Can I afford hope

Hey Warriors,

There was a time when hope felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.

I wasn’t dreaming about the future; I was preparing for it to end.

I wrote my will.

I planned my memorial.

I picked out songs.

I even saved Amazon links for the exact items I wanted at a service I’d never live to see.

Hope wasn’t on my list.

Reality was.

Everywhere I turned, there were reminders:

Another life insurance denial.

Another health scare.

Another reminder that the odds weren’t in my favor.

People said, “Stay strong,”

But they didn’t see me crying over end-of-life paperwork or choosing urns and playlists with tears in my throat and a shaking hand on the mouse.

People said, “Don’t give up.”

But they didn’t see the mountain I was climbing, while my body was failing beneath me.

I wasn’t allowed the softness of hope.

I had to be realistic.

I didn’t have the time, the energy, or the delusion to pretend I’d be here forever.

Then came the LVAD.

That little machine, tucked into my chest and humming beside me, brought more than just life support.

It brought space.

It brought time.

And it cracked open a door I’d kept sealed shut:

Hope.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with it.

Hope felt dangerous.

Hope meant imagining birthdays, vacations, new projects, and maybe even healing. Things I had once emotionally let go of.

And to be honest, that kind of hope terrified me.

Because what if I let myself believe?

What if I started planning things six months out, and didn’t make it?

What if I start building a life again, just to leave it unfinished?

See, grief isn’t always about losing what was. Sometimes it’s about fearing what might never be.

Hope started to feel like a gamble.

A fragile wish whispered into the unknown.

But still, it found me.

This machine didn’t just extend my life; it challenged me to live it.

Even if I don’t plan to get a transplant.

Even if I don’t have guarantees.

Even if my future still comes with warnings, risks, and Plan Bs.

It turns out, I can afford hope.

And not because everything’s perfect, but because I’m still here.

Because I’ve learned that hope doesn’t mean ignoring reality.

It means making space for something beautiful within it.

Hope means I can buy a calendar again.

It means I can plan the next project, the next celebration, the next quiet moment of peace.

It means I can believe in joy after pain.

In laughter after tears.

In purpose after the pause.

I still keep a folder of what I’d want if I transitioned, because that’s part of the truth.

But now, right next to that, there’s a list of places I want to go.

Stories I want to write.

Things I want to create.

People I want to love even harder.

Hope didn’t erase my fears.

But it did give me something to hold on to.

And maybe I won’t see everything I imagine.

But you know what?

The act of imagining again, of dreaming anything, is its own kind of resurrection.

Hope is scary.

But it’s also sacred.

It’s messy. And fragile. And brave as hell.

So yes, I asked myself, Can I afford hope?

And now, I whisper back:

“Yes. Because I’m still living.”

“The act of imagining again, of dreaming anything, is its own kind of resurrection.”

With Heart,

💙 Phoenix