A Letter From Me to Me
I have found myself in this place of pulling back from hope just to avoid disappointment.
Today in my devotional, I read the words: “God’s got it… so you can hope.” And something in me caught. Because if I’m honest, hope has felt tender lately. Vulnerable. Costly, even.
I’ve realized that somewhere along the way, I started convincing myself that if I didn’t hope too much, I wouldn’t hurt as much. If I didn’t pray too boldly, dream too freely, or make plans for a future I couldn’t control, maybe I could protect my heart from being crushed by what didn’t happen. Maybe “not getting my hopes up” would feel safer than trusting God with the parts of me that still long, still ask, still ache.
But the Bible never tells us to stop being hopeful, and it certainly never tells us that wanting things is a sin.
And yet adversity has a way of making me shrink back. It has made me second-guess my prayers, quiet my dreams, and hold my future a little more tightly than I should. It has made me want to manage my expectations before life has the chance to disappoint me again. It has made self-protection feel wise.
But I don’t think that’s what the Lord has for me.
Because when I choose not to hope as a form of self-protection, I may not be walking away from Jesus altogether — but I can begin withholding trust from Him in a very tender place. I can begin building emotional armor where the Lord is actually asking for surrender.
And maybe that is the tension I keep feeling lately: how easy it is to call self-protection wisdom, when really it may just be fear wearing a more acceptable name.
“Not getting my hopes up” can sound mature. Responsible, even. But underneath it is often this quiet belief: if I don’t hope, I can’t be disappointed. If I don’t expect anything, then I can’t be crushed. It feels like protection, but sometimes it’s just a guarded heart trying to stay one step ahead of pain.
The problem is that hope in Jesus was never meant to be rooted in outcomes. Biblical hope is not wishful thinking. It is not pretending. It is not forcing optimism or trying to guarantee myself a certain ending. Hope is trust — deep, anchored trust — in the character of God. It is believing that He is still good, still kind, still faithful, even when life feels uncertain and the future feels tender.
And I think that’s where I’ve had to be honest with myself: sometimes my lack of hope is not humility. Sometimes it is fear. Sometimes it is me trying to keep my heart at a distance from disappointment, and maybe even from God Himself. Because if I stop asking boldly, if I stop dreaming, if I stop bringing Him the deepest desires of my heart, then maybe I won’t have to face the ache of unanswered prayers or doors that don’t open the way I imagined.
But that is not the life I want to live.
I don’t want fear to disciple me more than faith.
I don’t want to live with a guarded heart before the Lord.
I don’t want to stop dreaming, stop praying boldly, or stop believing that God can still write beautiful things into the chapters ahead just because life has been hard.
I want to remember that hope is holy.
That bringing my desires to God is not weakness.
That wanting things, longing for things, and praying for things is not foolish.
That making plans with open hands is not the same as demanding an outcome.
That I can trust God with my future without knowing exactly what He will do.
Because hope in Jesus is not the same as hoping for a specific outcome. It is not saying, I know this will work out the way I want. It is saying, Even here, Jesus is still good. He is still present. He is still faithful. And my story is still safe in His hands.
So maybe this is what I need to tell myself in this season:
You do not have to protect yourself from God.
You do not have to shrink your prayers to make disappointment easier.
You do not have to bury your dreams so they hurt less.
You do not have to call fear wisdom just because it sounds more responsible.
You do not have to stop hoping in order to survive.
You can bring the tender places to Jesus.
You can bring Him the disappointment, the uncertainty, the ache, the unanswered questions, and the dreams you’re almost afraid to say out loud.
You can hand Him the part of you that is scared to hope again and trust that He will hold it gently.
Maybe the invitation is not to force myself into optimism or pretend I’m not hurting. Maybe the invitation is simply to surrender my fear at the feet of Jesus and let Him teach me how to hope again.
To hope with open hands.
To hope without demanding.
To hope without knowing.
To hope because He is still who He says He is.
And maybe the holiest prayer I can pray right now is this:
Jesus, I want to trust You again here.
I’m afraid to hope because it hurts.
But I don’t want fear to disciple my heart more than You do.
Teach me how to hope again.
xx- Danielle
