I woke up in the ICU with tubes down my throat. My life had been saved, but I wasn’t relieved — I was devastated.
April is National Hope Month. But is hope real? Or is it just a beautiful lie we cling to?
My husband was leaving me. I had lost the privilege of raising my 16-year-old son, who moved across the country to live with extended family to finish high school. I was drowning in $150,000 in debt from a manic episode spending spree. I hadn’t worked outside the home in 20 years.
My bipolar disorder had not only driven me to attempt suicide, but had stolen my ability to perform daily functions like shower, change my clothes, or get out of bed. Rock-bottom felt endless. Hope felt impossible.
But hope is not a feeling. Hope is not a wish. It does not guarantee rescue, nor does it erase pain. Hope dares us to believe — not that everything will be OK, but that something could be.
As a suicide survivor, I know the razor-thin edge between hope and hopelessness. My hopelessness led me to the brink of death. Hope was what made the doctors fight to bring me back.
Hope redirected me from a blind alley to an open door, which appeared through Sharon, a store manager who took a chance on me when no one else would and gave me my first job. That opportunity set me on the path to repaying my debts through hard work, negotiating with creditors, selling my jewelry, and thanks to the support of my husband.
Hope rarely roars in. More often, it shows up in the quiet, ordinary form of another person.
Rebekah, my therapist, met me in my bipolar darkness — not to drag me out, but to teach me how to find the light myself.
My family, once broken, began to heal with therapy and time. I remember the first time my son and I laughed together years after my hospitalization. It was a small sound, but it felt like a crack of light in the darkness.
The son I thought I had lost is now married and about to earn his master’s degree from the University of Colorado.
He used to block my number. Now, he calls me late at night just to talk.
Hope did not erase my struggles, but it gave me the strength to fight. When my husband told me he was leaving, it took every ounce of hope to face him — not just to ask him to stay, but to fight for our marriage, even though I knew it was a long shot.
This hope wasn’t a sudden revelation or a dramatic turning point; it was a series of small, deliberate choices — made over and over again — to keep going. In the end, it paid off. Today, our marriage stands on solid ground, and is filled with happiness. As organizer and prison abolitionist Mariame Kaba reminds us, hope is a discipline.
This is what we so often misunderstand about hope. It is not baseless optimism or a passive belief that things will get better. It is not waiting for someone to save you. Hope is a decision. A fight. A radical act of defiance against despair.
We live in a world where mental illness is still widely misunderstood, leaving millions to suffer in silence and without hope. Due to stigma, around 60% of people with mental illness never seek out the treatment they need.
For over two decades, I believed that if I was strong enough, I should be able to “fix” myself. I believed that asking for help meant failure. That lie nearly killed me, and I’m terrified for the millions who still believe asking for help is a sign of weakness.
The road to recovery is not just long — it can feel relentless. It’s filled with obstacles at every stage, and the sheer emotional labor of rebuilding your life.
I have seen firsthand the power of hope in the lives of those who are struggling. I now stand in prisons, rehab programs, homeless shelters, and business organizations sharing my story, advocating for mental health care, and proving that even from the deepest despair, a life worth living can be built.
Hope is getting out of bed when everything in you screams don’t. Hope is showing up for therapy when you’d rather disappear. Hope is taking the smallest step forward — day after day — until one day, you realize you’re no longer in the same place.
So, if you feel like the odds are stacked against you; if you wonder whether hope is even possible; if you are still here, even in the smallest way — you are already fighting.
That is enough. It has to be.
Sonja Wasden is a mental health advocate and co-author of the award-winning memoir “An Impossible Life.”
If you or someone you know needs help, call or text 988 or chat 988lifeline.org for mental health support. Additionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at dontcallthepolice.com. Outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention.