When Hope Feels Like an Anchor Instead of a Wish

There’s a kind of hope that feels fragile—like you’re holding your breath, crossing your fingers, and just praying things work out. I’ve lived in that space. But there’s also another kind of hope. One that doesn’t just feel like a wish—it feels like an anchor. And I didn’t really understand that difference until I was brought to my knees by my son’s addiction.

I wrote a line awhile back—“when hope gets tangled up with heartache”— it wasn’t poetic. It was personal. It came from those long nights of not knowing where he was, of praying with everything I had left, of holding space for love and pain at the same time. That’s where I started to learn what real hope actually is.

Scripture tells us that faith comes first, and hope follows. But not the kind of hope that’s just trying to be optimistic. The kind Moroni talks about in Ether 12:4 is deeper. He says that those who believe in God might with surety hope for a better world… that this hope becomes an anchor to our souls.

I read that verse differently now. Because I know what it feels like to need an anchor. When everything feels like it’s falling apart and you have nothing left to hold onto but God—you start to realize what hope really means. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always look like confidence. Sometimes it’s just the quiet whisper in your heart that says, “Keep going. I’m still here.”

And honestly, that whisper came for me. Not all at once. Not in some grand moment. But slowly—in my mind and in my heart—just like it says in Doctrine and Covenants. That whisper told me, “You’re not lost. You’re on the right path.” And that changed everything.

It didn’t take away the pain. It didn’t fix my son’s choices. But it gave me peace in the middle of it. It helped me stop gripping so tightly to outcomes I couldn’t control. It reminded me that God is not done writing the story—for me, or for my son.

This kind of hope… it doesn’t come from just trying to be positive. It’s a gift. A quiet, steadying gift that comes when we choose to believe—even with a trembling heart—that God is still God. That He sees, He knows, and He hasn’t forgotten us.

So if your heart feels heavy and your hope feels tangled, please know this: it’s okay to feel that way. Hope doesn’t mean you don’t hurt. Sometimes, it’s the hurting that makes the hope real. And one day, in a way only God can do, that hope will start to feel less like a question mark and more like an anchor.