Hope Is Not Delusion

Holding On When the World Feels Unraveled

It’s hard to talk about hope without feeling naïve. Right now, the political climate is beyond discouraging — it’s dangerous. Basic freedoms that once felt foundational are under siege. Laws are being passed that strip people of their autonomy, their dignity, their ability to live freely and safely. Every day, we watch headlines that feel like warning signs from history books: authoritarian behavior normalized, dissent punished, and entire communities targeted or erased.

So what does it mean to hope in a time like this? How do we use that word — so often associated with sweetness and simplicity — without dishonoring the brutal truth of where we are?

The answer is: we redefine it.

Hope is not passive. It’s not blind optimism. It doesn’t mean pretending things are fine or trusting that they’ll work out without our effort. Hope is gritty. It is what drives people to organize, to resist, to care for each other in the dark. It’s the quiet rebellion of imagining a future where we are free — and working toward it even when everything says we shouldn’t bother.

There is nothing soft about hope. It’s the fuel behind protest marches and underground networks. It’s why we teach our children critical thinking, even when schools are told not to. It’s why we whisper the truth when the loudspeakers lie. It’s how we love each other when the world says we shouldn't. Hope is survival strategy. It is muscle. It is memory. It is imagination.

The people trying to destroy our freedoms want us to feel helpless. They want us so overwhelmed that we give up. So when we choose hope — not as an illusion, but as a choice to keep going — we are resisting that narrative. We are claiming space for ourselves and for each other.

Yes, everything feels heavy. Yes, it’s okay to be exhausted. Yes, it’s okay to be angry. But let’s not confuse despair with truth. Despair says, “This is the end.” Hope says, “This is the fight.”

And we are still fighting. We are still here.