Hope

Photo by Carl Hunley Jr on Unsplash

I’ve taken a step back from writing these past couple of weeks.

The work we do as donation advocates is heavy. There’s no way around that. Add to that the constant pressure, the ever-changing government regulations, the weight of public scrutiny, the accusations that we are somehow less than what we are called to be, and yes, even the internal disagreements among colleagues…it can become overwhelming. There are moments when the noise feels louder than the purpose.

When I first began writing my book, Anatomy of a Yes, it wasn’t meant to be a book. In fact, it was nothing more than my journal. A simple recommendation from my counselor: write it down. Process it. Make sense of it. Over time, it became something more—a way to honor the donors and the families who entrusted us with their stories. This space was born out of that same desire: to offer a real, unfiltered look into the life of a donation advocate.

And today, I find myself coming back to one word: Hope.

In my first year as a donor advocate, I met a young man’s family. He had struggled with addiction and died from an overdose. He was young—far too young.

I sat with his sister and her husband. They were devout Catholics. Grieving, but grounded in something deeper than the moment in front of them.

We talked. We sat in silence. We walked through the impossible together.

And they chose to give.

Every year since that day, on the anniversary of our meeting, I receive a text message from his sister. It’s always simple. No long explanation. No updates. Just a prayer.

A prayer for me.

A prayer for the work.

A prayer for every donor advocate who walks into those rooms.

Nothing more.

Just an acknowledgment that what we do matters, and that what their loved one gave still matters.

There was a moment not long ago when I was ready to call it quits. The weight of everything felt like too much. The noise had gotten loud. The purpose felt distant.

And then my phone lit up.

It was her.

The same message. The same prayer.

A reminder.

Hope doesn’t always come in big, sweeping moments. Sometimes it comes quietly, in a text message you didn’t know you needed. Sometimes it comes from a family that chose to see beyond their pain. Sometimes it comes from a life that the world might have overlooked—but a family refused to let it be defined by its ending.

The real work… it happens in places most people will never see.

The headlines will never capture it. The criticism will never understand it. And that’s okay.

We are not meant to explain it.

We are meant to carry it.

And in that quiet, sacred work—there is still hope.