From Hope to Faith

At a recent retreat, my group leader asked a simple question: “What’s your word for the year?” It caught me off guard. If she had asked me that question last year, I would have answered without hesitation: hope. It was something I held onto strongly and almost instinctively. But somewhere along the way, I lost it. Not all at once, but slowly and quietly. By the end of the year, hope also felt like something I had let go of.

So I sat with the question for a bit. And the word that came to me this time was faith.

It’s interesting, because “faith” is something I’ve said lightly in the past. I remember telling someone I cared about, more than once, “Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith.” Back then, I think I meant it in a hopeful way. But I don’t think I fully understood what that actually requires from you. It’s easy to say that when life is stable, when things are working out and when the ground beneath you feels steady. But I’ve come to realize that faith isn’t really tested in those moments. It’s tested when things fall apart.

A couple of months ago, I found myself talking about this with a good friend, trying to make sense of what I was feeling and why things that once felt certain now felt distant. That’s when she gave me the book “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist”. I didn’t go into it trying to find answers to everything. I just read it as I was. What stayed with me was a simple thought — that everyone places their faith somewhere. Even choosing not to believe rests on something. That didn’t suddenly clear things up for me, but it made me pause and think more honestly about where I was placing mine.

Lent has always been a part of my life growing up. Back then, it was clear and structured. Abstaining from meat, following what was taught and waiting for Easter. After moving to the US, life changed, but in some ways, it stayed simple, even to this day. I didn’t really think much about Lent anymore. Life was already simple in a lot of ways, and I guess I told myself that was enough. This year felt different. Being around others, the question came up naturally — what are you giving up this Lent? I didn’t overthink it, but I chose to give up something I genuinely enjoy. It might seem small, but it made me more aware of how often I reach for comfort without even realizing it, and how much of my day runs on habits I don’t question. In that small act of giving something up, I found myself pausing more, noticing more, and sitting a little longer with things I would usually avoid.

Someone once asked me what I usually look forward to during Easter. My answer used to be simple — the food. Appam and Stew, Biryani, the kind of meal that feels earned after weeks of restraint. But I think I understand that a little differently now. What makes it meaningful isn’t just the celebration itself, but everything that leads up to it. The waiting changes how you experience joy. Over time, I’ve also realized that not all seasons carry the same kind of meaning. Some feel light and easy to hold onto. Others take you through things you didn’t expect. Easter has started to mean more to me because of that. Because, Easter doesn’t begin with celebration. It begins with sacrifice. With betrayal. With pain that doesn’t make sense in the moment. It carries the weight of what Jesus went through — not avoiding suffering, but walking through it fully. And yet, it doesn’t end there. The resurrection doesn’t erase what came before, but it gives it meaning. It reminds us that even when something feels lost, the story isn’t over.

Looking back over the past year, I think I’ve started to understand that in my own life, even if only in small ways. To let go of things I thought would stay. To sit with uncertainty longer than I would like. To keep moving, even when I don’t have clear answers. I don’t think I have everything figured out. But for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m not standing still anymore. There’s a quiet sense that I’m moving in the right direction, even if I can’t fully see where it leads yet.

If last year was about holding onto hope, this year feels more like learning to walk with faith. And maybe that’s what this season is reminding me — that even in the waiting, even in the silence, even when things don’t unfold the way I hoped, God is still present in the middle of it all, shaping things in ways I don’t fully understand yet. Easter reminds me that the story didn’t end at the cross. And maybe that’s what I’m still learning to trust — that what feels unfinished or uncertain right now is not where it ends. May this Easter bring you that same quiet reminder, and a hope that stays with you long after the season ends.