The Balance of Hope

I'm in the window right now. There's a small window that exists between hope and despair, and I'm in it.

I'm scared to hope, yet part of me wants to give myself completely over to the chance that this might be the month. I want to hold back now, so that it hurts less later; but then, I want to lean in, feel the breeze on my face, and dream of jumping, landing on the other side of all of this with bright eyes.  In times past, I've leaned in, I've felt the breeze, I've jumped and I've fallen down, down, down... the landing is always the hardest part.

But for right now, this month feels different. I don't know why, and I hope it's not wrong.

Hope is such a fickle thing. I hold it so tightly in my hand, yet I'm afraid to squeeze too tight lest it slip through my fingers. It's a delicate thing - a thing that shrinks with each new cramp, each new symptom - until my hand is empty, my womb is empty, and my eyes are full of saltwater.  Again.  I don't know how to strike the balance between hope and reality. How do I fully let myself fly while solidly anchored to the ground?