Weekly Reset: Beyond Despair
Why despair doesn't help anyone, and most importantly, yourself.
"Despair is paralysis. It robs us of agency. It blinds us to our own power and the power of the earth." — Robin Wall Kimmerer
The weight can feel crushing sometimes.
The news cycle.
The state of the planet.
The divisions.
The seemingly endless problems.
It’s easy,
maybe even natural,
to slip into despair.
To feel overwhelmed.
Powerless.
To think:
“What’s the point?”
“What can one person possibly do?”
Despair whispers that it’s too late.
That the damage is too great.
That our individual efforts
are meaningless drops
in a burning ocean.
It’s a heavy cloak.
And it feels,
sometimes,
like the only honest response
to a world aching.
But what if despair,
understandable as it is,
isn't just heavy—
what if it's a trap?
The Paralysis of Despair
Despair, I'm learning,
isn't a sign of realism.
It's a form of paralysis.
It convinces us
to lay down our tools.
To turn away.
To stop participating.
It isolates us,
blinding us
not only to the problems,
but also to the beauty
that still exists.
The gifts still offered.
The work still waiting to be done.
As Kimmerer teaches,
the world showers us with gifts—
clean air (mostly),
water,
sunlight,
food,
connection,
life itself.
These gifts come
with responsibilities.
Despair absolves us
of those responsibilities.
It lets us off the hook.
If nothing matters,
then our actions don't matter either.
We are excused from the hard,
vital work of reciprocity.
Of giving back for what we receive.
It’s a luxury,
perhaps,
that we, nor the Earth,
can truly afford.
The Work of Hope
So what’s the alternative?
Not blind optimism.
Not naive hope that ignores reality.
Maybe the antidote is action.
Small, deliberate,
meaningful action.
Hope, in this sense,
isn't a feeling we wait for.
It's a practice we choose.
It’s a verb.
It’s tending the small patch of earth
we can influence.
Our families.
Our communities.
Our work.
Our own inner landscape.
It’s recognizing the gifts,
even amidst the wreckage.
The taste of clean water.
A child’s laugh.
The resilience of a weed
pushing through concrete.
And it’s asking:
“How can I give back?”
“What is my responsibility here?”
“What small act of care,
of stewardship,
of creation,
can I offer today?”
This connects deeply
to the journey of redefining strength,
of moving towards stewardship.
A steward doesn’t despair
when the fields need tending;
they pick up the tools.
They participate.
They offer their energy back
to the system that sustains them.
Choosing action over despair
is choosing relationship over isolation.
It’s choosing to be part of the healing,
however small our role.
Try This
This week,
when feelings of overwhelm
or despair arise:
Pause.
Breathe.
Acknowledge the weight.
Don't push it away.
“Yes, this is hard. This hurts.”
Then, deliberately shift your focus,
just for a moment:
What is one small gift I have received today?
(A kind word, a moment of quiet, the sun on your face?)
Hold gratitude for it.
What is one small, tangible act of care or reciprocity I can offer back today? (Checking on a neighbor, picking up litter, truly listening to someone, planting a seed, fixing something broken, offering your skills?)
Choose one small action.
And do it.
Not because it will fix everything,
but because it’s your part to play.
Because action is the antidote
to the paralysis of despair.
Planting Seeds
Despair tells us all is lost.
Restoriation.
Impossible.
Hope plants a seed anyway.
It understands that our work
is not measured solely
by the final outcome,
which we may never fully control or even see.
It’s measured by our willingness
to participate.
To offer our gifts back.
To engage with the world,
with all its beauty
and all its brokenness,
with open hands
and a determined heart.
That engagement,
that active tending,
that refusal to succumb to paralysis—
that is where hope lives.
Not as a feeling,
but as a consequence
of our actions.
It’s the quiet strength
found not in ignoring the darkness,
but in choosing to light a small candle anyway.
And getting to work.