What We Hold Onto

In times like these, hope can be a quiet act of resistance

We’ve spent the last few weeks examining the Trump regime’s methodical dismantling of civil society, from USAID, to the courts, to higher education. This week, news of an upcoming State Department reorganization has sparked a fresh wave of concern, confusion, and existential dread from diplomats and aid workers everywhere (just us? no? okay, good.)

Trump’s attack on democratic values isn’t new. The global trend toward autocracy has been unfolding for years. Across continents, institutions once thought unshakable are buckling under the weight of judicial overreach, censorship, and politicized prosecutions. According to Freedom House and IDEA’s Global State of Democracy, more countries are now backsliding than advancing. The dream of steady, global democratization—once almost taken for granted—has faltered.

And for those of us who have spent our careers in development, diplomacy, or rights-based work, this reckoning hits close to home. The sense of loss can feel both professional and deeply personal. What we’ve built—or tried to build—seems to be unraveling, thread by thread.

But if this moment demands clear-eyed realism, it also calls for something else: hope.

We’re not talking about the shallow kind of hope—the kind that’s peddled in slogans and speeches. We mean the kind that emerges quietly, and stubbornly, from the daily resolve of people who keep showing up.

From people like you.

Holding the Line

There’s a term we don’t use enough in development: moral stamina. This refers to an individual’s capacity to keep showing up, doing the work, making ethical choices—especially when there’s no recognition, no protection, and no guarantee of success.

In an era of information warfare and shrinking civic space (along with endless rumint via Signal chat), this kind of endurance matters more than ever.

It shows up in:

• Local journalists documenting corruption, even after colleagues are targeted or arrested

• Legal aid groups continuing to defend democratic causes and represent political prisoners

• Human rights defenders daring to go on the record to say, This is not right. This is not normal. We are not letting this slide.

• Teachers, nurses, municipal staff—public servants in the truest sense—showing up to work everyday

• USAID employees who are still coming to the office everyday, doing their best to honor and protect the legacy of our work

• USAID allies and alumni, who use their voice and their time to provide a space for truth-telling, memory-keeping, and resistance—reminding us of what this work has meant, and why it still matters.

It is people like this—people like you—who keep showing up with a relentless conviction to serve others. This is the work that holds the fabric of a free society together.

The Tired Rebel’s Guide to Showing Up

Some days, resistance looks like calling your representative (again), or showing up at a protest, or writing an op-ed for your local paper. But some days are harder than others, and not every day is a big day. Some days are just…Tuesdays.

And on those days, we do what we can. Maybe that means stepping away from the news cycle to protect our sanity. Maybe it means donating to a cause we believe in, even if it’s just five bucks a month. Maybe it means being kind to a colleague who’s at their limit, or taking the time to really listen to a friend who’s scared.

When we’re tired, then simply showing up is an act of resistance.

Look for the Helpers — Wait, Isn’t That Me?!

Mr. Rogers told us to look for the helpers. But where do the helpers look when they feel tired, discouraged, or ready to give up?

They look to each other, because courage is contagious. And they keep going—not through grand gestures, but through the small, consistent acts that remind us who we are.

Shoveling the neighbor’s walk. Bringing a lasagna to a new mom. Calling your sister, just to check in.

Most of all, we show up for the kids: your kids, your neighbor’s kids, your grandkids, your siblings, the local elementary school, the kids in the countries we serve. Because one day, they’ll be the ones voting, leading, organizing, and building.

This looks like volunteering for Cub Scouts. Showing up to read-aloud day at the library. And, crucially, talking with our kids, in age-appropriate ways, about standing up to bullies and protecting those who need help. We teach them not just to hope, but to act.

This is the kind of hope that matters. The kind that builds. The kind that endures and creates the type of future we can bear to hope for.

The Quiet Work of Integrity

If you’re reading this—despite the avalanche of bad news, the threat of job loss, the slow dismantling of everything you’ve worked for—you are resisting. Every comment, every share, every moment spent educating and learning about what’s happening around us—it matters. These small acts are part of a larger refusal to give in.

We all have days when we need to step back and rest. It’s important to acknowledge the heavy but essential burden of simply existing during the slow, ongoing crisis of democratic erosion.

But it’s important to find ways, whatever that means to us as individuals, to keep taking care of each other on the most fundamental levels.

And, after we rest, we find the courage to keep going. Because when we see others speaking up, showing up, reaching out—that’s what keeps the fire lit. That’s the kind of resistance that gives hope. And it’s the kind that builds movements.

What We Hold Onto

So in the face of rising authoritarianism, what do we hold onto?

We hold onto relationships — the bonds of trust and mutual care that help people navigate and survive repressive environments.

We hold onto integrity — the belief that telling the truth, even when no one seems to be listening, still matters.

We hold onto memory — the record of how things should be. Not out of nostalgia, but as a tool for calibration. So we can say with clarity: this is not normal.

We hold onto vision — not because we’re naive, but because imagining a better future is a radical act when cynicism is the default.

And we hold onto the work — especially the unglamorous kind. The spreadsheet that’s accurate. The dissent cable that risks retaliation. The report that holds the line, even if it gets buried.

Hope Without Guarantees

This isn’t a call for naïve optimism. It’s an invitation to a different kind of hope — one that lives alongside grief and fear, and doesn’t rely on outcomes to survive.

Hope isn’t blind. It sees the world as it is, and still chooses to act.

Later this week, we’ll share a guest piece about USAID’s response to the 2015 Nepal earthquake — a story of crisis, collaboration, and trust. But before we turn to that kind of emergency response, we wanted to pause here, in this slower-burning crisis: the ongoing erosion of democracy.

Because what’s at stake in both is strikingly similar — the question of what we rebuild, and how.

And in both cases, the answer starts not with systems, but with people. Ordinary people, quietly doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.

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🟡 If you’ve witnessed or experienced small acts of resistance, integrity, or care in the face of repression — and feel safe to share — we’d love to hear your story. Comment below or drop us a line at usaidfromtheamericanpeople@gmail.com (anonymity respected).

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