NOT YET

A few days ago, while discussing the plans for the upcoming academic year with a dear friend, I said, "I haven't decided yet." To which they replied, "Yet is hope!" Then they added, "I choose to find hope even in this sentence."

I paused for a moment. That silence made me realize something: Yet, which appears to be just a simple connecting word with no standalone meaning, could actually carry a sense of hope, no matter where you place it in a sentence. Of course, it all depends on perspective—some people say it and move on without thinking, perhaps without even realizing it. But it seems that certain words can divide people into two groups: those who choose hope and those who do not. Strange, isn’t it? People can separate themselves even based on the meaning they assign to a single word. Choosing the magical side of a word, shaping it into something that serves us well, ultimately reflects which direction our personal window opens to—where we choose to look.

Whether we see life through the same window or not determines the course and fate of our communication. This window is crucial in all relationships, from friendships to romantic connections. Its direction defines the foundation of our interactions. That’s why it also helps us distinguish between those who uplift us and those who drain our energy—people we’d rather not engage with. Because those we describe as "draining our energy" have windows that do not open to yet; hope has not seeped into their world. Just like a house without sunlight needs a doctor, their hearts have corners longing for healing.

Author Şermin Yaşar describes the hope within the word yet as "something that comes to pat us on the back." It reassures us, whispering that not now, but soon, it will happen. Unlike maybe, which keeps us waiting aimlessly, dragging us back and forth in an ocean of uncertainty, yet is filled with a warm, steady hope. There is a significant difference between saying "Maybe they will come" and "They haven't come yet." The former carries the possibility of absence, while the latter radiates certainty—it is just a matter of time. Yet teaches us patience, and patience is perhaps the one virtue that city dwellers struggle the most to develop.

Waiting is directly related to what we nurture in the process. Do we cultivate hope or feed our anxieties? Do we amplify the positive, or do we sink into the weight of endless "what-ifs"? What we choose to fill the waiting time with inevitably shapes the windows we open to life—often without us even realizing it. If we shape our waiting with hope and good thoughts, we intertwine our maybes with our yets, allowing them to run toward hope hand in hand, leading to a beautiful outcome.

As the word yet opens a window of hope in our lives, our wise old sycamore, Nazım Hikmet, smiles at us and immortalizes yet in his most beautiful verses:

The most beautiful sea:is the one we have not yet sailed.

The most beautiful child:is the one who has not yet grown.

Our most beautiful days:are the ones we have not yet lived.

And the most beautiful words I want to tell you:are the ones I have not yet spoken…