It’s not an exaggeration to say the world feels like a dumpster fire right now. War and genocide rage on in Palestine. Russia’s brutal occupation of Ukraine continues. Uyghur Muslims remain under a violent regime in Xinjiang. And here in the United States — the heart of so much of this chaos — it’s no better. Just days ago, the so-called “One Big Beautiful Act” was signed into law, cutting SNAP benefits and stripping health coverage from millions. This past weekend saw the massacre of over 90 people — including children — at Camp Mystic in Hunt, Texas. And as if that wasn’t enough, ICE raids are sweeping across the nation: federal agents conducting militarized operations in L.A., Texas, the Bay Area, and beyond, tearing families apart and spreading fear in immigrant communities.
Every time I check the headlines, I feel the same thing: hopelessness.
But today, I want to share something different. Not to ignore what’s happening — I couldn’t even if I tried — but to remind myself (and maybe you, too) that even when everything feels like it’s falling apart, there are still small, steady sparks of light. There have to be. Here are a few of the simple, personal things giving me just enough hope to keep moving forward:
The Simple Things Giving Me Hope Right Now
My students’ questions.
Whether they’re asking me why the world is so unfair, if I believe in aliens, or just what I ate for breakfast — they’re asking something. They’re thinking. They’re trying to understand the world and their place in it. That curiosity? It’s sacred.
People who show up — even when they don’t have to.
A friend checking in after a hard week. A stranger smiling at me at Safeway. My downstairs neighbor holding the elevator door even though they’re clearly in a rush. Small, ordinary kindnesses that remind me: we’re not alone, even when we feel like it.
Street art.
Walking through the Mission and seeing a mural that gets it — that says something no headline ever could — grounds me. Street art, especially in San Francisco, has always felt like protest, memory, and survival. Beauty that doesn’t ask permission.
Meals shared.
Sometimes it’s homemade pasta with Jake. Sometimes it’s cheap pho on a Friday night when I’m too tired to cook. But food — shared, hot, intentional — still feels like care. It keeps me human.
The sound of kids laughing on the playground.
At school, when I hear my students laughing during recess, it cuts through the heaviness. That joy hasn’t been erased yet. And it reminds me of what we’re fighting to protect.
The books on my nightstand.
Whether it’s Call Me by Your Name for the fifth time or a new read on decolonizing education — stories remind me that I’m not the only one who’s felt overwhelmed or lost. That people survive this. That I can, too.
The ocean.
Whether I’m walking along Ocean Beach or driving across the Bay Bridge and catching that first glimpse of water — it never fails. It reminds me how small I am, in a good way. The waves keep moving. Life keeps going.
Young people speaking out.
My students asking hard questions. Teens breaking down genocide, injustice, and systems of power better than some adults ever could. Young people today aren’t just the future — they’re the conscience of the present.
That I still cry.
Sometimes it’s in the car, sometimes mid-lesson when something unexpectedly hits. But I still cry. And to me, that’s proof I haven’t shut down completely. That I still care. That I still feel.
Writing this post.
Because if I didn’t still believe in something — anything — I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to name it. I’m writing this not because I’ve found all the answers, but because I need to keep looking. Because I still have hope, even if it’s fragile.
Something I wrestle with daily is the guilt — the aching feeling that there’s nothing I can do to stop the world from crumbling around me. Some nights, I can’t sleep. I lie awake thinking about how unjust, violent, and heavy everything feels. As a white, cisgender man with the privilege of a stable job, a roof over my head, and food on my plate, I carry a deep desire to do more — to be more useful, more active, more impactful. But the truth is, I’m also a 24-year-old first-year teacher. Money is tight. Burnout is real. And sometimes, donating or organizing just isn’t possible after a 10-hour day.
So right now, I’m starting small. I’m sharing. I’m writing. I’m trying to stay awake to the world and not let numbness take over. That might not be everything — but it’s something. And for now, it’s enough.
If you do have the capacity to give, I’ve hyperlinked different ways to support those most affected: Palestinians, Uyghur Muslims, Ukrainians, victims of Camp Mystic, and those impacted by recent ICE raids. If all we can do is stay present, connected, and tender with one another — that still matters.
With hope (even when it’s hard),
Jared ❤
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