I started clowning when I was sixteen. Which means I have been a clown, in one form or another, for longer than I have done basically anything else in my life. Longer than I’ve been married. Longer than I’ve had ADHD medication. Longer than I’ve had a blog, and this blog is old enough to drink.

There are two kinds of clowns that matter here. The Whiteface is the one in charge. Prim, proper, thinks they’ve got it figured out. The Auguste is the other one — big shoes, bad ideas, constantly failing. The Auguste is the one who tries to sit in the chair and the chair breaks. Tries again. Chair breaks again. Tries a third time and somehow ends up on the floor wearing the chair as a hat.

The audience laughs because the Auguste never stops trying. That’s the whole bit. That’s the entire philosophy. You get knocked down and you get back up and you try the chair again even though everyone in the room knows how this ends.

I’ve been thinking about the Auguste a lot lately.

It is hard to have hope right now. I don’t think that’s a controversial statement. The US is bombing Yemen and our government is acting like this is normal and fine and not a thing that should make you want to scream into a pillow for the rest of the afternoon. Epstein’s client list is just… out there. Names we all suspected, confirmed, and nothing happens. No consequences. No accountability. Just a brief news cycle and then we move on to the next thing because the next thing is already here and it’s also terrible.

The cumulative weight of it is the part that gets me. It’s not one thing. It’s the layering. It’s waking up and checking the news and feeling your shoulders get a little heavier every single morning. It’s the slow erosion of believing that systems work, that people in power face consequences, that the arc of the moral universe bends toward anything at all.

I catch myself wanting to disengage entirely. Just stop reading. Stop caring. Build a little bubble out of cat videos and Hallmark movies and miniature painting and pretend the world outside isn’t doing what it’s doing. And honestly? Some days that’s exactly what I do. I’m not going to pretend I’m out here being an activist every waking moment. Some days I paint tiny rats and that’s all I’ve got.

But here’s where the clown thing comes back.

The Auguste doesn’t stop trying because the chair is going to hold. The Auguste stops trying when the bit is over, and the bit is never over. The Auguste gets up because getting up is the whole point. Not because the outcome is guaranteed. Not because the world makes sense. Not because the people in charge are going to suddenly develop a conscience and do the right thing. The Auguste gets up because the alternative is staying on the floor, and staying on the floor isn’t funny and it isn’t useful and it isn’t who you are.

I am not saying hope is easy. I am saying hope is a practice. It’s a thing you do, not a thing you feel. Some mornings I feel it and some mornings I absolutely do not and I do it anyway. I sign the petition anyway. I have the conversation anyway. I show up for the people around me anyway. Not because I’m optimistic. Because I’m an Auguste, and Augustes get back up.

The Whiteface — the prim one, the one in charge — the Whiteface would look at the state of the world and say “well, this is how it is.” The Whiteface accepts the structure. Works within it. Doesn’t question why the chair keeps breaking.

The Auguste asks why the chair keeps breaking. And then tries to fix it. Badly. With tape and enthusiasm and no clear plan. But tries.

I’d rather be the clown with tape and enthusiasm than the one who stopped trying.

I don’t have a neat conclusion here. I don’t think hope is supposed to have a neat conclusion. I think it’s supposed to be messy and hard and sometimes you’re wearing the chair as a hat and the world is on fire and you get up anyway.

Take care of yourselves. Do the things that keep you sane. And when you can, get back up.