I’m finding it hard to hold hope right now.
Not the shallow kind. The “everything will be fine” platitudes feel insulting in their simplicity. I mean the deeper kind. The stubborn belief that our work matters, that showing up for students and each other counts for something, that we can still find ways forward even when the path isn’t clear.
If you’re an educator right now, you know what I’m talking about. We’re carrying a lot. Budget cuts and book bans. Political fights over what can be taught and who gets to learn. Burnout has become a permanent condition rather than a temporary state of mind. The weight of trying to prepare young people for a future that feels increasingly uncertain.
I ‘ve spent the last few years actively rejecting toxic positivity in my work with pre-service and in-service teachers. You know what I mean. The “just focus on what you can control!” and “your attitude determines your altitude!” nonsense that asks teachers to develop individual solutions to systemic problems. The relentless cheerfulness that denies reality and blames you when you can’t sustain it.
I swore that off. I refuse to gaslight people about how hard this work is.
But here ‘s the thing, rejecting toxic positivity doesn’t mean giving up on hope entirely.
And yet.
And yet, here we are. We keep showing up. We continually find small ways to improve things. We continue to connect with each other, even when we’re exhausted. We continue to believe, somehow, that education still matters.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what hope actually looks like in practice. Not as an abstract concept, but as something we do together. Not as optimism that ignores reality, but as a choice to keep moving forward precisely because reality is hard. Not as an individual mindset, but as a collective practice.
This is different from toxic positivity. This isn’t about pretending things are fine or “choosing joy” when systems are breaking. This is about naming what’s true AND finding each other in the middle of it. It’s about being honest about the struggle while also refusing to let that struggle be the only story.
I ‘m working on something, and I need your help thinking it through.
We’re planning a series of community sessions (starting in January) focused on what civil rights historian Vincent Harding called “live human signposts.” The people, practices, and stories that help us find direction when we’re lost.
In our community sessions, the idea is to create space to:
- See clearly what we’re actually facing (not what we wish we were facing)
- Seek out the people and practices that sustain us
- Serve as signposts for others in our own ways
This won’t be about positive thinking or silver linings. It’ll be about telling the truth together and finding ways to keep going anyway.
But before we launch this, we want to hear from you.
What ‘s making hope difficult for you right now? What are you carrying as an educator or community member?
And maybe more importantly: Are there people in your life who help you see more clearly? The ones who don’t offer easy answers but help you find your footing anyway?
How to get involved:
InitiatED is organized by educators, but we’re building this for each other. Across sectors, borders, and roles. Whether you’re a teacher, community organizer, librarian, journalist, policy advocate, or someone who just cares about this work, you’re welcome here.
Share your thoughts:
- Email me directly: hello@wiobyrne.com
- Contact InitiatED: hello@initiativeforliteracy.org
- Join the conversation on social media using #init4eachother
- Share this post with others who might want to be part of this
Interested in facilitating? I’m looking for people to help co-create this with us (January–June 2026). You don’t need expertise. Just willingness to show up authentically and help shape these conversations.
More soon.
Hope is hard right now. Let’s figure out what it looks like together.