Build the Room

How Gathering, Not Compliance, Keeps Us Human

There’s an antidote for despair. There’s an antidote for fear. There’s an out for our anger.

And compliance is not it.

Right now, we are being trained—deliberately—to obey. Or else. We see it in the suspension of consent decrees that once held local police to account. We see it in federal dictates that override the safety laws our own states passed. We see it in the way human rights are reframed as "ideologies" to be purged. We are told to keep our heads down as entire shelves of shared work are stripped bare: environmental protection, cultural memory, social care, justice, equity, diversity, inclusion. Not because these efforts failed, but because they threaten a particular kind of power. They remind people that the world can be organized around care instead of control.

Paralysis is the point. Isolation is the method. Fear is the accelerant.

A frightened public is easier to manage. An exhausted public stops imagining alternatives. An isolated public begins to believe it is alone—and that belief does more damage than any single policy ever could.

That’s why compliance is so tempting. It promises relief. Keep quiet, stay small, don’t draw attention, and maybe the pressure eases. But compliance doesn’t actually protect us. It only hollows us out slowly, until what we cared about feels too heavy to carry.

The real antidote is older and sturdier than any administration. It’s collective presence.

When fear rises, the answer is not retreat—it’s gathering. When despair whispers that nothing matters, the answer is shared purpose. When anger burns hot and directionless, the answer is channeling it into care, into action, into building something together that refuses erasure.

When federal agents are granted immunity from local law, and when the bodies meant to oversee them are AWOL or locked out of the room, they want us scattered. They want us silent. So we gather. So we speak—carefully, truthfully, together. They want us obedient. So we practice something far more dangerous: solidarity.

Ocean Hoptimism was born from this instinct—not as a brand, not as a vibe, but as a practice. A place to show up in person. To talk, to listen, to learn, to plan, to argue gently, to remember why the ocean—and each other—are worth defending. But it doesn’t belong to one place or one name. If Ocean Hoptimism doesn’t exist near you, something like it must. And if it doesn’t yet, you can build it.

This is how movements survive dark seasons. Not through grand gestures, but through warm rooms and open doors.

A living room.

A bar after work.

A restaurant back table.

A town hall side room.

A church basement with bad coffee and folding chairs.

Anywhere people can sit face to face and remember they are not alone.

Resilient optimism is not pretending everything is fine. It is choosing to act as if the future still deserves effort—even when the present is hostile. It is optimism with calluses. Optimism that shows up when it would be easier to scroll, numb out, or disappear.

If you’re teetering on despair, start small and start human.

First, interrupt isolation. Call someone. Text someone. Sit with someone. Despair feeds on solitude; it weakens in company.

Second, ground yourself in the tangible. Go outside. Touch water. Walk a familiar street. Cook a meal for someone else. Do one physical thing that reminds your body you are still here.

Third, choose one place to show up regularly. Not everywhere. Just somewhere. Consistency builds belonging, and belonging restores agency.

Fourth, convert anger into structure. Anger without direction burns you out. Anger with purpose builds mutual aid, meeting spaces, study groups, local campaigns, art nights, shoreline cleanups, food drives. Pick one outlet and give it shape.

Finally, if you cannot find a collective, start one. You do not need permission. You need chairs, time, and a reason to gather. Say: “I don’t want to do this alone.” You will be surprised how many people have been waiting to hear exactly that.

This moment is trying to teach us fear. We can refuse the lesson. Not with denial. Not with compliance. But with presence. With care. With stubborn, practiced togetherness.

Keep the fires in your heart burning—but don’t guard them alone. Fires last longer when they’re shared.

Practice resilient optimism.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it’s right.