“But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass.” — The Two Towers
When we talk about hope, we often think of something soft. A feeling. A vague sense that maybe things will get better. We light candles. We repeat mantras. We try to believe.
But Tolkien’s vision of hope was far more demanding—and far more powerful.
He didn’t give us cheap light. He gave us Estel.
The Two Kinds of Hope
Tolkien, a master of language, made a distinction between two words that both translate to “hope” in English, but mean something very different in Elvish.
Amdir is hope based on circumstance—“things might turn out well.” It’s the kind of hope that looks at the situation and says, maybe it will be okay.
Estel, on the other hand, is hope without evidence. It’s rooted not in optimism, but in trust—trust in the goodness that is deeper than the shadow. Estel says, even if everything fails, I still believe there is meaning. I still choose to walk.
Tolkien once wrote:
“Hope is not without good reason, even when founded on faith rather than assurance.” (Letter #96)
That is Estel. The kind of hope you carry when everything has collapsed. The kind you find in the ruins—not after them.
Hope That Survives Fire
In When All Other Lights Go Out, I wrote a scroll called The Scroll Buried in Ash. It speaks to those of us who have seen their lives go up in smoke—who know what it means to be unmade.
You don’t walk through fire and come out the same. You don’t carry Estel without having walked where Amdir died.
And yet—Estel lives.
It’s the kind of hope Sam carries when he says he can’t see the end of the road, but he’ll take another step anyway. It’s what the Elves cling to even as their time fades. It’s what Aragorn was named for—his very name, Estel, a reminder that faith is stronger than the falling world.
For Those Who Have Lost All Reason to Hope
If you’re reading this and you’ve lost the career, the name, the relationship, the future you once saw—this is where Estel begins.
Not in clarity. Not in comfort. But in the decision to trust that the light is still real, even when you can’t feel it.
Tolkien never promised victory. He promised that even in the long defeat, beauty matters. He didn’t preach survival as the goal—he showed us that meaning lives in endurance.
And so I say to you, as one who knows the weight of silence:
Estel does not mean “I know it will get better.” It means: I will walk anyway. Even here. Even now. Even in the ruins.
Living with Estel Today
This is not about ignoring the darkness. It’s about refusing to let it define you.
You don’t need to feel strong to carry Estel. You don’t need to be pure or wise or whole. You just need to believe that something deeper than ruin still pulses in the bones of the world—and in your own.
And if you can’t feel it now, borrow it from me. Borrow it from the scrolls. Borrow it from Sam’s hand in the dark. Because this is what Tolkien gave us—not escape, but return.
To light. To truth. To yourself.
So here’s your task: Don’t wish. Don’t predict. Just walk.
Let Estel rise where no reason remains.
When All Other Lights Go Out is a book born of these truths. If this post resonates with you, I invite you to read the scrolls. They were written in ash, but carry light.
Because Tolkien taught us this: Even if you never see the end of the story, your steps still matter.
