the case for optimism
The practicality of believing in humanity
Welcome to the tenth (!!) edition of Culture Carrier.
What began as an exercise in creative courage has evolved into a weekly exploration of how to stay grounded in a noisy, complex world.
Starting out, I wasn't sure what this newsletter would be. I just knew there were big topics I wanted to write about in a way I'd want to read: skipping the hot takes and theatrics to call the game straight. A way to lean into the mess of it all in hopes of finding something useful on the other side.
Ten weeks in, I've been reflecting on what drives this whole project. Why keep writing when there's already so much noise? Here's what I've landed on: everything I write comes from a deep belief that we can figure this out. That there's real cause for optimism.
Not the naive kind of optimism that ignores reality, but the earned kind. The kind that looks directly at social challenges and doesn't blink. That believes humans are worth betting on. That for all our chaos and dysfunction, we're capable of rising to this moment. That the future, while uncertain, is something we can actually shape for the better.
That perspective — that underneath the chaos is a species worth believing in — has become the engine of this entire project.
As for the "why," I have a six-month-old daughter and an eighteen-year-old brother. Maybe that's part of it. Accepting "inevitable collapse" isn't really an option when you're looking at the next generation. But I think it goes deeper than that. The more I've studied how change happens, the more convinced I've become that optimism isn't just a nice feeling — it's the most practical strategy we have.
So today, let me make the case for the worldview that shapes everything I write. Not blind hope, but active optimism. The kind that sees crisis as opportunity and chooses to believe we can stick the landing.
Cynicism has become the cultural default. It's where a lot of people land when they try to make sense of the world's mess. And I get it — headlines give us plenty of reasons to embrace the doom.
Turn on the news, scroll your feed, talk to your neighbors. There's a lot to be worried about. In that context, cynicism can just feel like an honest read on the state of the world. A sign that you’re seeing clearly.
But here's my thing: cynicism isn't helpful. It may be accurate in diagnosis, but it's completely unproductive in outcome. It's a spectator sport. It asks little of us except commentary from the sidelines. Anyone can point out what's wrong. Anyone can declare the game unwinnable. That doesn't cost much.
But if you care about the future — if you share this belief in humanity's ability to work things out — you can't afford that posture. Cynicism doesn't offer a plan when social trust collapses, when AI upends everything we thought we knew, or when inequality stretches to a breaking point. It just offers more opinions. More detachment. No strategy, just apathy dressed as sophistication.
The truth is, cynicism is cheap. Active optimism costs something. It demands you face the mess, pick your lane, and stay rooted in the belief that things can change — even when it's hard to see how.
Active optimism is choosing to believe a brighter future is possible — and taking responsibility for your part in building it.
This kind of optimism operates differently from the naive version most people picture. It has backbone. It has discipline. And it shows up in how you move through the world, not pretending everything is fine, embracing improvement as a legitimate and worthy pursuit.
If the goal is to make things better, optimism is simply the more useful operating system. It keeps you resourced, thinking clearly, able to act when action is needed.
It’s a multiplier. Your emotional state is contagious. One grounded optimist in a room can redirect an entire conversation. Optimists engage across divides, attract allies, and expand the network of people and ideas that can produce solutions. In a fragmented world, that connectivity matters.
It’s practical. The challenges we’re facing are marathons. Anger and fear may mobilize in short bursts, but they burn out fast. Optimism sustains engagement for the long haul. And in complex challenges, you need full problem-solving capacity. Despair shrinks it; optimism expands it.
It’s humble. Assuming you “know” how the future will unfold (especially assuming the worst) is its own form of arrogance. History is full of surprising turns toward progress. Active optimism keeps the door open for solutions you can’t yet see.
Here’s what I think cynics miss: this isn’t just a time of collapse — it’s a time of wild, unprecedented capacity. Yes, things are breaking. Institutions are failing, trust is eroding, and old systems are coming apart at the seams. But they’re also breaking open. The same forces creating chaos are also creating possibilities.
We’re living through the most rapid expansion of human capability in history. Not just technological capability, but social capability. We’re getting better at collective intelligence, at routing around institutional failures, at coordinating across networks in ways that would have been impossible a generation ago.
Think about it: the tools that amplify division also enable unprecedented collaboration. The same internet that spreads misinformation also connects brilliant minds across continents. The technologies disrupting old industries also make it possible for small groups to solve problems that once required massive organizations.
The question isn’t whether we have the tools to build something better. It’s whether we’ll tap into their full potential.
Active optimism is a choice — and it’s a discipline. It’s something I’ve had to learn: staying engaged and hopeful enough to keep showing up when resignation feels easier.
This isn’t convincing yourself that everything will work out; it’s choosing to act like it could.
And then doing your part to make that true.
If not us, who?
j