Where Do We See Slivers of Hope Around Us?

In the field of international relations, I, as a student, am too often the subject of hopelessness. When researching things like immigration restrictions within the United States or the limitations of the UNHCR’s definition of human rights or the progression of illegal deals trading and the consequences that has on local communities, I wish for nothing more than the opportunity to close my eyes and turn off my ears. Even beyond my learning in a classroom, the things I lose hope over extend to my everyday life; they exist everywhere, whether on hourly newscycles, on social media, or in hearing things from friends and family. Dare I say we live in a seemingly grey world and in moments, we become desensitized to it. 

Because of this, I have questioned my choice to become an international relations student. Am I not strong enough for this? Should I be feeling hopeless in my education, or should I feel inspired?

I suppose I can be a little bit of both. I suppose they both might in fact be necessary. Because while it is uncomfortable, it is true that in my hopelessness sometimes I find inspiration. And that inspiration is to look for the good, “the slivers of hope,” and to hold onto them, and replicate them. 

 A sliver of hope can look like a smile from a stranger as they hold the door open for you or a positive neighborhood story at the end of the eleven-o'clock news. If you are a democrat in ideology, the NYC mayoral election would be a sliver. If you are a runner, the taste of a donut at the end of a run is a sliver. If you are a student at university, a FaceTime with your mom is a sliver. These too, can be everywhere, just as hopelessness can. To recognize them when they are hidden in plain sight, that is the challenge. 

As someone who has adopted the trend of grey-colored glasses, I have learned that slivers of hope aren’t always bright, loud, or cinematic. They don’t always show up as sweeping political change or the sudden end of a conflict. More often, they are small, almost forgettable moments that tug at the edges of our attention. They are quiet reminders that the world is not entirely lost to cruelty or indifference. Hope, in my experience, is subtle. It asks you to listen closely, to look twice, or perhaps even to resist the urge to surrender.

In international relations, we often talk about structures, or rather systems that feel too large and immovable for any one person to touch. Bureaucracy, geopolitics, state interests, power struggles. But behind every structure are people. And people, despite their flaws and inconsistencies, are also capable of astonishing acts of resilience. When I remind myself of this, I realize that hope is not a naive practice, it’s one of evidence. Evidence of what already exists, even if overshadowed.

Lately, I’ve started treating hope as a skill rather than a feeling. Skills can be strengthened; they can be practiced. For me, that practice looks like paying attention to the moments that interrupt my cynicism. These small markers don’t erase the hard truths of the world, but they sit beside them, offering context, balance, and direction.

And maybe that is what we all need: a little direction. Not to ignore the realities that break our hearts, but to remember why they break our hearts in the first place: because we care, because we believe the world should be better, because we haven’t actually given up even when we think we have. Hope, then, isn’t a distraction from the work of understanding global issues, it’s fuel for it.

So where do we see slivers of hope around us? Everywhere, if we are willing to notice. In the gestures of strangers, in the stubbornness of communities that refuse to give up, in the persistence of people who still show up to fight for justice. In ourselves, too, every time we choose to keep learning, questioning, challenging, or imagining something different.

We then can begin to understand that hope doesn’t require the world to be perfect. It only requires us to stay open to the possibility that goodness still exists, and that we have a role in creating more of it. Maybe that is what will keep me grounded in this field, not the absence of hopelessness, but the commitment to searching for light anyway. If the world insists on being grey, then we want to be the ones who keep learning to see the subtle shades, the quiet blues, the soft yellows, the muted greens, hidden underneath. Because sometimes, a sliver is enough to keep going through the grey.