Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

– By Emily Dickinson

Hope is like a quiet companion, always there when you need it most. It doesn’t shout or demand attention, but it has a way of showing up in the darkest moments, whispering that things can get better.

Dead inside. Numb. Frozen. Beaten. And yet, alive—because of a tiny trickle of hope. It’s not loud or grand, but it’s enough. Enough to keep going, to take one more step, even when the road ahead seems not just endless, but stripped of purpose and meaning.

If we are blessed enough, we can access hope. If it feels out of reach as it can sometimes, hopefully, there will be a hope to find hope.

Hope isn’t loud or flashy, but it’s stubborn and steady. It lingers through monsoon downpours, scorching heat, and bone-chilling cold, offering a quiet push to hold on. To whatever.

That’s hope—it changes the game.