Hope, Midlife, and the Quiet Insistence of Being

It’s my birthday today, and while I try not to be the type to make a big deal about it (my Midwestern restraint runs deep), I have found myself doing what many people quietly do when the candles begin to crowd the cake, which is taking stock.

I’ll be candid: life is pretty good for me right now. It’s not perfect, of course, and it’s not without stress or uncertainty. But it is meaningfully good. I guess it’s the kind of good that shouldn’t require comparison or caveat. It could always be “better,” I suppose—but that depends what “better” means. And if I’m being open about it, my view on this has shifted in recent years.

I read recently that people are least happy in midlife (people in their 30s, 40s, and 50s are apparently the least happy bunch). But if that’s the case, then I am almost certainly on the upswing, because lately I’ve felt happier than ever. Maybe it’s perspective. Maybe it’s privilege. (It’s probably both.) I’ve worked hard to get where I am, no doubt. But I also know better than to pretend that effort alone explains everything. I’ve had help. I’ve had luck. And I’ve had the good sense, at least occasionally, to at least be ready when luck showed up. As the ineffable Edna Mode says, “Luck favors the prepared.”

But if I had to isolate the thread that’s run through the tougher stretches with me, I wouldn’t say it was luck or even “grit” (the newest pop-psy buzzword concept). I would say instead that was hope that carried me through.

I think hope gets a bad rap sometimes. It’s often written off as naïve or passive. But it’s not. Not if you really understand it. Hope isn’t sitting around waiting for the universe to deliver. It’s a posture. A commitment to openness. It’s a kind of existential wager that things can be different, and that our choices might matter in bringing that difference about. Philosophers, of course, have been debating hope and trying to pin it down for ages. Some of them describe hope as a basic orientation toward the “not-yet,” as a way of being in time. More recent analytic thinkers distinguish hope from mere optimism. For some, hope isn’t just about probabilities, but instead it’s about agency. It involves trust. Sometimes in yourself. Sometimes in others. Sometimes in something bigger.

And maybe that’s what I’ve come to feel, especially now. That hope is more than just a survival tactic. It feels more like a moral stance. In a world that often oscillates between progress and regression, hope is a quiet but radical refusal to give up on possibility. It’s the decision to stay open. To keep caring. To try.

As I move into another year, I’m holding onto the belief that the future is still worth imagining, and that people are still worth believing in. I’m holding onto the belief that maybe that I, we, can still shape something good out of what’s ahead. Maybe we, in ways that are both big and small, still have agency in what’s to come. So as I celebrate my birthday, I’ll be wishing for, celebrating, and holding out hope. Hope for me, my friends, my family, for friends to come, and for anyone else who waits for things to get better.

Cheers, everyone!