Dear Hopestars,

Welcome to February! I’ve missed writing to you.

Normally, I’d use the turning of the Gregorian New Year for some grand reflections or resolutions, but this year I chose to let the calendar change be a signal for rest and recovery. I got quite sick on both sides of Christmas, which felt like a loud and clear sign that I needed to down tools. It turns out—Hope needs a break.

And, because I can be a bit of a relentless taskmaster to myself, I had to consciously push back against the “shoulds” and “really ought-tos” to get some real rest and reflection.

During this time, I rumbled with myself, asking deeper questions about my purpose. For as long as I can remember, I’ve yearned to create impact. It’s become a literal metric I use to measure whether I’m living my life well. I often ask myself: "Is my work giving me Joy, Impact, Time, and Money?" If any of those aren’t present or aren’t aligned, I tweak things.

But I had an important realisation: the scale at which I’ve been hoping to create impact isn’t quite right. For years, I’ve been chasing a level of change that could, at its most ambitious, end something as massive as apartheid—but I’m just one person. That scale is not only unrealistic, it’s unhealthy. The human body, with its physicality, chemistry, and emotionality, has been built for local—like, really local. Like knowing the worms in your soil local.

We weren’t meant to wage keyboard wars over global issues, processing the endless stream of outrage every time we pull down to refresh our feeds. It’s overwhelming. It makes us feel small and ineffective, like we can never affect real change, no matter how much we care. Sure, we can share our outrage, donate to causes, or boycott companies, but our levers of influence are limited in this globalised world. And that’s okay. The key is to differentiate between caring and the demonstration of care—and grow wise enough to know the difference.

I don’t blame myself for getting the scale wrong. The internet and our globalised economy have taught us that unless we’re making an international splash, we’re somehow not “making it.” But that doesn’t mean it’s healthy, nor is it the right way to create the change the world needs. In fact, as we move forward into this uncertain economic and political moment, we may very well be forced to return to operating in a hyper-local economy.

Which brings me to a profound realisation: our local stories, connections, and knowledge are crucial to the transitions ahead. The rest? That’s more of an ego trip than anything else. So I’m consciously stepping down from my own ego-driven ambitions and embracing a more human-sized scale of impact. As long as I am contributing to the flourishing of my local community, I’m doing well. I’m making an impact. Tick. (I do love my checklists.)

It feels profound to rest in the idea of enoughness. I think hope requires us to be honest about the scale at which we can be effective. If we overextend, we risk losing that inner hope, because hope isn’t meant to work on a massive, global scale. That’s where collective hope comes in—our groups, our communities, coming together as a body to create change together. More than the sum of our parts.

During the holidays, I had the chance to attend the launch of our local village’s tools and stuff library. It wasn’t much—just a wrench set, a smoker, a pasta maker, a sewing machine. Humble beginnings. But the spirit in the room was infectious. A group of passionate villagers, a bit of tech to make the system run smoothly, some freshly baked bread dropped off, colourful bunting hanging in the hall—it was all about the local. The tools were maintained, catalogued, and ready to be checked out.

This is the scale of impact that feels truly human. In the grand scheme of things, it may seem small and inconsequential. But I believe we’re being sold a lie that the only impactful actions are those that make a global splash. As adrienne maree brown wisely says, “small is all.” Good and bad are fractal—they repeat at scale. The personal is political.

When everyone tends to the humble and the local, they create a system of flourishing. They share information, engage in healthy meaning-making, and connect in ways that are harder to dismiss. It’s a way of life that fosters resilience—one that can link arms and refuse to be budged.

Once upon a time, churches played this role, serving as hubs for care, grieving, and meaning-making. In the West, the church’s influence has faded, but the social needs have only intensified. So now it’s up to us to rebuild that community fabric, with all its messiness and inconvenience. This is deeply human work—and it is what is needed to carry us through the challenges ahead.

Yes, restoring this community fabric is a long-term effort, an intergenerational one. I feel the pressure mounting. But if done with intentionality, with consciousness, it can create a new cultural inheritance that will last for generations. It might feel counter intuitive, but I don’t think quick fixes are what are really needed in these times. Or perhaps we need both.

Or at least that is this weeks burning thought. Next week, I am going to change gears and will begin sharing with you the chapters of my book. As always your reflections and emails are so, so welcome.

Love to you and yours x

Megan

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