There are moments on this campus that stop me in my tracks.

On a cool Friday evening in November, I stood in the stands at the annual Valpo Bowl under the lights at Cartan Field. Pandemonium swirled around me as our mighty Knights trounced our neighbors down the street for the second consecutive year, yet I felt unexpectedly centered in a moment of awe—my heart swelling with hope at the care and unity shared by our students, families, faculty, staff, and alumni. A few weeks later, our December holiday assembly brought a similar experience, as each performance, regardless of grade, art form, or polish, was greeted warmly and raucously by every member of the audience. Despite the cacophony, I found myself in the quiet that clarity sometimes offers, feeling proud and hopeful for the connections, support, and joy I was witnessing—qualities that can sometimes feel distant to me these days as I watch how the world beyond this special place is unfolding. Moments like these remind me why our theme for this magazine—hope—feels both timely and timeless.

Why “hope”? Because it steadies us when the world feels uncertain and brightens our vision of what could be. Unlike optimism, which tells us things will get better (a passive expectation), hope tells us things could get better if we are willing to invest communal effort and action to realize a different future. At a time when headlines can weigh heavily, our school community insists on raising the next generation to believe they can build something better. We do not escape the world’s challenges; we approach them with imagination and persistence. My colleagues and I are engaged in hopeful work every day. Most of us have dedicated our lives to investing deeply in students, believing that this work will benefit society through the actions our alumni take to improve the world for others. That confidence in our learners and educators—that’s where I find my deepest hope.

A year ago, I had the great fortune to interview psychologist Jamil Zaki, whose research on empathy continues to shape how I think about education. He shared that empathy and kindness are like muscles—they grow stronger with use. What an empowering idea: caring and hope aren’t traits we’re born with or without but are capacities we can practice and expand together. Zaki also spoke about hope as a social act, something that thrives through connection. When we see others choose compassion, it becomes easier to do the same. I’ve come to believe that schools, at their best, are laboratories for this collective hope—places where community, curiosity, and courage reinforce one another daily.