On Anger, Hope, and Refusing to Look Away

collage created by author in canva

For years, I’ve felt disheartened by many of the systems shaping our society.

But lately, the feeling that keeps rising to the surface is anger.

Angry at school systems that treat children like budding criminals who need to be controlled rather than impressionable youth who need love, encouragement, and our faith in them.

Angry at law enforcement failing to acknowledge the bias behind the harsh treatment of Black and Brown folx — even when many of us can see it plainly in their actions.

Angry at a justice system that so often fails to deliver justice. Where the poorest and most marginalized are buried under fees they could never afford to pay, only to be penalized again when they cannot. Where young kids are locked behind bars without anyone slowing down long enough to ask what hurt, what fear, or what unmet need may have shaped their behavior in the first place.

And now, more than ever, I feel anger and unease as we see masked agents detaining people in our communities, leaving families frightened and uncertain about their safety. In some cases, those being detained are here legally. Some are even citizens.

It is a lot to hold.

And many of us are holding it while also trying to raise families, do our work, and take care of ourselves and the people we love.

And when we hold this much, when we keep witnessing harm like this, it can start to feel overwhelming very quickly. It is easy to slip from disheartened into despair.

Many of us are already carrying so much — caregiving, work, healing, survival. The constant stream of injustice and harm can make the weight feel unbearable.

Some days, I feel the pull to shut it all out. To scroll endlessly. To hide under the covers and convince myself there’s nothing I can do.

And sometimes, I need to step back. Sometimes we all do.

Choosing hope does not mean ignoring our exhaustion. It does not mean we are always steady, always resilient, always strong enough for what the world is asking of us.

Some days, it is simply a quiet, stubborn refusal to surrender to despair.

Even when hope feels fragile, I still choose it.

My anger and my hope coexist. They refuse resignation. They refuse to concede that this is simply the way the world must be.

They push me to stay awake instead of shutting down.

To savor moments with my family instead of doom-scrolling.

To show up in my work and in my community with presence instead of paralysis.

This is not the time to collapse into hopelessness.

It is the time to channel our anger wisely.

Because anger is not inherently destructive.

Anger is information.

It tells us when something is not okay. When a boundary has been crossed. When harm is happening.

It says: “Enough.”

But unchanneled anger can burn us out. It can fracture relationships. It can disconnect us from ourselves.

So what do we do with it?

We build.

We create.

We show up with fierce love and bear witness to the truth.

We listen.

We question.

We stubbornly continue to hope and dream.

We make space for grief and anger — and we also make space for joy, rest, and connection so we don’t burn ourselves out.

And we do it together.

If you’re feeling this too — the heaviness, the fire, the refusal to give up — you’re not alone.

Because this really is a lot to hold.

And none of us were meant to hold it alone.

Join me, and other women, mothers, outsiders, and dreamers as we support one another. As we bolster our hope, urge each other to keep imagining something better, and then begin turning those dreams into action.

Because we need more spaces where we can carry one another’s despair when it feels too heavy.

Where we share in each other’s suffering and hold one another up.

Where we can grieve without giving up.

Where we can hope without pretending everything is okay.

That is the kind of community I am committed to building — spaces where our nervous systems can hold complexity, where we don’t have to choose between awareness and well-being.

One where we hold anger and hope at the same time —

and let both move us toward something better.

If this resonates, stay connected. These conversations matter — and we are stronger when we don’t navigate them alone.

With so much love and compassion,

Hollie