A reflection on what it means to hold onto hope when the systems we trust begin to unravel—and how our belief in what is possible must carry us forward.
By Marya Sherron
Hope is not always easy.
I almost didn’t write this post. I sat in stillness, unsure whether I had the right words—or the emotional stamina—to speak honestly about the ache I’ve been carrying. The grief that comes when trusted programs disappear without warning. When roles and titles we’ve worked hard to uphold are redefined or weaponized. When inclusion becomes a buzzword instead of a lived reality.
Deep down, I wondered: Is there space for this in a blog called A Time for Hope?
Deeper down, I answered: Yes. Especially here.
Because hope isn’t just for the easy days. Hope is for this. For the days of disruption and discouragement. For the weeks we spend clawing for clarity. For the moments we feel forgotten or overwhelmed by the steady erosion of systems we fought to build.
Hope, real hope, is not soft.It’s not passive or naïve.It is active. Diligent. Determined.It’s the quiet but insistent whisper that says, take the next step anyway.
As a writer, a mother, an advocate—words matter to me. One word I keep coming back to is inclusive.
To include.
To welcome in.
To make space.
It’s a beautiful word when honored well. And it has been central to the fight for dignity and belonging for decades.
We’ve seen this in action before:
We stood behind the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA), which transformed public spaces with ramps, accessible parking, and wider doorways so that people using wheelchairs could navigate the world freely.
We witnessed the progress when sign language interpreters stepped into the spotlight to ensure public information was accessible to the Deaf and hard-of-hearing community.
We celebrated when the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA) secured the right of children with disabilities to learn alongside their peers (U.S. Department of Education, 2021)—not in rooms tucked away, but in classrooms with shared laughter and growth. But progress isn’t always forward. Sometimes, it’s undercut.
Right now, we are living in a season of pullback:
- Medicaid supports slashed
- Special education funding frozen
- DOE shifts leaving families confused and unsupported
- Inclusion programs erased from budgets
- The rise in the use of restraint and seclusion in schools
- Disability-focused organizations closing their doors quietly
It’s hard not to feel like the ground is crumbling beneath us.
It’s hard not to feel like our children, our families, our dreams—are being left behind.
So, I ask again: Is this still a time for hope?
I say yes. Absolutely, yes.
Because hope is not denial. Hope sees the landscape clearly—and moves forward anyway.
Hope says: We may be discouraged, but we are not done.
Hope fuels resilience.
Hope activates imagination.
Hope is sustained by our belief in what we know is possible.
We have seen inclusion. We have built programs. We have made systems bend.
And we will do it again.
But not by accident.
By intention.
By action.
Let’s move from feeling to action.
Ask yourself: What is your goal?
Maybe it’s ensuring your child receives the accommodations they deserve.
Maybe it’s advocating for more inclusive playgrounds or pushing back against regressive policies. Maybe it’s simply refusing to be silent.
Now take the next step.
Here are three you can start today:
- Name your goal clearly. Write it down. Say it out loud. Share it with someone who will hold you accountable.
- Make contact. Send an email to your school district, local representatives, or disability advocates in your area. Find out what’s changing—and how you can respond.
- Show up. Whether it’s a school board meeting, a parent group, a town hall, or a Zoom call—bring your presence. Your voice matters more than you think.
Hope doesn’t have to roar. It doesn’t have to be pretty. But it must be present.
Let’s hold on to it.
Let’s let it guide our hands.
Let’s allow it to fuel the next right step.
Because while uncertainty will always visit us… so will possibility.
And hope—persistent, imaginative, resilient—will always help us find our way.
Marya Patrice Sherron is a dedicated advocate, a proud mother of two incredible children with disabilities, and a valued member of The Arc of Indiana’s Board of Directors.