Where Hope Finds Me

This morning, Max and I step onto the trail, the crisp fall air clearing my head with that first clean breath. The light is beautiful — soft, golden, the kind that makes everything feel freshly possible.

Before we reach the bend, the llamas and goats rush the fence — their chaotic little welcome. Max lifts his tail high, pretending to be brave, but lets out that tiny chipmunk whimper he saves for moments he can’t process. The cows look up from the far field, steady and slow, taking us in like a mild curiosity.

We walk on, and the quiet suddenly splits open.

A herd of deer bursts across the path — swift, certain — the daddy leading with a full, gleaming rack that catches the morning light like a signal. The others follow in a muted thunder of hooves before dissolving back into the trees.

Max stands frozen beside me, breath held.

And then the world softens.

A calf steps out — small, unsure — its mouth still slick with milk. It presses into its mother and nurses again, instinctive and unashamed. She stands rooted, patient, a quiet offering of everything essential.

Something shifts in me — that small loosening that happens when life reminds you it still knows how to care for itself.

Hope, understated and steady.

Max nudges my ankle, still making his little chipmunk whine.

And together, we turn back to the trail, the morning wider than it was.

Moving forward.