Hope is another of those universally recognized but poorly defined concepts discussed in the Glossary Introduction. The feelings associated with hope, and with the lack of it — hopelessness — are so palpable that they make examining the cognitive mechanics of hope seem redundant. It is not. Understanding hope’s rational underpinnings is essential for deliberately cultivating and protecting it.
The following discussion aims to contribute to the understanding of the cognitive, i.e., rational, underpinnings of hope. (Coincidentally, I hope that you will find it useful.)
The Merits of Hope
Feeling hopeful is unquestionably positive and pleasant. Conversely (and equally obviously), feeling hopeless is negative and painful. This can be attributed to the impact of hope on the way we relate to the future: Without hope, the future is daunting — an anxiety-provoking threat; add hope, and it becomes inviting and exciting. The change extends far beyond merely the “feel-good” effect. Hope subconsciously supports some of the most important elements in the pursuit of happiness — freedom, acceptance, patience, tolerance, and compassion.
Hope and Freedom: Freedom of choice and, by extension, freedom itself hinge on hope. Volitional acts are taken only when the actor recognizes a likelihood for the action to be successful — that is, when the actor has hope that the act will yield some reward. The alternative — the choice to take an action that has no chance to succeed is, at best, irrational.
Actions considered to have no chance of success, i.e., hopelessly futile acts, are normally avoided. If, for some reason, a hopeless act cannot be avoided, the actor experiences it as a forced action rather than as the exercise of free will. (The exception to the rule is in actions taken on a principle. That is, an action considered doomed to fail may be chosen freely as an expression of one’s moral, ethical, or religious values; typically, the circumstances behind such actions are dire, and thankfully, scenarios in which freedom of choice is exercised by taking hopeless actions are rare.)
The link between hope and freedom of choice is illustrated in the course of major depression: Hopelessness is a very common feature of depressive disorders — the brain’s capacity to generate hope appears to diminish with increasing severity of the disorder (Beck et al., 1979). With worsening symptoms, depressed patients typically become increasingly passive, progressively avoiding activities. In very severe cases, patients experience a “mental paralysis”, whereby they cease nearly all activities, spending days on end in bed. This paralysis is typically the result of extreme hopelessness rather than lethargy or other symptoms of the condition (which, of course, make matters worse). Patients in that state report an overwhelming sense of futility at the thought of taking any action, a result of the oppressive hopelessness that dominates their thought process. In a state of hopelessness, actions are perceived as doomed to fail; if they cannot be avoided, they are experienced as forced and thus as a source of struggle.
The mental steps leading to the paralysis of major depression are readily traceable: Volitional actions are conditioned on the actor having an incentive to act — a justification for making the required effort. Incentive, in turn, is conditioned on hope: With no hope for a desired outcome, i.e., when an action is doomed to fail, there is no incentive to act (notwithstanding the exception mentioned above). Since hopeless actions are futile, and investing in futility is irrational, the depressed patients’ passivity actually makes sense. The point here is that the patients’ paralysis arises from pathological hopelessness rather than an impairment of the choice-making process (which may be intact or may be affected by the disorder). Extreme hopelessness can render the mere effort that is required to go on living seem futile, which unfortunately contributes to the appeal of suicide.
Hope and Acceptance: Acceptance is a critically important psychological capacity, as it is a prerequisite for a functional relationship with everything we experience as part of the present. Acceptance of reality is not optional if one is to function effectively — all its alternatives (denial, rejection, dissociation) impede functioning to varying degrees.
Acceptance is effortless and automatic as long as that which is being accepted is experienced as neutral or better (i.e., painless or pleasurable). However, acceptance of difficult, painful circumstances can be a challenge, the magnitude of which is proportional to the intensity of the pain and suffering involved.
Acceptance of a difficult reality is supported by tolerance (of the pain and suffering therein). Hope eases the challenge of tolerance: It is easier to tolerate pain when one is confident that it will lessen or cease with time. Conversely, hopelessness undermines acceptance — the conviction that a pain will not improve, that it will persist or become worse, adds to the hardship of tolerating it. Without hope, tolerance becomes resignation, and then acceptance becomes surrender.
Hope and Compassion: The link between hope and compassion is based on the same principle (because the centerpiece of compassion is the capacity to accept someone exactly as they are, as discussed in the Happiness chapter). Accepting someone exactly as they are while they cause us discomfort or pain can be difficult. Consequently, the more problematic a person is, the more difficult it is to sustain compassion toward them. Tolerance of the discomfort or pain caused by a problematic person is a condition for accepting them as they are. A lack of tolerance for the discomfort or pain negates compassion. Without hope for their future improvement, accepting a problematic person as they are can amount to pity or giving up on them; both are forms of withholding compassion.
The Logic of Hope
As mentioned above, the ability to influence hope by design requires understanding its logic, its “mechanics”. Establishing the definition of hope is a good place to start the process of acquiring this understanding.
Clarifying its distinction from optimism is a useful step toward defining hope: Optimism is the conviction that the future will be better than the present. Given that the future is non-negotiably unknowable, a conviction of the specific makings of any future cannot be justified. In other words, it is simply impossible to predict the future with certainty (with a few unattractive exceptions — suffering, death, and uncertainty). Optimism, then, is based on the denial of the reality that the future cannot be foretold with certainty. Hence, optimism is illusory. It feels good, but it is irrational (just as is its opposite, pessimism).
Hope, in comparison, is defined as the conviction that the future may be better than the present. The difference (between “will” and “may”) is small, yet its implications are profound. Optimism is a conviction that the future will become a desired present. Hope is a conviction that the future has the potential to support movement in a desired direction.
The rational underpinnings of hope originate in the simple fact that (at any given present) the future doesn’t yet exist. This not only precludes knowing it with certainty, but it means that until the future materializes (i.e., until it becomes the present), it is only a potential. As such, the realization that the future may turn out to be better than the present, i.e., having hope, is always on a solid foundation. Of course, this realization is inseparable from the realization that the future may turn out worse than the present, which inevitably diminishes the appeal of hope relative to the appeal of optimism. In this regard, optimism is like psychological candy — sweet, but without much nutritional value. Hope, in comparison, is like psychological fruit — perhaps not as sweet, but much healthier and better for you than candy.
The law of impermanence guarantees change. The specifics of the change are unknowable, which is to say that the future has (to be precise, the future is) the potential to materialize into any imaginable (and unimaginable) scenario, as long as it does not violate any law of nature. In other words, the potential of any (present) circumstances to improve is an inherent consequence of uncertainty; hence — Where there is uncertainty, there is hope; and conversely, where there is certainty, there is no room for hope. Thankfully, the future’s uncertainty is certain (a reality Alexander Pope captured when he wrote that “hope springs eternal in the human breast” (Pope, 1734)).
Failure to distinguish between optimism and hope is linked to the failure to distinguish between expectations and aspirations. Optimism breeds expectations; hope breeds aspirations. Expectations are associated with specific and detailed images of future outcomes. Aspirations are associated with less specific visions of the future — an aspiration focuses on the direction of change rather than on its outcome. By focusing on a desired outcome, an expectation invites attachment to it. An aspiration, by focusing on the journey — the process — invites a commitment to it.
The distinction between expectations and aspirations is of the utmost practical importance. Expectations are the cause of the pain of disappointment. As a matter of fact, to experience disappointment, one must first have an expectation. By inviting attachments, optimism is a setup for the pain of disappointment. Hope, in comparison, may be associated with pain only when it is contaminated by expectations. Pure hope cannot cause pain.
Common expressions such as “don’t get your hopes up” attest to the prevalence of the failure to distinguish between optimism (and expectations) and hope (and aspirations). Failure to distinguish between optimism and hope readily leads to the rejection of both, driven by the wish to avoid the pain of disappointment. The rejection of hope is an unaffordable mistake, given its role in the human condition in general, and in the pursuit of happiness specifically.
The Barriers to Hope
If hope is indeed so simple, rational, and important, why are we not automatically better at it? The answer is multifactorial. The first factor is the instinctive reaction to uncertainty: We are conflicted about hope because uncertainty — the prerequisite for hope — elicits discomfort. The fact that the future has an inherent potential to be better than the present (moreover, the future has the potential to be better than the best imaginable future), which supports hope, is inseparable from the fact that the future has an inherent potential to turn out worse than the present (and worse than the worst imaginable future), which contributes to an ambivalence about hope.
Moreover, acknowledging the fact that the future is uncertain is synonymous with acknowledging the lack of control over it, which is inherently anxiety-provoking. Anxiety triggers reflexive avoidance. Avoiding dealing with something inevitably gets in the way of developing mastery of it. Making matters worse, the wish, or the reflex, to avoid something that is unavoidable (such as the uncertainty of the future) results in an internal conflict, charging the ambivalence about hope with added tension.
Sustaining hope then requires resolving the inner conflict and enduring the discomfort it can elicit. This, in turn, requires a level of psychological maturity. Maturing (unlike aging) demands more effort than just allowing the passage of time. The specific psychological maturation relevant to hope is fraught with unique challenges.
Children (and childish, or immature, adults) are very receptive to the guaranteed promise of a better future, and are thus prone to optimism (and pessimism) rather than to hope. The guarantee that “everything will be alright” or “everything will turn out just fine” (especially coming from a powerful and trustworthy source, such as a parent or a parent-figure) has a considerable seductive appeal.
Recurring parental reassurances that the future will be fine (or better) are part of normal childhood (and infantilizing political campaigns). Loving parents deliver such reassurances instinctively to soothe and comfort their beloved children. Obviously, and with no exception, these messages are unfounded — who can back up the guarantee that in the future “everything will be fine”? (A realistic, hope-compatible message would be along the lines of “everything may turn out to be alright”, but realism is not central to these parent-child interactions.)
Repeated childhood exposure to promises that ensure a positive future may be unavoidable, but not inconsequential. Inevitably, the parental guarantees of a good future are exposed as unfounded, amounting to nothing more than false advertising. It should not be surprising that these countlessly repeated experiences, in which a trusted, sweet message turns out to be a fallacy, would have far-reaching consequences.
Against this background, the angst of adolescence and the anger adolescents typically and confusingly aim at their parents makes (some) sense. The exposure of the repeated promises that “everything will be alright” as deceitful causes painful disillusionment and disappointment. The residual craving for a guaranteed good future adds insult to injury.
The corrective message is simple, but not easy to deliver or to digest. For normal parents, owning up to the fact that the future cannot be guaranteed to be positive elicits discomfort, similar to the discomfort associated with debunking other childhood fantasies, such as the exposure of Santa Claus and the tooth fairy as not real.
Delivering the truth about the future’s uncertainty is more complicated and problematic than delivering the truth about most other childhood fantasies, for a number of reasons: Firstly, the practical implications of the future’s uncertainty are much more serious than the implications of the fictitious nature of Santa Claus and fairies. Secondly, the explicit (and often, emphatic) guarantee of a better future is made much more frequently (than once a year, in Santa’s case) and repeatedly (than twenty times or so, in the case of the tooth fairy). The high frequency with which children are promised that the future is guaranteed to be welcoming amplifies the pain caused by the discovery of the truth. And thirdly, the guarantee of a better future is powerfully rewarding — it has a calming effect similar to the effect of a powerful anti-anxiety drug (particularly for a child facing physical and/or mental pain). Consequently, it readily supports the formation of a habit (it is a fundamental behavioral-psychology principle that rewarding experiences create an appetite for repeated doses, often leading to the development of a dependency). Putting it together suggests that loving parents unintentionally promote in their children an appetite for the guarantee of a positive future that can manifest as a persistent craving for certainty that genuine hope cannot satisfy.
Therefore, it shouldn’t be surprising that, by the time we reach adulthood, many of us have a conflicted take on hope. We crave the guarantee that in the future “everything will be fine,” but as adults, we can’t accept it (regardless of its source, be it our own brain or an external one). Furthermore, the realistic alternative — genuine hope — is not only less attractive than the illusion of optimism, it is also unpracticed, and thus it tends to “not feel natural” or “feel foreign”. The bottom line here is that the prevailing, normal childhood relationship with the future gets in the way of developing a correct understanding of hope, which, in turn, interferes with developing mastery of it.
Another hurdle on the road to mastering hope stems from a functional issue: Relating to the future rationally requires the use of statistical operations. Realistically contemplating the future can only be done in terms of likelihoods or probabilities. In other words, a rational consideration of the future is a statistical endeavor; it requires an analysis of the odds of different imaginable scenarios materializing. Correspondingly, our brains have evolved to perform statistical calculations continuously and with such ease that, most of the time, they occur subconsciously, i.e., without awareness of it happening at all (which frees up precious space on the screen of consciousness).
One of the brain’s “built-in” statistical functions allows it to round likelihoods up (to 100%) or down (to 0%) (Kahneman, 2011). The ability to round high probabilities up and low probabilities down is immensely useful for fast-paced decision-making. But it comes with a cost (nature doesn’t offer free lunches): Rounding off high and low probabilities can undermine hope by inviting the illusion of certainty. Rounding a high likelihood up to 100% supports the notion that the associated events are guaranteed to happen, with certainty; rounding a low likelihood down (to 0%) supports the notion that the associated events are guaranteed not to happen, with certainty.
The powerful appeal of (the illusion of) certainty, together with the fact that the brain typically conducts its statistical operations subconsciously, creates conditions that invite the illusion of certainty, negating hope. Rounding probabilities up or down is justifiable in the name of “practical purposes”. Lack of awareness of the rounding-off step is unjustifiable if it leads to embracing the illusion of certainty. It is an easy mistake to make, but as a threat to hope, its consequences are unaffordable.
REFERENCES
Beck, A. T., Rush, A. J., Shaw, B. F., & Emery, G. (1979). Cognitive therapy of depression. Guilford Press.
Kahneman, D. (2011). Thinking, fast and slow. Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
Pope, A. (1734). An essay on man.