New year is a time that, for many, symbolises hope. There’s the looking back and reflecting on the time that’s passed, followed by the ‘reset’ - positive intentions and desire for more of the things that went well and a chance to improve on the things that didn’t. This new year has been no different, in some ways. We all know that pandemics and political crises don’t care what date it is, and yet, we may wish to shed 2020 like a too-tight skin, casting its chaos into the past and looking towards brighter times. I’m always at my most reflective at the turn of a year – I enjoy the opportunity to pause, take stock and consider what’s next. And the extraordinary events of the last year have got me in full ‘meta’ mode – reflecting on reflecting. I’m interested in the nature and purpose of the hope that we may bring into a new cycle, and its relationship to fear. Recently, I’ve heard a few people say that they dare not allow themselves to hope, which strikes me as desperately sad. I’ve allowed myself to peek at a little crack of light coming from somewhere, but it seems dangerous to trust that the light source is the end of the tunnel. This seems at odds with my usual way of being these days – I worked for years on making cracks in my (frankly, very impressive) emotional suit of armour. There’s nothing like a persistent pandemic and its mismanagement to make me run towards the old familiar defences, I suppose! And I’m angry about some of my hope being ‘stolen’ because of a lack of competent leadership in the country I’ve moved to. I want to look ahead to thriving arts scenes, live music, hugs with friends and shared spaces, and use them as leverage to persist a little longer with the inconvenience and the fear. But it’s never long before my refrain of ‘I wonder how they’ll manage to screw it up this time’ kicks in. It reeks of powerlessness, and I don’t like to stay in that place for long.
And so, I notice a desire to take the anger about my dashed hopes for an end to feeling scared and being trapped in a seemingly endless cycle of locking down and opening up, and channel it into action. Action may not always have predictable consequences, but it exists in the here and now, the material world. Hope and fear, on the other hand, are essentially two halves of the same phenomenon involving looking ahead. We may also feel fear during a particular event, but the anticipation of what could happen seems to account for the majority of our fear and anxiety responses. The point is that we may often look to the future with hope, fear or a combination of both – they are responses to uncertainty, and there is plenty of that around right now.
In the last year, I’ve learned more about how I respond to risk, uncertainty and feeling powerless. I’ve taken risks that surprised me. I’ve endlessly weighed up the potential consequences of every small decision, so as to avoid causing harm to others. Sometimes I've put my foot down and advocated for my own and others’ rights, and at other times, I’ve been pulled reluctantly along a path that doesn’t feel quite right, forgetting all about my power. This range of responses will no doubt provide me with some useful information to ruminate over for a while, but what I’m left with again is the need to have both reflection and action. The next step, of course, is to figure out what that action is.
‘Hope over fear’ is a familiar soundbite for me as I cast my mind back to 2014 - it was a central concept in the Scottish Independence campaign. I’ll try to resist the temptation of rehearsing lengthy op-eds about the differences between Brexit and Indyref, or the difference in public trust in the Scottish and U.K governments’ handling of Covid-19 for now. Suffice to say that there was a powerful moment during that campaign when young people were more politically engaged than perhaps ever before, the signs in windows, street art, community events and polls spoke of hope, and of each of us having the power to contribute to real change. I think what I want is a bit of that feeling back. I know that this particular campaign has never gone away and I remain hopeful that we’ll be successful in the end. But I don’t just wish that feeling of solidarity and change for my own country – when we’re done with staying in our homes to protect each other, I hope that we’ll find other collective, proactive ways to protect each other and hold those in positions of power to account. Even as I write this, the defensive suit of armour is whispering in my ear ‘those who are taught they’re born to rule will do anything to cling to their power’, ‘what about all the people who have shown us they don’t care about others?’ and ‘how much can you really achieve when you’re up against a system meant to benefit the few?’ But I’ve concluded that, in order to get to action, I need to hold on to hope. Not blind optimism, but a healthy mix of hope and caution, perhaps. Maybe the healthiest approach really is to allow ourselves to believe that the light we can see is the end of the tunnel. And if it isn’t, the question becomes ‘what are we prepared to do about it?’