When I was diagnosed with liver cirrhosis and later on, HCC cancer, the world turned dim for my friends, loved ones, and myself. I remember feeling like all the brightness had drained out of my days. But over time, as I moved through the stages of diagnosis, treatment, waiting, and ultimately receiving a liver transplant, I came to see that hope wasn’t gone—it had simply changed colors.
Yellow Hope
My yellow hope is sunshine and forsythia. During one of the most difficult parts of my illness, my husband planted a row of forsythia bushes for my birthday. I could barely walk to the porch, but I sat and watched him dig, the bright yellow buds promising something better—even if I couldn’t feel it yet.
Later, after we sold our beloved farm and moved to the city, we found ourselves longing for the quiet again. We eventually bought a small patch of woods by the river. The man who bought our old farm gave us a clipping from those same forsythia bushes. We planted it in rocky soil, and every spring, it bursts into bloom. That bright yellow blaze of color is my reminder that hope is something deeply rooted. It can be transplanted. It can survive. It can thrive.
Red Hope
There were times during hepatitis C treatment when all I could hold onto was the fierce red hope—the kind that burns in your chest like a refusal to give up. Red hope is raw and passionate. It’s the hope that comes when you’re exhausted and afraid, but you show up to another doctor’s appointment anyway. And it’s the hope in your partner’s eyes when they say, “We’ll get through this.” It may not be calm or pretty, but it’s powerful. Red hope is fight.
Violet Hope
Sometimes, hope is soft and quiet, like violet at dusk. This kind of hope came to me in the long months after the transplant, when my body was healing but my spirit was unsure. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I had survived—but now what?
Violet hope is the kind that lets you sit in your grief, your confusion, your questions—and still gently tells you to keep breathing. It’s the hope that transformation is possible. That maybe this second chance is a canvas for something new.
Gray and Green Hope
Some days, hope is gray, almost like there is a muted lack of color. My husband and I love the colors of gray. It represents the kind of hope that shows up when you can’t imagine a bright future, but you still manage to get out of bed and make a cup of tea. Gray hope is not giving up.
And then there’s green hope—growth. Green hope is quiet progress. It’s the lab results that come back better than expected. It’s finding yourself laughing again, planting herbs in the backyard, or watching your grandchild play under a blue sky you didn’t think you’d see.
Hope Takes Many Forms
Hope doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a memory, a flower, or a hand to hold. It might not look like a cure or a miracle. It might look like one more sunrise.
As a survivor of liver cancer and a liver transplant recipient, I’ve learned that hope isn’t something that always feels good. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hides. But hope is always there, and it is waiting to be found. It is waiting for you to find it, feel it, and follow.
Hope is a spectrum of color. And in its many colors, we find the strength to live again.
