I always thought of myself as a positive person. I felt this was the same as being hopeful. But, in recent times, I have come to see a subtle but significant difference between the two. Hope, I had felt was a benign word. I would write 'I hope you have a lovely day' in cards. I meant it. It was genuine. When troubles hit, I would believe we could get through them. I'd look for a way to find a silver lining. Then it happened. My husband had a funny turn. Then another and another. Then a cancer diagnosis. I looked for the positive – there was a small chink, it gave us an opportunity to rethink our family values. As the appointments went on, the diagnosis, plans and treatments changing, the positivity faded. Other people's plastered smiles and desperation to find something good began to jar. I did not want their embarrassed platitudes when the future had changed beyond all our expectations. It was then that I realised the positivity may be jaded but that little word hope was there, hiding at the bottom of my soul. I didn't have to pretend. It has been there in the darkest of days. It is hope that makes me put one foot in front of the other. It is hope that keeps me human. At times, the hope is small reaching: I hope to get the lunch made. At other times, my hope has no limits and I can dream that there will be an all-clear scan . What I have found hope to be is practical– it spurs me on. I know that for what I hope to happen, I have to complete an action. I must get out of bed, I have to make that appointment, I have to find the joy. And that, I hope, will find you too.