My state of esperanza is my mom’s kitchen. I know that sounds simple but it’s true. Growing up, no matter what was going on, if we were all in there talking and eating, it felt like we could get through it.

Mine is my garden in late summer. I’m not even very good at gardening. But there is something about taking care of one small thing over time and seeing that it mattered.

Back porch, evening, dog asleep, little breeze. That’s it.

Probably sounds cheesy but mine is whenever family is all together and nobody is in a rush. That kind of thing means a lot more to me now than it used to.

Mine is my grandpa’s old place. It wasn’t pretty or anything. But it felt steady, and when I think about a place where hope exists, that’s what comes to mind.