We need you, hopepunks.

You are the antidote to apathy and cynicism.

On the last day of this World Joy Project tour, sitting at a table beneath the Sydney Opera House with dreamers and doers on the other side of the planet, I realized something …

I keep meeting the same kind of person everywhere we go. Once you notice them, you start seeing them all over the place.

Hopeful builders. Dedicated dreamers. Thoughtful humans who still believe the world can be made better and then get up the next morning and try to help make it so.

A couple of years ago, before many of you found this newsletter, I wrote something about these people:

What do you say? You’re given a blank sheet of paper. You’re invited onto a stage. You’re handed the intercom thingy found on certain aisles at Wal-mart. There’s so many messages we can put out into the world . . .

My children have asked for a story. It’s been a full day and is getting late, so something long is out of the question. The little free library of my mind runs through options. I have limited time, a somewhat captive audience, and the ability to say anything. What do I say?

I could tell them everything is terrible. I could tell them about the person who cut me off in traffic earlier today. I could tell them about the most violent things human beings have done to each other throughout history. I could tell them about the vile things human begins did today and will likely do tomorrow. Doom. Gloom. Disaster. A.I.

I decide against this.

I could tell them everything is wonderful. It’s all cupcakes and kittens. I could say nothing terrible happened today, will happen tomorrow, or will ever happen. I could say this world is a fluffy happy rainbow world. I could —

Arg. This also feels wrong. They’ve been outside. They’ve skinned their knees before. They know.

So, what to say? What to do?

Writer Lyz Lenz said something in an interview once that stuck with me:

I could tell them the truth. Truth is, they need the same stories I need. Same stories you need. I’m aching for stories of hope. Real hope. Not fluffy/empty/pretty hope. I need a scrappy kind of hope. I need a hope that acknowledges struggles and shows up anyway. I need hopepunk.

One day in 2017, Alexandra Rowland posted two short sentences into an empty box on Tumblr. “The opposite of grimdark is hopepunk,” wrote Rowland in 2017. “Pass it on.” A style of brutal nihilism had become a trend noticed by Rowland. It was a sort of dystopian darkness where nothing mattered and everything was void of hope. Enough was enough, so she put words to the something she longed for and learned she was far from alone.

“We’ve all been mean and petty and cruel,” she later explained, “but (and here’s the important part) we’ve also been soft and forgiving and kind. Hopepunk says that kindness and softness doesn’t equal weakness, and that in this world of brutal cynicism and nihilism, being kind is a political act. An act of rebellion.”

Hope is rebellious.

Historian Howard Zinn had this to say:

“To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness. What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places—and there are so many—where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction. And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.”

Readers of this newsletter are incredible humans. Sure, I’m a bit biased, but look at you. You are entrepreneurs, educators, students, parents, writers, community builders, organizers, and creators of all types. I’m amazed by your thoughtful responses and the many places on the globe where you each reside.

So, since I have you all gathered here today this is my request of each of you:

Every day you are presented with many blank canvases through which you can share a story. This might be emails, text messages, events, products, stages, and on and on and on.

Wherever and however you can: communicate hope.

This is not a request for ignoring the bad. That’s toxic positivity. This is a joyful rebellion. This is an active working and fighting for a better, more hopeful, more joyful future, together.

Tell the truth.

And the truth is: there are challenges, but also the overcoming of them. There is coldness, but also compassion. There are terrible problems, but also tremendous possibilities. Tell us of the darkness in this world, but also courageous, creative responses to it.

The stories we tell can help create the world we live in.

Cynicism is lazy. Hopepunk takes work.

Let’s get to work.

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