Remembering
At the end of last week, I watched the opening ceremonies of the Obama Presidential Center. Like many, I was struck by the joy that felt palpable—even through a screen—as people gathered to celebrate a moment larger than themselves.
I felt gratitude as I listened to Michelle and Barack Obama express an unwavering belief in the goodness of people and in the democratic ideals that continue to call us toward our better selves.
It felt meaningful, intelligent, and articulate.
It felt like a profound act of remembering.
Grief
That remembering inspired another feeling that is just as real. A feeling that I had suppressed – that many of us have suppressed – to make it through each day present and sane. As I listened to the Obamas articulate their hope for the future of our country, I wept. Not the quiet tears that come from being moved by someone’s words, but the kind of tears that are rooted in profound grief.
I know I am frustrated by how often maintaining comfort seems more important than pursuing justice.
I know I am angry that money has been assigned more value than people.
I know I am worried about the people who are struggling, and those who will struggle. That worry keeps me up at night.
I know I have lost patience for people who walk through the world recreating harm and justifying their actions by convincing themselves that is just the way the world works.
What I hadn’t realized, however, was how profoundly sad I am. Beneath the frustration, beneath the anger, beneath the worry, there is grief.
Grief for the people being harmed.
Grief for the opportunities being lost.
Grief for the version of ourselves we seem willing to abandon.
Grief for the challenges we are creating that our children will inherit to resolve.
And perhaps most painful of all, grief for how quickly hopelessness can begin to feel normal.
That sadness is not a weakness. It is evidence that something worth caring about is at stake.
What Grief Reveals
For a long time, I believed my exhaustion was simply a reflection of the pace of the world—a reasonable response to the endless news cycle, constant conflict, and the growing sense that we are being asked to adapt to things that should never become normal.
But sitting there, watching the celebration in Chicago, I realized that my grief was not evidence that I had lost hope.
It was evidence that hope is still alive.
People do not grieve futures they have stopped believing are possible. We grieve because we can still imagine something better. We grieve because some part of us remembers what dignity, justice, belonging, and possibility feel like.
We grieve because we know a better future is possible, and we too often settle for leadership that lacks the courage to pursue it.
Once I understood that my grief was connected to hope, I began to understand that grief is often the shadow cast by hope.
It appears when reality falls short of what we know could be.
The Assault on Hope
What we are experiencing is not random chaos, although there is certainly chaos. We are witnessing a sustained assault on our collective capacity to imagine a better future.
Cynicism is rewarded. Division is monetized. Fear is amplified.
Distrust has become a political strategy, and hopelessness has become a cultural norm.
A hopeless population is easier to manipulate than a hopeful one.
Hopeful people ask questions.
Hopeful people organize.
Hopeful people imagine alternatives.
Hopeful people refuse to accept that the future must look exactly like the present, and understand that the past wasn’t really that great.
Hope as Rebellion
Hopeful citizens do very little for systems that depend upon resigned compliance. Hope disrupts the story that nothing can change. Hope challenges the belief that power belongs only to those who already possess it. Hope insists that people matter more than markets, that communities matter more than individual accumulation, and that our future remains unwritten.
This is why hope has always been an act of rebellion – not because it ignores reality, but because it refuses to surrender to it.
Watching the Obama Presidential Center opening reminded me of something I desperately needed to remember.
Hope is not naïve.
Hope is not passive.
Hope is not optimism or toxic positivity.
Hope is the decision to believe that a different future is possible and then accept responsibility for helping to create it. In moments like this, that may be one of the most radical acts available to us.
So, the choice before us is not whether the future will arrive.
It will.
The question is whether we will meet it as passive spectators or as active participants.
Whether we will surrender our hope or fight to reclaim it.
Whether we will accept the future handed to us or help build the one we deserve.
Whether we will consent in advance or leverage the power of hope to reclaim our right to resist.
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