Burning Beneath

Hope has always lived in me.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind that demands miracles.

The quiet kind, the kind that stays.

I don’t remember choosing hope.

I think it chose me.

I grew up in chaos, in noise and in silence, in spaces where stability came and went.

Very young, I learned to look forward.

Finish school. Excel. Keep going.

Hope became my anchor.

It carried me through everything.

Even now, when uncertainty shows up, when silence appears, when old patterns try to pull me into doubt, hope remains. Not as urgency. Not as chasing. But as steadiness.

Lately, I’ve realized something important:

hope no longer needs to work so hard.

I don’t need to rush toward reassurance.

I don’t need to fill the quiet.

I don’t need to abandon myself to feel chosen.

I am staying.

So I’m marking this truth on my body, softly, intentionally.

A small tattoo near my wrist, in gentle cursive, holding rainbow colors.

Always, hope.

Not because I forget it,

but because it has carried me this far,

and now it gets to rest with me.