Much to the concern (and bemusement) of the realists in my life, nothing lights up a grey day for me like a hopeful story. The good guys winning. The quiet swell of a happy ending that sneaks up on you. The persistence of light after long stretches of dark.

I’ve learned this romantic spirit isn’t frivolous. It’s the root of the hope I carry.

I believe good can win.

I believe there is magic in the mundane.

I believe the glint of a rainbow signals possibility.

In the workplace, this hope takes shape as a belief in people and in the value of process. When we come together, something new often emerges. Most of the time, this is not witnessed in a burst of brilliance. Instead it is seen in the steady flow of daily effort. In the small moments where someone shares an idea they weren't sure would land. In the instinctive gesture of support from a teammate. In the thoughtful pause before a difficult decision. These aren't detours from the work; they are the work.

Hope, at least the way I understand it, keeps the dream alive.

I work in operations; a discipline defined by structure. Planning, sequencing, repeatability define it. Spreadsheets, schedules, and systems that run best when they hum quietly in the background. But even in the plumbing, there can be poetry.

What if we allowed ourselves to see it that way more often?

What if, like Thoreau, we practiced noticing the stardust in the everyday?

What if the rituals of the workplace (morning meetings, reviews, check-ins) weren’t just levers of control, but invitations to live our values? The moral ones. The human ones. The hopeful ones.

Hope, after all, isn’t about fantasy. It’s about noticing. About feeling. About finding meaning in the smallest exchanges. The way a good team member always asks if you need a moment before diving in. The way a new idea is met with curiosity, not defensiveness. The way care shows up when no one is watching.

Of course planning matters. But so does living outside the plan.

Living deliberately doesn’t only mean choreographing every move. It also means deciding to be fully present in the moment you’re in. Because a succession of moments is really all we have. And if we can bring ourselves to them. If we can bring our attention, our care, our belief in what’s possible to each of our spaces, then the through line becomes clear. Not just in the work we produce, but in the culture we create.

This is what building environments of hope really looks like. They offer kaleidoscopes; shifts of colour and form. A little stardust caught.