part of hope. She once joked that if a doctor ever diagnosed her with early-onset Alzheimer’s, “a lot of things would fall into place,” and that she bangs her head on the dryer so often she’s considering inventing a “laundry helmet.”

This is the kind of humor that doesn’t deny pain — it dignifies it. It says: “I’m still here. I can still laugh. I can still hope.”

And that brings me to where I find hope in my own life.

Hope can be found in small moments

I’ve learned that hope doesn’t always arrive in grand, cinematic ways. Sometimes it shows up in the smallest, most ordinary moments — like laughing with a stranger in the grocery store.

I was standing in the produce aisle, debating whether I had the emotional bandwidth to commit to a bag of spinach (I absolutely did not), when an older woman next to me sighed and said, “Every year I think I’m going to become a salad person. Every year I’m wrong.”

We both laughed — not a polite laugh, but the kind that breaks tension you didn’t realize you were carrying.

And in that tiny exchange, something in me softened. Hope slipped in quietly, not as inspiration, but as connection. A reminder that even in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday, surrounded by fluorescent lights and questionable lettuce, life still offers these small, human moments that say: You’re not alone. You’re still part of something.

That’s where I find hope most often — in the unplanned, unscripted moments where two people simply meet each other as humans.

And that kind of hope shapes how I move through the world.

Hope is a way of standing

Hope isn’t passive. It’s a posture — a way you hold yourself in the world.

It sounds like:

• I will stay rooted in who I am.

• I will move toward what feels true.

• I will honor what my spirit knows.

• I will not let old stories decide my future.

Hope is the way your soul straightens its spine.

And once you stand that way — even a little — the year ahead stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like a landscape you get to shape.

Hope is a practice, not a feeling

This is where hope becomes embodied.

You don’t have to feel hopeful to practice hope.

You practice hope when you rest instead of grind. You practice hope when you tell the truth instead of performing. You practice hope when you walk away from what wounds you. You practice hope when you let yourself imagine something better. You practice hope when you take the next right step, even if it’s small.

Hope is not a leap. Hope is a series of steady, grounded steps toward the life you deserve.

And those steps begin with intention.

A New Year’s Ritual: The Rebellious Yes

If you want a ritual for January 1st, here is one that fits the season you’re in — simple, grounding, and fiercely honest:

1. Place your hand on your heart. Feel the truth of your own existence. You made it here.

2. Name what you survived. Not to dwell—just to honor the strength it took.

3. Name what you’re ready to release. A belief, a pattern, a fear, a story that no longer fits.

4. Name what you’re willing to hope for. Not a resolution. A direction. A whisper. A possibility.

5. Say this aloud: “My hope is not fragile. My hope is rebellion. My hope is mine.”

This is your quiet yes to the year ahead.

A blessing for your January 1st

May your hope be stubborn. May your heart stay open. May your spirit stay steady. May your future meet you with gentleness. May you trust yourself more deeply than ever before.

And may this be the year you realize: Your hope is your power. Your hope is your rebellion. Your hope is your beginning.