Hope is a Verb

Dear {{first_name|friend}}

Welcome.
I’m so glad you’re here to receive the very first post of Hope Dispatch.

This newsletter comes from a decision I made to commit more of my focus on what lies beyond this polycrisis; what is yearning to be born.

I remember being pregnant with my daughter, who is now ten. I would place my hands on my belly and wonder, Who is this child? What will she become?

The future that is emerging through us will undoubtably have its own nature. But what of its nurture? How much are we attending to that? And what are its prospects if we have no hope or expectation for its flourishing?

That made me question - who do I need to become to serve what is emerging?
How can I foster hope and create a pathway of potential for the new world order?

But first, I needed to get real with myself and the state of my hope. To be honest - my sense of hope has been shaky of late.

I am not personally immune to changes afoot. My work opportunities have contracted, all my budgets have tightened. We are lucky to have options as a family, but I am acutely aware that is not so for others. A massive storm affected my father’s place last year - slips cut off access, removed the possibility of insurance. The price of living keeps rising….

These realities are biting each of us in small and big ways. The times are darkening. How do we hold hope when we are living in a state of fear… what’s the next thing to bite?

I think hope is like a power source. You have to generate it. We don’t think about its absence when times are good. It's true to say humanity has experienced extraordinary abundance and ease in the past 70 years. Since the end of the Second World War, many of us have lived through a period of relative peace and prosperity unprecedented in human history. That era shaped our expectations—about comfort, convenience, progress, and what a “good life” looks like.

But those expectations are being challenged.

And what we hope for next matters.

If our deepest hope is to return to the age of instant gratification and excess, we need to pause and examine what that age also brought us: disconnection, depletion, a dislocation from nature, from community, from ourselves. That version of the world brought us here—and we cannot go back.

We have to go forward.

We have to dare to hope for a more connected, integrated future. One where we live in rhythm with our true nature. Where power is shared. Where wellbeing—human and planetary—is not an afterthought, but the central design principle.

And yet… it’s hard, isn’t it?

It’s hard to hold a magnificent vision when all around us feels dark and decaying. It can seem impossible to bridge the chasm between this moment and that future.

But here’s what I believe: that yearning itself—the brave, persistent longing for something better—is the thread that carries us through. It may feel fragile, but it bonds us to something larger than ourselves. That bond is supercharged.

I’m often reminded of one of the most improbable stories I’ve lived through: Nelson Mandela.

Imprisoned for 27 years. For decades, there was nothing in the visible world to suggest he’d ever be free—let alone go on to lead his country. And yet, the people’s love for him, their hope, their insistence on something fairer, never dimmed.

They hoped.
They believed in justice.
They loved.

And it happened.
Not in the way anyone expected or could have predicted.
But it happened.

That’s the power of collective hope. It doesn’t deny the dark. It insists on the light.

Hope, like love, is a verb. A doing word. A practice. A stance. An attitude. An orientation in the world.

From my experience, hope is not passive; it’s not wishful thinking or naive optimism. It is the way one can move forward even when the path is unclear. It is choosing to plant seeds in soil we may never see bloom, to offer kindness even when cruelty shouts louder. Hope is believing in a better future—not because today’s headlines promise it, but because history shows us that change happens when people like us keep showing up.

The arc of history doesn’t bend toward justice all on its own. It bends because hands like ours, hearts like ours, insist on bending it. Not all at once, and not always in ways we expect. But little by little, across generations, hope stacks up.

We inherit hope from those who came before us—the ones who dreamed of a world where their grandchildren might have more freedom, more wisdom, more belonging than they did. And now, it’s our turn. We pass it forward, knowing that what we do today matters, not just for us but for those who will walk this earth long after we are gone.

So we practice hope. We make it an action. We choose it again and again. We give it as an offering. Because that is how the world changes—not all at once, but through a million small acts of hope, stitched together across time.

Cultivating hope

If you’d like to flex your hope muscles this week, here’s a small practice I am playing with: Pause. Close your eyes. Feel your breath in your chest. Take a small moment to imagine your future world where small, everyday acts of care weave an unbreakable net of community connection. On the news, the loudest voices heard are not the ones of division, but of bridge-building. The economy is understood as a mechanism that ensures the well-being of generations yet to come. This economy rewards and values solutions for shared problems. Linger here. Feel all the good feels that emanate from a newfound shared intelligence, a more sophisticated connection with each other and the world around us. This deeper understanding of how to live is our destination. It is not just coming, it is inevitable. How long, and what shape that journey takes is in our hands.

This world won’t appear by accident. It’s built, little by little, by those who practice hope—who choose daily to believe in what’s possible and act accordingly. That’s us.

I do this little exercise each morning, in that liminal space just after waking. I find it’s the best time to entertain and explore more expansive ideas. I love the idea that more and more people might join me upon waking to collectively exercise our wild imaginations…

More hopeful, together

Hope is not a solo act—it is best nurtured together, through our choices, our conversations, and our commitments. Every small action matters. Every instance of hope ripples outward and touches the world in unseen ways.

May my ripples of hope meet your ripples of care, and together, may we ripple our way into the hearts and lives of others this week. ✨

Megan x

P.S: Win Win Win of the Week Plastic-for-tuition - Nigerian school fees paid for in plastic waste. 

P.P.S I am collecting hopeful stories, resources and links to share with our community of Hopeful folk. Do you have something that made you feel hopeful this week? I would love to hear from you! Pop it into Facebook or Insta.

P.P.P.S: One person’s hopeful vision for a thriving woodland sparked the imagination of an entire town, and over a decade, millions of small acts of gardening ensued…