Optimism will save you. But it will also test you.

Someone said something to me recently that stayed with me longer than I expected. She said, “I admire your optimism. You’ve been hurt so many times by people, and you still believe in them.” And I smiled, because I understood what she meant. It is a compliment. There is something beautiful about still choosing to see light in people, still choosing to believe in goodness, still choosing hope even when you have every reason not to. I am still guarded but I am proud of the progress I have made, I have allowed people to come into my life. What I’ve come to understand—slowly, honestly—is that optimism is not just a soft, glowing strength. It’s a powerful force. And like anything powerful, it can both hold you together… and quietly pull you into places you shouldn’t stay. I think a lot of people misunderstand optimism. They think it means you haven’t seen enough of life yet. That you’re naive, untouched, unaware of how painful things can be. But in my experience, the opposite is true. The most optimistic people I know are not the ones who’ve lived easy lives—they are the ones who have endured, who have lost, who have been broken open by life and somehow chose to rebuild anyway. Because when life strips you down to your lowest moments, optimism stops being a personality trait. It becomes survival.

There have been seasons in my life where everything felt like it was falling apart at once. Where loss didn’t come in small, manageable pieces—it came all at once, layered, overwhelming, relentless. Moments where you don’t even have time to process one thing before the next arrives. And in those seasons, you don’t sit there and carefully decide to be optimistic. You have to be. It becomes the only way forward. It sounds like a quiet voice in your head saying, “You will be okay. You will figure it out.” Not because you’re certain. Not because you have a plan. But because you have no other option. And that kind of optimism? It is powerful. It will carry you through things you didn’t think you would survive. It will hold you when everything else feels unstable. It will remind you, again and again, that you are capable of rebuilding, of starting over, of continuing. It is a lifeline. But what I’m learning now, in this more grounded, more aware season of my life, is that not all optimism is meant to be used everywhere. And this is where things get more complex. Because there is a version of optimism that is deeply healthy—the kind that tells you; you will be okay no matter what happens. The kind that keeps you moving forward, that anchors you within yourself, that reminds you that your life is bigger than any single moment. But then, there is another kind of optimism. The kind that keeps you in places you’ve already outgrown. The kind that makes you believe in potential more than reality. The kind that whispers, “Maybe this time will be different,” even when everything in front of you is telling you otherwise. The kind that convinces you to stay, to wait, to hope for change that may never come. And I’ve experienced that too. Especially in relationships.

There is something deeply human about wanting to believe in people. Wanting to believe that if someone says they will change, they will. Wanting to believe that love, effort, or patience will eventually shift things into place. I’ve found myself holding onto words, holding onto possibilities, projecting my optimism onto situations that, in reality, required acceptance—not hope. And that’s where optimism can quietly cost you. Because while you’re holding onto what could be, you are sometimes ignoring what is. And that can take time from you. Real time. Emotional energy. Pieces of yourself that you don’t even realise you’re giving away. I’ve had to sit with that truth in a very real way. To acknowledge that there were moments where my optimism wasn’t protecting me—it was keeping me stuck. Keeping me invested in things that were not aligned. Keeping me hopeful in situations that required me to walk away. And that realization is not easy. Because you don’t want to lose that part of yourself. That hopeful, believing, open-hearted part. You don’t want to become closed off, cynical, or guarded to the point where you no longer recognise yourself. But growth is not about losing your optimism. It’s about refining it. It’s about learning where to place it. Because the truth is, you should not place your optimism in whether someone else will change. You should not anchor your hope in someone else’s potential. That is not where your power lies. Your optimism should live within you. In your ability to leave when something is not working. In your belief that you will find something better aligned. In your trust that love, connection, and fulfilment exist for you—not in this specific situation, but in the right one.

Because love is not the problem. The situation is. And once you understand that, something shifts. You stop trying to force something to work just because you believe in it. You stop holding onto what isn’t meeting you where you are. You stop confusing hope with alignment. And instead, you begin to trust yourself more deeply. You begin to trust that walking away is not failure—it’s wisdom. That letting go is not giving up—it’s choosing better. That your optimism is not meant to keep you in places that drain you—it’s meant to guide you toward spaces that honour you. And that is where optimism becomes truly powerful again. Not as something you give away, but as something you stand in. A quiet, grounded belief that no matter what happens, you will be okay. That you will love again. That you will live again. That you will find your way—repeatedly, as many times as life asks you to. Because you always have. And that is something worth holding onto.