Hope Is Something You Give Yourself

“Rebellions are built on hope!” – Jyn Erso, Roge One: A Star Wars Story

These past seven to eight months have been difficult. I’ve watched with horror as a country turned its back on decency and honor. The country I was taught was the greatest in the world decided an orange faced maniac – an obvious maniac – was a better choice than a qualified black woman. And so here we are.

Corruption, incompetence, racism, misogyny, hatred, and whatever else you can think of… America did this to itself.

It’s easy to lose hope. But as one of my favorite characters once said: “In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself.”

This past Father’s Day weekend, I found some hope.

This past weekend, I stood in the thick of the No Kings protest in Joliet, Illinois—not as an observer, but as a participant. My heart was pounding, my eyes open, my soul stirred. I didn’t go expecting transformation. I went out of duty, frustration, and solidarity. But what I walked away with was something much deeper: a renewed sense of hope.

Hope is a tricky word. For a philosopher, especially a Stoic, it can seem like a cousin of fear—both tied to uncertainty, both pulling us away from living fully in the now. But what I found in Joliet was a different kind of hope. One not tethered to outcomes or naïve optimism, but to action. To agency. To virtue in motion.

The crowd numbered at least 1,500. It could have easily been over that, even over 2,000. Not massive like a Chicago crowd, but it didn’t need to be. It was electric. Diverse voices echoed through the streets—young people, elders, organizers, artists, workers. People of all backgrounds, creeds, colors, and religions. Each chant, each sign, each shared glance reminded me: people still care. People are still willing to show up, to speak truth, to resist injustice—even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.

And it wasn’t just Joliet. No Kings protests raged across the country. From coast to coast, millions of people showed up and showed out. While a false leader’s grandiose military parade in DC flopped into silence—a hollow echo of ego with barely an audience—our streets were flooded with life. No one bought into his desperate attempt to stoke faux glory.

Meanwhile, a country rose in opposition. That contrast gave me hope.

Hope that people still see through the spectacle. Hope that people are regretful of past choices and are looking to rectify their complacency, their lethargy, their past sins. Myself included.

Hope that truth still stirs action. A truth that turning a blind eye to the burning of our house leaves us all buried in ashes.

Hope that we have not lost our will to stand together when it matters most.

As a student of Stoicism, I’ve often leaned on Marcus Aurelius’s reminder: “Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.” That quote whispered to me as I marched beside strangers who felt like family. Here we were—not theorizing justice but embodying it. Not lamenting the lack of kings, but rejecting the very notion that anyone should rule over others with impunity.

Philosophy is about ACTION. It’s about implementing our ideas in the real world. I took with me into this protest the ideas from Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Musonius Rufus, and so many others. I took them to ensure I lived what I say I believe, as Epictetus taught – “Don’t explain your philosophy. Embody it.”

The protest itself was chaos and order. Anger and resolve. Joy and love. It reminded me that the Stoic pursuit of virtue isn’t solitary—it’s communal. Courage isn’t found only in contemplation; it’s born in resistance. Justice isn’t abstract—it’s in the voice that says, “Enough.” Moderation is in the self-discipline to keep going when the system tries to wear you down. And wisdom? It’s in knowing which fight is yours to pick up—and which is yours to put down.

Our work is far from done—and it’s likely to get harder. Much harder. The machinery we push against is massive and ruthless. But a flame of hope has been rekindled in me. I intend to keep it full of oxygen.

Hope, I’ve come to realize, isn’t something you wait for. It’s something you build—by choosing to live aligned with your principles, again and again, even when the path is unclear. Especially then.

The No Kings protests reminded me that our systems may be broken, but our spirit doesn’t have to be. When we stand together—not just in protest, but in purpose—we rewrite the narrative.

And in that rewriting, there’s hope. We can fix our systems – we’ve fixed them before.

Not a hope that things will magically fix themselves. But a hope forged in sweat, struggle, and solidarity. A beautiful hope. An active hope.

One worth holding on to.

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