ELIZABETH ELLAMES

This morning, I received a message in a dream, and it came to me three times—so clearly, so deliberately, that I knew it wasn’t fantasy or imagination.

The first time, I saw it written on the front of a greeting card, as if it had been given to me.

“The wings of Hope live in peace on an open heart.”

Then it appeared again, this time in a book, as though it were something already known, already recorded—something ancient or remembered rather than newly created.

And then, for the third time, it was whispered softly into my ear. Not spoken loudly, not announced—just placed gently into my awareness, as if it were something I was meant to carry, not question.

“The wings of Hope live in peace on an open heart.”

I felt the repetition was intentional. Three different forms—given, read, and heard—each one anchoring the message deeper into me. It wasn’t just something to notice. It was something to receive.

I have always felt that if we don’t have hope, we have nothing—and that would be the end of us. And in many ways, I still feel the truth of that. Because without hope, life can become heavy, directionless, and consumed by what we have lost or fear we may never regain.

But what I understand now is deeper and quieter. Hope is like an angel—something that gently supports and guides me through life. It doesn’t demand attention, and it doesn’t force its way in. It simply arrives, often in the moments when I need it most, even if I don’t realise it at first.

Without it, some of life’s sorrows would feel too overwhelming, too consuming. But Hope softens that weight. It doesn’t always remove the pain, but it gives me the strength to move with it, rather than be swallowed by it.

Hope is what steadies me when everything feels uncertain. It reminds me that what I am moving through is not the end of the story—that something beyond this moment still exists, even if I cannot yet see it.

It is also what allows me to heal. Not all at once, but gently, in layers. Hope creates a quiet space within me where healing becomes possible, even when I feel broken. And in that space, something begins to shift.

And then, slowly, it brings me back to life again. Not the same life as before, but a deeper one. A more conscious one. A life where I am not just surviving what has happened, but growing through it.

Now, hope to me is not just something I hold onto in desperation. It is a presence that lives within me. A quiet, guiding force that rests in peace, that moves with grace, and that asks only one thing of me—that I keep my heart open.

The dream didn’t just remind me that hope is essential. It showed me where hope lives.

Heart to Heart, Elizabeth