What Gives Me Hope

It usually comes as a question: What gives you hope? Sometimes it is more of a demand: Tell me something hopeful!

Everywhere I turn — in person and online, from lawyers to retirees, activists to students — people are searching for hopeful words about the future of democracy. I know what they want. They want me to say that I have special knowledge, a hidden plan, some inside information that will assure them that this nightmare will end. They want to hear that democracy will survive Trump, that our institutions will hold, that it will all turn out okay in the end.

The assumption seems to be that I would only be fighting for democracy in court — speaking out in the media, angering Trump and his enablers, doing everything I can to defend our elections — if I were sure we would prevail.

If only that were the case.

Here is the truth: there is no secret plan to defend American democracy. There is no hidden set of tactics that those of us in the pro-democracy movement are waiting to unveil at the right moment. Despite the paranoid fantasies of the right wing, I do not possess any magic power to bend courts to my will. I am not playing a clever game of chess where victory is guaranteed if we just wait for the right move.

For some, hope is an emotion of optimism, a bright faith that things will inevitably improve. As a candidate, President Barack Obama defined hope as “that thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us if we have the courage to reach for it and to work for it and to fight for it.” It was a stirring definition, one that inspired millions. But I didn’t buy it then, and I don’t buy it now.

For me, hope is not a feeling of certainty about the future. It is born of the knowledge that we may do everything we can without the assurance that it will be enough. Hope is accepting that the arc of the moral universe may not bend toward justice — even if all of us push with everything we have. Hope is recognizing that evil and injustice can prevail even if we, as Obama suggested, “reach for it, and work for it, and fight for it.”

In other words, hope is not a naïve emotion. It is a sober responsibility. Hope is what we do when the odds are long and the options limited. It is the stubborn act of trying when despair feels easier. Rather than a passive optimism, hope is the commitment of those who believe they can make a difference, however small.

Hope is recognizing that evil and injustice can prevail even if we, as Obama suggested, “reach for it, and work for it, and fight for it.”

What gives me hope are the lawyers who walk into courtrooms every day, fighting for justice in the face of governments with unlimited resources that want to deny it. These lawyers do not know if they will win; often, they know they will lose. But they keep showing up because the rule of law depends on it.

I am hopeful when I see everyday Americans stand on street corners, in the heat of summer or the cold of winter, holding signs to protest Trump’s cruel treatment of migrants. They cannot reverse policy alone, but their visible witness matters. It reminds all of us that cruelty is not normal, that silence only benefits the oppressor.

I feel hope every time an opposition leader — elected or not — stands up to Trump and the GOP, making their efforts to subvert our elections just a little more difficult. Each obstruction slows the march toward authoritarianism. Each act of courage buys time for others to organize, resist, and fight back.

Most importantly, I have hope when people refuse the cool cynicism of despair. Despair is peddled by the right to convince us that resistance is futile, and it is echoed by too many on the left who would rather sit back and say all is lost. Cynicism asks nothing of us; hope demands everything. When people choose to act rather than surrender, that is what keeps democracy alive.

Will these efforts be enough? Will the cynics be proven right in the end? I don’t know. None of us does. But our job — all of our jobs — is to ignore the temptation of despair and to keep fighting authoritarianism every single day, in every way we can.

For me, that fight takes many forms. It means helping elect Democrats who will stand up to Trump and defend our institutions. It means litigating to protect free and fair elections for all Americans. It means speaking out — on social media, on television, on YouTube – to educate people about the risks we face and the steps we can take together.

It also means growing Democracy Docket, the pro-democracy media company I started in 2020. I created Democracy Docket to provide accurate information, analysis and opinion at a time when misinformation was spreading faster than truth. Every article we publish, every lawsuit we explain, every policy we break down for readers is part of the work of hope: giving people the tools to understand the fight for democracy and the confidence to join it.

So, when people ask me what gives me hope, my answer is simple: you do. Every person who refuses to look away. Every lawyer who files a brief. Every protester who shows up. Every voter who refuses to quietly surrender their rights. Each of you gives me hope — not because victory is certain, but precisely because it is not.

Hope is not a promise. It is not a guarantee of success. It is the courage to act in the face of uncertainty. And right now, in this fragile moment for our democracy, it is the most important responsibility we share.