How We Got Here

CHAPTER FIVE: WHEN HOPE STILL FELT SIMPLE.

There was a time when hope felt uncomplicated.

It lived in small plans and big assumptions. We believed that effort moved in straight lines, that patience always led somewhere meaningful. Back then, hope did not require defense. It did not have to be justified or explained. It simply existed.

We remember that version of ourselves clearly—the one who still counted milestones instead of setbacks. The one who believed that each small achievement was proof that everything else would eventually fall into place. There was comfort in that belief. It gave shape to uncertainty.

In those early days, even struggle felt temporary. We measured time by months, not years. We told ourselves stories about where we would be by now. Better work. Better housing. A stronger sense of belonging. These expectations were not extravagant; they were reasonable. That was what made their eventual erosion so painful.

Hope showed up in the smallest places. In the excitement of understanding a joke in another language. In the pride of navigating the city without directions. In the feeling of being needed, even briefly. These moments felt like confirmation that we were moving forward.

We talked often about the future. Not in detail, but with confidence. The specifics did not matter as much as the certainty that things would improve. We made promises to ourselves, to each other, to the people who believed in us from afar.

France felt open then. Demanding, yes—but fair. We interpreted obstacles as challenges rather than warnings. Rejections were reframed as delays. We trusted that persistence would be rewarded.

It helped that we were still new enough to be invisible to disappointment. We had not yet accumulated enough failed expectations to be cautious. We had not learned to temper enthusiasm. Optimism came naturally.

We spent money we should have saved. We said yes to invitations that stretched us thin. We stayed out late, talking about ideas that felt urgent at the time. These were not reckless choices; they were expressions of belief. Belief that we were building toward something.

Even loneliness felt manageable. It was part of the process. We told ourselves that everyone goes through this phase. That isolation was proof of transition, not abandonment.

Looking back, we understand how fragile that hope was. It depended on momentum. On the belief that time was working in our favor. Once that belief began to waver, hope required more effort.

But at the time, we didn’t know that. We were still protected by novelty. Still energized by the sense of possibility. We had not yet learned how to grieve expectations.

There is a tenderness in remembering that period. Not because it was easy, but because it was sincere. We believed in ourselves without reservation. We trusted the future to meet us halfway.

That trust would not last forever.

But while it did, it sustained us.

And in its simplicity, hope carried us further than we realized.