As I’m staring at my computer screen, grinding my teeth on this bitter Tuesday, my racing mind is scattered and searching for resting places.

It’s arriving at various scenes etched into my memory that I haven’t paused to consider in some time.

I keep picturing the heroes at Selma, facing a fence of deadly oppressors while they defiantly pressed on.

I keep picturing the Parkland teenagers, who organized the March for our Lives when their friends, neighbors, and families were added to the death toll of school shootings.

I keep picturing Tarana Burke’s empowerment of young, Black sexual assault survivors that held the hands of every woman who had the same experience.

I keep picturing the healthcare workers improvising with garbage bags as PPE to fight for their patients another day.

I keep picturing the firefighters who ran into the West Coast infernos to salvage the surviving inhabitants.

I picture this all from the comfort of my home—not to dismiss my own or anyone else’s anxiety about today, but to remind myself that there are helpers.

There are heroes.

There is, dare I say it, hope.

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