When Hope Packs its Bags
Tia-Roma Williams
There was a time I thought hope lived in my bloodstream—
like it was born in me,
like no matter how dark it got,
I’d still glow in the cracks.
But lately…
I’ve been bleeding out dreams I didn’t mean to lose.
My smile’s been clocking in overtime,
trying to convince my soul it still believes in tomorrow.
They say, “everything happens for a reason,”
but they never tell you what the reason is
when you’re crying at 3 a.m.,
holding on to pieces of yourself that no longer fit.
See, hope used to hum lullabies in my ribs—
now it’s packed its bags and left a note:
“I’ll come back when you start believing again.”
But how do you believe
when your heart feels like an unpaid bill?
When your reflection looks like someone
you’re tired of forgiving?
I’ve been walking through days
that feel like déjà vu of disappointment,
trying to find God in a world that’s stopped listening.
But maybe—
maybe hope isn’t gone.
Maybe it’s just resting,
waiting for me to breathe again.
Because even ashes remember what it felt like to burn.
And maybe one day,
when the world feels lighter,
I’ll find my fire again.
And when I do—
I’ll tell every broken soul I meet:
“You were never too heavy to rise.
You just forgot you had wings.”