The Paradox of Hope
It is Monday, I am adjusting. There is effort to balance self-doubt with hope. I always looked down on people who were hopeful, the ones who say, "God has a plan", "Trust life to work out". I held immense hate for these platitudes.
I am a practical person, always leaning towards upholding rational thought. An academic job search, especially one that is an open-rank search, attracts about 200 applicants. When shortlisted for an interview, it means you have beaten the 200 to now compete with 5 candidates. These 5 candidates are likely smarter than me, have more experience than me and therefore, more likely to be short-list for an on-campus invite.
I did good, I did my best. That does not mean the world owes me shit. My good is likely not enough. The stats run against my favour. This much I know to be true.
Why then am I restless, why do I find myself at this odd hour curious about hope?
My hate towards hopeful people can be traced back to my mother. She is a person of faith. She invests in charitable ventures like people invest in stocks. She is relentless believer that what is meant of you will not pass you by and if what is meant for you is pain, there is strength you will discover to withstand pain. I hate her optimism. Or is it my refusal to see realism in her faith, that I hate?
Life of my mum, was never fair. Absent husband, then dead husband. Dead first-born, then dead sister. A family that penalized her grit to survive despite all odds. How can SHE place her faith in a life that scripted her hell?
and why,
Do I struggle to keep faith in a life I scripted to leave no room to chance?
