What is hope, if not the possibility of a resentment?
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately—how hope can lift us, yes, but also how it can betray us when it’s pinned to outcomes we cannot control. When we place it outside ourselves. When it depends on someone else doing the right thing.
There was a time—not long ago—when I believed, like never before, that justice would prevail. That maybe, just maybe, this country was ready. That a rising figure of promise could bend the arc toward justice, just a little more. That the cracks in the foundation of this nation were finally letting the light in.
But that’s not what happened.
The Fragility of External Hope
What happened was the elevation of someone convicted—not only of crimes but also of hatred, division, and desecration of the sacred. My hope was dashed, and with that breaking came everything else too. Resentment, disappointment, anger, and even rage. These were emotions I knew intimately. It wasn’t the first time I had hoped too hard.
I know this story.
I lived it long before it had any political shape.
It first found shape in the quiet corners of my childhood.
Rooms where I nurtured, fed, adapted, and gave more and more in a desperate attempt to earn love that would not be given. I thought that if I could only try just a little harder, one day they’d see me. One day they’d choose me.
But no amount of devotion can make someone love you when they’ve forgotten how to. Just as no amount of decency can change a system that was not built for all of us.
That’s the thing about false hope. It rests outside of us, clinging to others. It waits to be rescued.
Facing Truth and Letting Go
Truth is different. Truth isn’t comfortable, but it’s steady. It lives here, in my body, in my breath, in the quiet knowing of things I can no longer unsee.
I had to face the truth.
I had to stop pretending that my family could love me in the ways they couldn’t. That this nation, as it stands, fully sees all of us. That I could force a future into existence by sheer hope.
I had to stop asking, “What can I do to be loved?” and start asking instead, “What do I love so much, I’m willing to live in truth for it?”
That’s when everything shifted.
I found my chosen family—not built on performance or pretense but on real, soul-deep connection. That’s when I remembered that I didn’t need to chase love. I am love.
All I had to do was embody it.
It wasn’t easy, this process of letting go. It meant walking into hard truths about my upbringing. It meant mourning the loss of what could never be. And yet, with each truth, I found new freedom.
Redefining Hope as Connection
Here’s what I’ve learned about hope.
Hope is not wishful thinking. It’s not about expecting others or systems to change. It’s not found in the desperate casting of votes or in clinging to outdated illusions.
Hope is spiritual.
Hope is relational.
Hope lives within the degree to which I feel connected—to myself, to God, and to others. True hope whispers, “This, too, is for you.”
Even the pain.
Even the betrayal.
Even the heartbreak of letting go.
Especially the letting go.
Every experience has become a bridge. Each time I’ve faced loss, I’ve been handed an opportunity to get closer to truth. And every time I die a little to illusion, I am reborn
into a wholeness I didn’t know moments before.
This is the kind of hope I can carry.
Love as the Ultimate Hope
Real hope doesn’t cling to what isn’t. Instead, it roots itself in love. Love doesn’t turn away. It looks truth in the face and says, “I’m here.”
For me, love rests in the fierce, soft power of my queer, feminine body. A body that has endured pain and still chooses to lead, not in spite of its difference but because of it. My body, my existence, is a testament to a truth that can illuminate even the darkest corners of our lives.
I cannot pretend anymore. I can no longer turn away.
Not from my childhood. Not from my country. Not from the systems that were built to silence those who don’t fit into the dominant narrative.
But I am not silent.
I am listening.
I am leading.
I am living.
And love, real love? It will hold its gaze steady. It will walk with truth, not against it.
Love says, “I’m here.”
And so am I.
Here’s To Your Greatness,
Misti Burmeister