No matter where you fall on the political spectrum, it’s hard to ignore that the world’s most intractable problems have started to overwhelm: inflation remains stubbornly high, contagious diseases continue to spread, racial and religious minorities still face latent discrimination, and blistering summer temperatures rise every year. As an individual, I’ve done what I can to combat these challenges: I’ve gotten my vaccinations; I’ve reduced, reused, and composted anything I couldn’t recycle; and yes, I’ve voted. I suppose I could start raising chickens to supply my own eggs, but that won’t offset the financial turmoil created by consumer-confusing tariffs or curtail the spread of bird flu.
Sure, I’m fearful of all of this. I’m frustrated, too. But worse than that, I think I’m starting to feel something a little more insidious. I’m starting to feel…cynical.
I suppose I could just give up—stop caring about things like public health, climate change, social equity, the cost of living—and go distract myself at the movies. But at the theater, I’d find films that run against that zeitgeist of hopelessness. Yes, terrible things still happen on screen, but stories about scrappy crusaders still dominate the box office. (I’m looking at you, Marvel Cinematic Universe!) Some might suggest that these delusions of grandeur are designed to tranquilize the nervous masses; regardless, the public obviously craves them.
Is such innocent optimism entirely misplaced? Or can David still slay Thanos—er, Goliath? The answer, thankfully, is yes. While film may not always provide the most realistic examples, there’s a venerated blueprint for how individual people—not superheroes—can overcome formidable odds and avert global catastrophe. And you can find it by looking at history. And not ancient or biblical history either—the 20th century is ripe with examples of how the world was pushed to a moral, ethical, and existential brink, only for unsung champions to pull us all back to safety.
The first truly global crisis I remember occurred while I was in grade school. While bombarded by public service announcements encouraging me to save the whales, feed starving African children, and conserve freshwater, none alarmed me quite as much as those that advertised the hole in the ozone layer. A hole? In Earth’s protective shield? I was certain we were all going to fry. But as a child, what could I do besides make some kind of shoebox diorama? As far as I was concerned, such a colossal problem could only be fixed by Wonder Woman. Lucky for me (and for all of us, really), Dr. Susan Soloman was already on the case, leading a tiny band of scientists in uncovering the evidence that suggested chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) were rapidly eroding the Antarctic ozone. Her groundbreaking research played a pivotal role in driving the 1987 Montreal Protocol, an international agreement to phase out the production and release of ozone-depleting chemicals. And while the ozone layer is still healing, it has already shown notable recovery.
Of course, that’s only one global issue. Unfortunately for me, the cusp of my adulthood was marred by yet another international calamity: the 2008 financial crisis. Jobs, loans, housing—all seemed impossible to secure as global markets crumbled. But as a glassy-eyed new grad, I wasn’t going to be the target of any federally-funded bailouts because I wasn’t “too big to fail.” I felt so small, in fact, that I was sure there was nothing I could do to stand up to the bad behavior of big banks. If only I’d known about Fred Korematsu, who’d had the courage to stand up to the entire U.S. Government when he was a young adult. And not just any young adult, either. Korematsu was just 22 years old and working hard to expand his family’s flower nursery outside San Francisco when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in 1941. A few months later, Korematsu resisted being sent to an internment camp: he was an American-born citizen after all, with no ties to Japan. Arguing that the policy’s racial prejudice violated his constitutional rights, Korematsu worked with the American Civil Liberties Union to take his case to the Supreme Court in 1944. Though the Court sided with the U.S. Government, Korematsu appealed the decision decades later when a law professor surfaced evidence that the government had falsified information shared with the court. A lower court overturned the decision in 1983 and Korematsu went on to lobby Congress to pass the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, by which the U.S. government issued a formal apology (and reparations) to Japanese American internment camp survivors. President Clinton awarded Korematsu the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1998.
Enter 2020. Having found my professional footing, I was fully engaged in mid-life activities: building my career, raising my family, and trying but failing to balance the two. The COVID-19 pandemic only exacerbated my exhaustion: not only did it add to my concern about my family’s health, but now I had to work, parent, and homeschool all at once. Though I lacked the bandwidth to do much more, “flattening the curve” by washing my hands and staying home really didn’t seem like enough.
But this wasn’t the first devastating virus the world had dealt with. Prior to 2006, gastroenteritis and diarrhea caused more than 500,000 child deaths and millions of hospitalizations every year. The most common cause? Rotavirus. And how do we know? Dr. Ruth Bishop, an Australian virologist, and her team identified the bug in 1973. Dr. Bishop’s discovery then kicked off efforts to develop a vaccine that would precipitate “swift and striking” declines in severe rotavirus diarrhea. Studies now estimate that the rotavirus vaccine prevents approximately 15% of global rotavirus deaths—perhaps a smaller change than one might expect, but still amounts to tens of thousands of lives saved every year.
Look. Burnout is real, and so is toxic optimism. But here’s the good news: we don’t all need to become legendary virologists, trail-blazing atmospheric chemists, or fearless social justice advocates to make a meaningful difference.
Take Dr. Susan Solomon. She wasn’t a policymaker, nor did she broker any part of the international deal that restricted harmful CFCs. But her research? That was the catalyst that sparked planet-saving action. It’s a powerful reminder that no one person has to solve an entire problem on their own. You just have to contribute one thing.
Maybe now you’re thinking, “But I don’t have the specialized skills to make that kind of impact.” Well, neither did Fred Korematsu. Korematsu didn’t fight his landmark case alone, however; someone connected him with the ACLU. That simple act—a conversation, a suggestion, an introduction—was invaluable, and anyone can make connections like that. Networking requires no special training, no certification, no great expense. It’s something we can all do easily, often, and without fanfare.
But do small acts like these really matter? Absolutely. Dr. Ruth Bishop’s discovery of rotavirus and the vaccine that followed emphasizes the fact that at scale, even the tiniest efforts have significant impacts. Small percentages can mean thousands of lives.
Sure, none of this may feel like a movie-grade stunt or an Oscar-winning storyline, but you never know how it might influence the next big solution. You might introduce the right people, inspire the right idea, or quietly show up, day after day, for a cause that needs you. And that quiet, consistent effort? Thousands of others are doing the same. Taken together, these unsung actions build momentum for real, systemic change.
Is this a guarantee? Not at all. There’s only one thing I feel certain about: disillusioned surrender to a bleak and inevitable future is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Choosing to remain optimistic about the value of individual contributions is not naïve, but a deliberate act of defiance.
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