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Hey friends,
These longer READ pieces are written to slow things down a little. They are made for reflection, not scrolling. If now is not the right moment, save it and come back when you have the space.If this article lands, leave a comment.
— Gregg
Do I Romanticise a Better World?
How hope can be mistaken for romanticism, and how small actions may matter not only because they change the world, but because they shape who we become within it.
This weekend, a close Serbian friend flying back to China, where he now lives and works, had a long layover through the Netherlands, so we got an unexpected half day together. My partner, our housemate, and I went out for lunch, and somewhere between the banter and catching up on life in China, we ended up in one of those conversations that starts in one place and quietly opens into something much bigger.
Two things stayed with me.
The first was the conversation around food. Me being a vegetarian. Boycotts. The small everyday choices people make when they are trying to live in alignment with their values.
Our friend explained, with respect to my beliefs, that he did not believe these kinds of small choices have any real impact. The boycotts, the dietary decisions, the opting out of certain platforms or products. In his view, none of it moves the needle.
At one point, my housemate turned to him and said, “I think Gregg romanticises these things a little.”
And to be honest, I was kind of surprised that I didn’t instantly reject it. It didn’t land like an accusation.
So I sat with it.
Do I romanticise a better world? Do I romanticise the idea that our small actions still matter? That choosing not to buy something, not to eat something, not to support something can still mean anything in the face of systems this large, this violent, this deeply entangled?
A Lesson In Speaking From Where I Stand
The second thing that became clear as the conversation unfolded was this: how easily we think we are talking about one thing, while the people listening hear something completely different.
At one point, I found myself trying to speak about uncertainty. About that strange feeling many of us are carrying right now, where the future we thought we were moving toward no longer feels solid. The old promises: work hard, be responsible, save where you can, and maybe life will become more stable. Maybe one day you will buy a home. Maybe one day you will feel like the effort led somewhere.
I was trying to describe the quiet shock I am hearing from people in my circles, realising that many of the things we thought were solid were never quite as solid as we believed.
But almost immediately, the conversation shifted.
I had been using “we” as an inclusive term. But my partner was quick to point out that my examples were heard not as personal uncertainty, but as western assumptions. Capitalist assumptions. A very specific set of expectations shaped by a very specific kind of life.
And I could understand why.
Here I was, sitting with my partner and our friend, both shaped by growing up in former Yugoslavia and by the wars of the nineties. So when I reached for examples like saving money, buying a house, or building a future, I could suddenly hear how strange that might sound from where they stood. Not because those certainties were later taken away, but because their relationship to certainty, security, and the future had been shaped very differently from the start.
That shifted something for me. Not because I suddenly thought I was wrong to speak, but because I realised how easily examples can universalise an experience that was never universal at all.
When I say things like “saving money”, “buying a house”, or “building a future”, I may think I am naming a broad cultural script. But someone else may hear: “this was the story we all lived inside.”
And that is not true.
It may have shaped people around me. It may have been part of the promise sold to many in the West. But it was never the promise made to everyone. Not across countries. Not across classes. Not across histories. Not even within the same city.
That does not mean I cannot speak from where I stand. It means I have to know that I am speaking from where I stand.
There is a real difference between saying, “We all believed this future was coming,” and saying, “I grew up with certain assumptions about what effort and stability were supposed to lead to, and I am now trying to make sense of living without them.” One invites argument. The other invites recognition.
Examples are never neutral. Speaking carefully is not about being less honest. It is about being more precise.
The Different Legacies of War
But there was another part of the conversation that stayed with me even more.
At one point, the discussion turned toward war, global suffering, and how much responsibility we should feel for people beyond our immediate lives. Not in an abstract way, but in the messy real way these things show up through the products we buy, the systems we participate in, and the everyday compromises of living in the world as it is.
And something I found especially interesting was this: both my partner and my friend lived through war, yet that experience seems to have echoed through their lives in very different ways. For my partner, it became part of a rich history of activism, advocacy, peace building, and a strong commitment to justice and the rule of law. But in my friend, I could also glimpse another possible response. How living through war, instability, and the feeling that nobody from the outside was coming to care for you might make the circle of concern shrink for reasons that make complete emotional sense.
I found myself thinking: if the world did not care when your world was burning, why should you now be expected to carry the weight of everyone else’s?
I do not say that to judge. I say it because I could feel the truth of it.
I also do not want this to read as too interpretive of other people’s inner worlds. After all, I did not ask enough questions to fully understand where everyone was coming from. This is me stumbling through the reflective process, trying to make sense of what the conversation opened up in me.
What I found myself hearing was not simple indifference, but something shaped by abandonment. I could understand how a life marked by war and instability might make loyalty to the closest circle feel like the only solid ground. Family. Friends. Survival. The immediate circle. Everything beyond that can begin to feel distant, abstract, or like someone else’s moral language.
I can understand how a person gets there. And yet I also found myself unsettled by it. Not wanting to dismiss it, but not quite able to follow it either.
Small Actions Matter To Me
Because for me, I still want to believe that small actions matter. In fact, I live by it.
Not because I think they are enough. Not because I think refusing one product or changing one habit will somehow tip history on its own. And not because I confuse personal purity with political change. I know the systems are bigger than that.
But I still cannot let go of the feeling that small actions matter for another reason.
They matter because they are practice.
They are one of the ways we refuse to let the logic of the world fully colonise us.
Every day we are being trained into something. Into speed. Into convenience. Into numbness. Into living with knowledge that should unsettle us, while acting as though it changes nothing. Into caring just enough to speak about things, but not enough to let them interrupt how we live.
In that kind of world, a small act can be more than a minor intervention. It can be a way of staying in relationship with your own values. A way of saying: I know this will not fix everything. But I do not want to become someone who stops trying to live in accordance with what I know.
That feels important to me. Not because it makes me good, not because it gives me the right to judge others, but because I think there is a danger in only measuring action by visible impact. If the only things worth doing are things guaranteed to transform the whole system, then almost nothing in daily life survives that standard. And that can become its own kind of surrender.
So where I land is not in the fantasy that small actions will save us. But in the belief that they still shape us. They shape our habits, our attention, what we normalise, and the distance between what we claim to care about and how we move through the day.
And perhaps they help keep something alive inside us that the world would rather flatten.
Integrity. Sensitivity. Refusal. Care.
I do not think that is nothing.
When Hope Is Heard Differently: Romanticise a Better World
At the same time, this conversation reminded me that hope itself is heard differently depending on where someone is standing.
For some people, hope sounds like possibility. For others, it sounds naive. Or privileged. Or like a luxury built on never having had your illusions properly shattered.
And maybe sometimes it is. Maybe sometimes what passes for hope is really comfort wearing noble language. Maybe sometimes romanticising a better world allows us to avoid the full scale of what is broken. That is worth interrogating honestly.
But I also think there is a version of hope that is not naive at all. A version that does not deny history, suffering, or contradiction. A version that does not say everything will be fine. A version that does not need certainty in order to act.
Just because hope can be sentimental does not mean all hope is sentimentality.
Sometimes hope is simply the decision not to let brutality have the final word in who you become. Sometimes hope is discipline. Sometimes hope is saying: I cannot solve this alone. My choices are partial and compromised and painfully insufficient. But I still want my life to reflect the direction of my values, however imperfectly.
To me, that is not romanticism. That is moral practice.
Not about being above the world. About trying not to be entirely remade by it.
This conversation did not leave me feeling attacked. It left me feeling sharpened.
It reminded me that I need to locate myself more carefully when I speak. That I cannot assume my examples travel well. That what feels obvious from one life may sound absurd from another. That some people hear talk of ethics through histories of betrayal and survival, and that solidarity is harder than shared opinions.
But it also reminded me that I do not need to abandon what matters to me just because someone else experiences it differently. I can listen more deeply without dissolving. I can question myself without giving up the question. I can become more precise without becoming smaller.
So Do I Romanticise A Better World?
Maybe sometimes. Maybe anyone who longs for something better is at risk of that.
But I think what I am reaching for is not fantasy. It is a way of living that does not reduce meaning to scale. A way of acting that does not wait for guaranteed success before choosing integrity. A way of staying human in a world that keeps inviting us to become more convenient versions of ourselves.
The question is not whether small actions are enough. They are not.
The question is whether they still matter in the making of a life.
I think they do. Not because they bring the better world neatly into being. But because they help us practise who we are, and who we refuse to stop becoming, while living inside this one.
FAQ's - Romanticise a Better World
What does it mean to romanticise a better world?
It can mean imagining change in ways that feel too simple, too idealistic, or detached from the scale of what is broken. But it can also mean refusing to give up on values like care, integrity, and solidarity.
Do small actions really make a difference?
On their own, small actions rarely transform entire systems. But they can still matter as a form of practice, shaping habits, values, attention, and the kind of person someone becomes.
What is moral practice?
Moral practice is the attempt to live in closer alignment with what you believe, even when your choices are partial, imperfect, and far from enough on their own.
Why do people respond so differently to hope?
Hope lands differently depending on lived experience. For some, it feels like possibility. For others, it can sound naive, privileged, or disconnected from histories of war, abandonment, or betrayal.
Why is it important to speak from where you stand
Because examples are never neutral. Speaking from your own position creates space for honesty without assuming that your experience is universal.
Can personal choices become political action
Personal choices are not a substitute for collective or structural change, but they can still express values, shape culture, and keep people connected to the world they want to help build.
Additional off site Reading:
- How to Handle the Tension Between Romance and Realism - A useful read on how hope, idealism, and realism can coexist without slipping fully into fantasy or cynicism.
- How War Shapes Our Attitudes About Violence - A useful read on how exposure to war can shape people’s attitudes to violence, moral responses, and sense of what becomes normal or acceptable.
- Do Your Struggles Expand Your Compassion for Others? - A thoughtful piece on how adversity can affect compassion, including why hardship can sometimes deepen care rather than narrow it.
Gregg Hone
Gregg Hone aka Gregg the Artivist is a climate storyteller, artist, and activist using the power of creativity to challenge systems of injustice and inspire meaningful change. Working at the intersection of climate and social justice, Gregg creates content that is bold, accessible, emotionally resonant — and deeply human.
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Well, tell your housemate to go fuck himself for ruining your lunch