I'm a blessed woman — I get to hang out with my 21-year-old son regularly. We talk about everything from UEFA (a little soccer talk) and new Lego sets to world events and philosophy. Young adults are my favorite people: they have a real-world grasp on issues, but their capacity for fun and joy hasn't yet been spoiled by adult cynicism. They too are watching the unseen dynamics of power, politics, and tribalism play out in real time. And they have opinions.
Thank God.
We "grown-ups" have opinions too, but after years of overlapping battles, unexpected cruelty from our fellow citizens, and endless in-fighting over ideals and strategy, we're dinged up. We're angry. We're exhausted. And we can absolutely bust out a laundry list of legitimate injustices on which we've focused our rage.
It was during one of those fun-and-philosophical conversations with Nacho (my son. Yes, he likes nachos. No, that's not why we call him that.) that we wandered into Star Wars — specifically the allegory of a scrappy rebel force pushing back against a better-funded, bigger-reaching Empire. While I lamented our distinct lack of access to The Force, he mic-dropped on me:
"Here's the thing. 'Rebellions are built on hope.'"
It's not unusual for us to focus so much on the urgency of what we're fighting against that we forget what we're working for — so much on the entrenched power of who we're fighting against that we forget the astonishing bigness of who we're working alongside.
You've seen it: engagement driven by "take down so-and-so" or — my personal favorite — violent framings like "destroy," "obliterate," "wipe out." Even our positive goals often come with an asterisk and a body count.
To be clear: we have very real reasons to be angry, horrified, even despondent. Every day brings new heartbreaking stories — immigrants dying in US-made detention centers, families unable to afford critical care, whole communities targeted and endangered. Our anger is valid and it woke us up.
But here's the thing: we might need anger to awaken, but we need hope to sustain.
Anger isn't motion, and it's not sustainable. In some advocacy spaces -usually those inhabited by people with a bit of unrecognized privilege- it becomes the end unto itself.
Anger is chaos. Hope is deliberate.
Anger is enemies. Hope is community.
Anger is right-now. Hope is the future.
Anger is exhausting. Hope is regenerative.
This isn't toxic positivity. It doesn't ignore unjust systems or pretend we all start on the same square in the game of Life. In fact, hope requires us to hold those realities as we plan and dream together — and the people most impacted cannot be left out or minimized. Our (white, hetero, middle-class) anger is not a stand-in for their leadership presence in the room.
A rebellion built on hope asks the usual questions — but uncomfortably side-eyes our typical inauthentic answers. Not just who's leading, but whether leadership is shared and lives both inside and beyond the walls of traditional titles. Not just are we collaborating, but whether we're building a swinging two-way door to real trust or just the performance of it. Not just are we strategic, but whether we're being intentional or merely plowing ahead while congratulating ourselves for showing up. Answer those honestly and it shifts the language from battle cry for the few to rallying cry for the many — and gives the next generation of advocates the tools, confidence, and hope they need to go big on the dream. And the work it takes to bring it to life.
Today brought another cringing-headline day. So drink some coffee. Take a breath.
Here's my question for today. And for tomorrow. And the day after: when you dream or scheme, what happens if you lead each conversation with what's possible and give thanks for those building that dream with you?