Hope springs eternal, even for hopeless crusades.

The words of Kayleigh McEnany, “Hope springs eternal, even for hopeless crusades,” carry the eternal rhythm of the human spirit—a song sung in defiance of despair. They speak to the ancient truth that hope, though fragile as a flame, is the one light that darkness cannot swallow. It is the power that rises when all strength fails, the heartbeat that endures after dreams have fallen silent. Even when reason declares a battle lost, hope remains, whispering, “Try once more.” In this, McEnany’s words stand not merely as comfort, but as a call to courage.

The phrase itself draws from a lineage of wisdom stretching back through the centuries. The original seed, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” was penned by the poet Alexander Pope in the eighteenth century, capturing the belief that within the soul of man, hope renews itself like a well that never runs dry. McEnany, in echoing this truth, adds the weight of realism—the acknowledgment that even when the struggle seems futile, the crusade still summons us to act. For it is not success that sanctifies the struggle, but the refusal to surrender the heart to despair.

Hope has always been the companion of the impossible. In every age, those who changed the course of history began as dreamers condemned by their contemporaries as mad or doomed. Consider the tale of Joan of Arc, a young peasant girl who rose from obscurity to lead an army under divine conviction. Her crusade was, by all earthly accounts, hopeless—a child defying empires, a voice crying in a storm. Yet her faith and hope burned so fiercely that it ignited a nation’s will. Though she was martyred by fire, her spirit triumphed, and her mission lived beyond her death. So it is with all “hopeless crusades”: though they seem to fail, they often sow the seeds of future victory.

To say that “hope springs eternal” is not to deny hardship, but to proclaim resilience. The spring does not flow because life is easy—it flows because life is hard. The harder the rock, the stronger the current must be to carve its way through. McEnany’s words remind us that even in the face of relentless defeat, hope renews itself, for it is woven into the very fabric of the soul. Empires fall, seasons change, dreams are shattered—but still, within the heart of humankind, the well of hope replenishes itself.

There is something sacred in hopelessness, too. For in the darkest hour, when every outward light is extinguished, the inner flame becomes pure. The heroes of every generation—those who stand for truth, justice, or compassion—have known this. They have fought not because they were sure of victory, but because their conscience demanded it. The hopeless crusade becomes, in truth, the holiest of missions: one fought not for gain, but for goodness. To fight on when defeat is certain is the ultimate expression of faith—not in the outcome, but in the righteousness of the cause.

In modern times, the world often worships success and mocks struggle. Yet McEnany’s words restore the ancient honor of perseverance. They tell us that even when the world calls something hopeless, hope itself is never defeated. For hope is not an emotion—it is a discipline, a choice renewed each morning, a vow made against despair. It is what moves the mother to comfort her child in war, the reformer to speak truth to power, the believer to pray though the heavens seem silent. Hope is the root from which all other virtues grow.

Lesson and Practice:
Hold fast to hope, even when the path seems lost. Do not measure your efforts only by success, but by the purity of your heart in striving. When you are weary, remember that the greatest lights in history once burned in the midst of darkness. Let your “hopeless crusades” become offerings of courage—acts of faith that echo beyond your lifetime. For the spring of hope flows from a source deeper than circumstance; it is the divine pulse of life itself. And as long as you breathe, that spring remains within you—eternal, unbroken, ready to rise again.