
Painting : Pandora (1896), John William Waterhouse (public domain)
“Hope is the result of confusing the desire that something should take place with the probability that it will.Perhaps no man is free from this folly of the heart.”
— Schopenhauer, Parerga and Paralipomena (Vol. 2, “On the Vanity of Existence”), 1851
Indeed, hope is perhaps the most universally shared irrational trait of human nature. I am especially fond of the expression “folly of the heart,” for it often reflects my own stirrings of hope: a desire, an aspiration of the heart—an almost vital impulse that defies reason and rationality. Sometimes, I believe it takes courage to dare to hope—unless it’s hope that gives us courage. Either way, I cannot help but see beauty, and perhaps even a kind of heroism, in this reckless, romantic gesture of a heart defying a rational mind.
Have you ever wondered whether we truly need hope? Does hope benefit us, or does it deceive us? Does the very act of hoping not already include the potential for disappointment?
In our era, hope is often regarded as motivational and supportive—an antidote to despair, a way to confront difficult and uncertain circumstances. We are encouraged to adopt hope as a positive approach to life.
Hoping for a better future enables one to carry on living, sometimes even to survive the worst circumstances. In The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank wrote:
“Where there’s hope, there’s life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again.”
— Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl, 1947
In today’s society, the ability to inspire hope also acts as a lever in politics and economics. A leader must evoke hope to win votes or attract investors—and it often doesn’t matter whether this hope is realistic, whether it is based on truth or on nothing at all.
For Schopenhauer, hope was merely a natural tendency that reflects the human will to live—one that confuses the mind, distorts thoughts, and ultimately heightens our suffering.
The Cruel Gift of Hope
I find it hard to decide whether hope sustains or deceives. The Greeks were comfortable leaving this question unresolved, embracing both views simultaneously. This is illustrated by the myth of Pandora (“all-gifted”). The story goes that after the Titan Prometheus (“forethought”) stole fire for humans, Zeus devised a long-term punishment for mankind. He ordered Hephaestus, the craftsman of the gods, to fashion a woman, Pandora, from earth and water. The gods endowed her with many gifts—beauty, skill, craftsmanship, persuasion, curiosity, and a deceitful mind. Zeus gave her a sealed jar containing all the hardships kept from mankind. Pandora was not told what was inside; she was only warned not to open it. She was then sent to Epimetheus (“afterthought”), Prometheus’s brother. Although Prometheus had warned him not to accept any gift from Zeus, Epimetheus welcomed Pandora. She lived with him among humans, carrying the jar. But as she was created with curiosity and persuasion as part of her nature, she eventually opened it—and when she did, all the evils inside—disease, suffering, sorrow—escaped into the world. Realising what had happened, Pandora quickly closed the jar, trapping Elpis (Hope) inside.
This myth explains why human life is filled with suffering and why, despite everything, humans keep moving forward with hope—whether as a comfort or a cruel illusion.
However, Elpis (Ἐλπίς) in ancient Greek is more nuanced than the English idea of “hope,” which usually emphasises a positive outcome. Elpis signifies expectation or anticipation; it does not necessarily imply positivity.
For Nietzsche, hope functions to extend human endurance in suffering rather than challenge or transform it. Reflecting on the Pandora myth, he writes:
“…Now man has this box of happiness perpetually in the house and congratulates himself upon the treasure inside of it; it is at his service: he grasps it whenever he is so disposed… Hence he looks upon the one evil still remaining as the greatest source of happiness—it is hope.—… it is, in truth, the greatest of evils, for it lengthens the ordeal of man.”
— Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits (Vol. 1, Aphorism 71), 1878
In this light, hope is no longer merely a comforting companion; it becomes a complex force that keeps humans tethered to suffering, constantly yearning, anticipating instead of confronting the reality that surrounds them.
Hope, Fear, and the Promise of Salvation
For the Stoics, Elpis is paired with Phobos (fear). Both stem from attachment to uncertain future outcomes, and both disturb inner tranquility. Therefore, hope is regarded as a kind of ill—a soft chain or an obstacle to action.
“Cease to hope and you will cease to fear. The primary cause of both these ills is that instead of adapting ourselves to present circumstances we send our thoughts too far ahead.”
— Seneca, Letters to Lucilius, Letter 5, 65 CE
The Stoic mind aims to build resilience, focusing solely on what it can control: perceptions, choices, and actions. For the Stoics, hope has nothing to do with optimism. In fact, optimism diverts one from true hope, which should stem solely from resilience, discipline, and purposeful action.
With Christianity, hope became a positive, virtuous, and moralised emotion, grounded in the promise of salvation. Unlike the Greeks, Christians see hope as entirely good—a faith-based expectation that encourages righteous action.
“Now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:13, Saint Paul
In this context, hope shifts from a potential source of delusion or suffering to a moral compass, a spiritual resource that guides behaviour and sustains courage in the face of life’s uncertainties. It is no longer merely a psychological phenomenon; it becomes a virtue, inseparable from faith and ethical living.
Beyond Hope: Equanimity and Action
From a yogic viewpoint, we might ask: can hope exist alongside the practice of yoga?
In the Yoga Sutra, Patanjali describes contentment (santoṣa) as one of the five Niyamas—ethical observances—that a yogi must nurture on the journey of yoga. In Chapter 2, Sadhana Pada, he writes:
śauca-saṃtoṣa-tapaḥ svādhyāya-īśvara-praṇidhānāni niyamāḥ ||32||
“Cleanliness, contentment, self-discipline, self-study, and dedication to the Lord are the observances.” — Translation, YogaStudies.orgsaṃtoṣāt-anuttamaḥ sukha-lābhaḥ ||42||
“From contentment, unsurpassed happiness is attained.” — Translation, YogaStudies.org
A contented mind is more stable and focused, more inclined to meditation, and thus better able to reach higher states of yoga. However, hope—being tied to future outcomes or desires—appears difficult to reconcile with the practice of contentment.
The Bhagavad Gita (BG) presents an interesting path that resonates strongly with Stoic thought. In Chapter 2, Krishna enjoins Arjuna to act with equanimity:
karmaṇy evādhikāras te mā phaleṣu kadācana |
mā karma-phala-hetur bhūr mā te saṅgo’stv akarmaṇi || 47 ||
“You have the right to work, but never to the fruit of work. You should never engage in action for the sake of reward, nor should you long for inaction.” — Easwaran, 2007yoga-sthaḥ kuru karmāṇi saṅgaṃ tyaktvā dhanañjaya |
siddhy-asiddhyoḥ samo bhūtvā samatvaṃ yoga ucyate || 48 ||
“Perform work in this world, Arjuna, as a person established within himself, without selfish attachments, and alike in success and defeat. For yoga is perfect evenness of mind.” — Easwaran, 2007
The Gita teaches that the yogi should perform duty with skill and effort while cultivating contentment to stay undisturbed by success or failure. Similarly, Stoicism stresses focusing only on what is within one’s control—choices and actions—thereby transforming expectation into rational engagement in the present. In both systems, hope is replaced by equanimity, turning action into a source of discipline and inner peace.
In this context, hope becomes unnecessary, even pointless. However, can it ever be entirely forsaken in human experience? Or does the mind, by its nature, persist in reaching forward, yearning for outcomes beyond its control?