When I first heard of Renee Good’s death, I immediately thought of a conversation I’d had with my brother a couple of months ago. “Stay away from ICE,” he’d warned as we talked about Trump’s escalating war on immigrants. Not because my brother agreed with the crackdown, but because he feared for my safety.

I had been telling him about training as a volunteer legal observer to document ICE activity in my county. Good was also a volunteer legal observer, though she was living in what has become a war zone under siege by Trump’s private paramilitary force while I live in a quiet suburb just north of San Francisco that so far has seen almost no ICE activity.

I identified with Good in another way, too. When I saw the New York Times’s analysis of bystander video that captured the incident, my first thought was that aside from stopping sideways in the middle of the road, Good was carefully maneuvering her car exactly as I do in every busy parking lot I’ve ever been in—slowly inching out, letting people pass, trying hard not to hit anyone, exiting a tight spot as safely as possible.

So much for safety. Now a mother who had only recently dropped her six-year-old off at school, then stopped because her neighbors were in distress, is dead and being demonized by Trump and his enablers despite widespread evidence that Renee Good posed no threat to ICE agents.

My husband’s cousin in Minnesota’s Twin Cities has volunteered for years with refugee resettlement. He reports,

What’s happening here is unbelievable. This is like late 1930s Europe. Immigrants, legal and illegal, are afraid to leave their homes. Restaurants have closed temporarily to discourage ICE raids and to keep customers and employees safe. Some schools have closed temporarily to prevent confrontations with ICE as students are picked up at the end of the school day. People are organizing grocery shopping runs for immigrants who are “sheltering in place.”

The senseless killing of Renee Nicole Good has really solidified the resistance to ICE here. It is truly sad that every day about 60 to 80 people are hauled off to the Minneapolis airport and flown to out-of-state detention centers. My mission is to keep the immigrants who I know off of those planes . . . there is no end in sight to this madness. The number of ICE agents in Minnesota is increasing from 2000 to 3000 so I expect a lot more trouble. It’s like a war between the executive branch of the federal government and one resistant state in the middle of the country that refuses to be bullied.

Refusing to be bullied is the right thing to do, and the best way to put an end to terror. It is also easier said than done, particularly when the bully is not some middle-school kid but the head of a vast and deadly power apparatus with many willing enablers. The cruelty and the chilling effect are the point.

I feel the chill, too. In truth, even though I am not remotely close to any active danger or hotspots, I am scared, and also relieved that I’ve only gotten one text from the Rapid Response Network. I have to fight my impulse to retreat, and strive to channel the spirit of resistance that has only strengthened Minnesotans in the face of real danger. I hope that owning up to my fear and relief paradoxically keeps me in a state of courage, even weak courage.

And so I show up intermittently at local demonstrations, donate money to grassroots organizations, contact my representatives in Congress who already speak out and vote the way I want them to. Standing at intersections with clever signs in the brilliant Californian sunshine while passing motorists honk their approval (except for the woman who yelled “Go Home”) feels mostly like a feel-good exercise of little consequence. But it’s not nothing, and sometimes enlivens my too-numb soul.

The other day I found inspiration in an unlikely place: a letter to the editor of my local paper by a gentleman named Igor Sill. I’ve read a lot of pieces urging hope, persistence, and a Never Give Up bravado. Mostly they make me feel chastised and ashamed of my despair and wish to retreat. Mr. Sill’s letter struck me differently:

As a new year emerges, there is a natural pause — a moment to reflect on what has endured and to look forward with intention. It is a time to measure not only what was gained or lost, but how we carried ourselves through uncertainty. None of us is tasked with fixing the entire world. Our responsibility is more attainable: to mend the portion within our reach. Any small act that helps another — relieving suffering, restoring dignity, steadying fear — matters immediately. In a turbulent world, one of the most powerful choices available to us is to remain present, do the right thing and show our spirit.

This distinction matters as 2026 begins. Optimism is the belief that the future will be better.

Hope is harder: the belief that we have a role in making it so. Optimism waits. Hope acts.

One of hope’s greatest adversaries is cynicism. Cynicism assumes bad faith and inevitable failure. It can feel sophisticated, even protective, but it quietly erodes engagement. A healthier posture is skepticism: the willingness to question without surrendering to despair. Skepticism keeps us alert; cynicism shuts us down.

We were reminded of that truth this past year through widely shared footage from Australia’s Bondi Beach, where a bystander ran toward danger during a violent attack rather than away from it. There was no plan and no guarantee of success — only courage that was improvised and deeply human.

Moments like this clarify something essential: hope does not originate in institutions alone. It emerges when individuals decide that disengagement is not an option their conscience will accept. Acts of unscripted courage are not anomalies. They echo an enduring truth: Meaning survives when people stay engaged. Hope does not deny hardship. It accepts it and insists that effort still matters.

Hope is not the belief that the future will be kinder; it is the decision to remain responsible for it, even when the outcome is uncertain. As a new year begins, that choice to stay engaged may be the most consequential one we make.

Less than three weeks ago, I said good riddance to 2025. The new year feels even worse. The brave people of Minnesota and Mr. Sill’s words help me resolve not to renounce my true feelings of fear, exhaustion, and despair, but to let them accompany me as I decide to remain responsible for the future, even when the outcome is uncertain. Effort still matters. Disengagement is not an option my conscience will accept.