We Lose Nothing by Being Hopeful

The Promise-Keeper blog series is part of AASA's 2026 "The Promise of Hope" back-to-school campaign, spotlighting AASA members who bring hope to life in their districts every day through courageous decisions, transparent leadership, and student-centered action.

It can be hard to stay hopeful when you've made a career in public education in the United States in 2026. 

What a way to open, right? 

Unfortunately, our brains are wired for that feeling. Negativity bias, the well-documented tendency to register threats faster and more powerfully than the uplifting things happening around us, means hope doesn't always come naturally. Like a muscle, it's strengthened when it's used, and it atrophies when it's ignored. Fortunately, keeping your penchant for hope strong doesn't require grand gestures or exposure to a meaningless stream of toxic positivity for all of our waking hours. Instead, it simply asks that we remind ourselves that we lose nothing by keeping it at the forefront. This has actually become somewhat of a mantra for me, popping up throughout the long weeks of a school year when I feel myself getting pulled into a negative spiral. I whisper to myself, "We lose nothing by being hopeful, Tim."

[Hope] manifests in the educators who are there, every day for every student. It's visible because they are, even on the days that ask the most and give the least back.

We're not diminished in any way by being a beacon for others and reminding those around us that we have the power to make things better in small but incremental ways. I believe hope in public education lives in the ordinary places, in the things we take for granted. Most importantly, it manifests in the educators who are there, every day for every student. It's visible because they are, even on the days that ask the most and give the least back.

Data’s Not the Whole Story

As I write this, I’m taken back to my time as a middle school principal, and one student's face still comes to mind. I'll call him Marcus.

He wasn't in my office for behaviors or popping up regularly on anyone's watch list. He was a quiet kid who adults assumed was doing fine. He came to school, went to class, and turned in his work. On paper, he was a decent student. Why look for a problem where there isn’t one, right? 

At a particular faculty meeting in the middle of the year, we went through our class rosters putting colorful stickers next to the names of kids with at least one trusted adult relationship in the building. It was an exercise meant to re-center our priorities in the doldrums of mid-winter. If a staff member felt that they had a solid relationship, they put a sticker next to that student’s name. We certainly weren't the first school in the nation to do this, but we definitely should have done it sooner. As I reviewed the lists with my inner circle after the meeting, I noticed there were no stickers next to several students. Marcus was one of them. 

We didn't wait.

Within days, the adults in his orbit knew he needed a connection, which was exactly why we'd recently started a group called X-Factor (nothing to do with the long-running televised talent competition). We wanted a different way to connect male educators with young men who needed mentoring outside of classrooms, students who may, at some point, slip through the proverbial cracks. We accomplished this through low-stakes group activities like bowling, hiking, or maybe a professional sporting event on a Friday night throughout the school year. Naturally, food was always involved. There was no stipend for the adults who signed on, but they did it anyway. They understood that kids need a reason to show up each day, and they wanted to be a part of the solution. For a student like Marcus, that made all the difference. He was invited to join, and just like that he had a crew that lasted through high school.

The Power of Acknowledgement

I’m not going to pretend that this effort comes without burden or that it’s a cure-all.

Educators are tired in ways that the general public may not want to acknowledge. They absorb hardships they weren't trained to in graduate school, and they keep coming back. Some students and families balk at outreach and overtures.

Hope is what's left when you reach even just one student. Hope lives in our colleagues’ commitment to be there, but without acknowledgement it can just as easily disappear.

We, as school and district leaders, must make sure the people standing alongside us know that we see them.

So, how do we keep hope from being pulled down by the weight of it all?

I don't think the answer is a new initiative or program, and I definitely don't think it's a new five-year strategic plan. I believe that it's smaller than that, and definitely less bombastic. We, as school and district leaders, must make sure the people standing alongside us know that we see them. It starts with noticing someone's work while it's actually happening. Saying it out loud, in front of other people, so it's witnessed. Saying it quietly, with pen and paper, so it’s tangible.

A handwritten note costs you five minutes, and it says much more than an email full of exclamation points could. Don’t underestimate the power of an actual artifact, something that people can hold and display as a reminder that someone else sees them. In a job built on invisible effort, a note like that tells someone that showing up means something, which is the exact message we're asking them to give the kids every single day.

So, if you catch yourself sliding toward hopelessness this week because negativity bias doesn't take days off, feel free to steal my mantra. We lose nothing by being hopeful. Hope lives in the educators that surround us because they’re here.

Go find someone in your district who showed up for one student, for a classroom full of kids, for another colleague and tell them that what they think is ordinary is actually extraordinary. It will surely make all the difference.