The Story Behind Hope

The Story Behind My Name

Before I ever had a story to tell, I had a name. My name is Hope.

My mother gave me that name long before she knew what our life together would look like. She was a single mother in the early 1970s, when that wasn’t something society embraced. Even more remarkable, she had been told by a doctor that she would never have children. She was one of many young women the doctor convinced they couldn’t conceive. Some were even encouraged to have hysterectomies. Thankfully, my mom trusted her instincts enough to wait.

She met my biological father while working at a neighborhood bar. They dated for a short time before she discovered she was pregnant. When she shared the news, he admitted he was married. He told her he would leave his wife. My mom told him not to. She chose a different path. She chose to raise me on her own. And because she never believed she would have a child at all, she named me Hope.

I was born in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in July of 1972. We lived in a small coach house behind another family’s home in nearby Conestoga. We didn’t have much, but we had music. My mom loved it so much that there were speakers placed in my crib. Before I could speak, music surrounded me. Looking back, I think it became part of who I am.

Then, before I was even old enough to remember it, life reminded us how fragile hope can be.

As I was learning to walk, I pulled myself up on the family dog that lived at the main house. The dog attacked me, biting my face just inches from my trachea. I came terrifyingly close to losing my life. But I didn’t. And maybe that’s where this story really begins.

Throughout my life there have been moments when, looking back, I can only describe them as grace. Times when doors opened that shouldn’t have. Times when I was protected when the outcome could have been very different. Moments that reminded me I was never walking through life alone.

I’ve often felt like I have a guardian angel who has quietly been showing up, over and over again. That’s why this blog is called Hope Speaks. Not because my life has been easy. Not because I have all the answers. But because I’ve learned that hope isn’t wishful thinking. Hope is choosing to believe that even in our hardest moments, our story isn’t over.

This is where I’ll share those stories: the funny ones, the painful ones, the lessons I’ve learned as a teacher, leader, wife, mother, friend, and lifelong learner. If something I write helps one person hold on a little longer, laugh a little harder, or believe in themselves a little more… 

Then hope spreads.

Welcome. I’m so glad you’re here.