The case for smaller stakes
Staying in the story when hope feels scarce
Thanks for reading Pluck! Today, we’re talking about how to keep showing up when hope feels scarce.
About five years ago, I worked on a speech that ended by imploring people to “stay in the story”—even when the path forward feels uncertain, and even when you know it’s going to break your heart. It was the beginning of the pandemic, at a moment when hope felt scarce, and it resonated with a lot of people.
I put more of myself into that speech than any other I had written. More than any professional ghostwriter would probably say you should. But that’s what happened. And I decided to revisit it recently, in another moment when hope feels scarce, to see if it still resonates all these years later.
Largely, it does. It speaks to many of the same issues we’re grappling with today, especially the need to hold two seemingly opposing truths at once.
But when I got to the conclusion—about the need to stay in the story as we try to solve problems in a three-dimensional world—I realized we had vastly oversimplified what we were asking people to do.
Because today, the problem isn’t just staying in the story. It’s juggling all the stories vying for our attention.
Stories large and small.
Stories close to home and far removed.
Stories that carry life-and-death consequences.
I’m writing this a few days out from the latest execution of an American citizen on the streets of Minneapolis. I’m vibrating with rage and anxious about what could happen if Philadelphia ends up being the next stop on ICE’s “enforcement” tour.
I generally try to limit my news intake. But there’s been no way to turn away from this story. And once that door is open, it’s difficult to keep the flood at bay: an endless series of existential threats to our institutions, our democracy, our planet.
The stakes feel huge, because they are. Against them, I feel small. Because there will never be enough time, attention, or resources to do right by every story that calls, pleading for action.
When the distance between concern and impact feels infinite, our sense of agency collapses. Without agency, we withdraw. We grow cynical. We become, in the words of the Edelman Trust Barometer, “insular.”
But turning away from these stories doesn’t make them go away. It certainly doesn’t change them.
So what do we do? How do we stay in the story without burning out or drowning in pessimism?
We find smaller stakes.
Looking for smaller stakes in a big-stakes world might seem like a controversial—or worse, irresponsible—argument. Like a permission slip to do less.
But I see it as the opposite. I see it as choosing responsibility and action—just at a scale where it doesn’t collapse under its own weight.
Smaller stakes are within reach, something you can get your hands around. They’re ownable. They challenge us to ask:
What spheres of influence do I shape?
Who in front of me needs help?
How can I make my values tangible today?
These questions can and should be posed in both our personal and professional lives. But I want to focus specifically on how we can think about embracing small-stakes leadership as communicators.
There’s plenty broken in what passes for communication today. The rhetoric that pits us versus them. The blatant hypocrisy. The bullshit platitudes. The carefully curated talking points that say nothing to no one.
It’s systemic rot. And there’s nothing any single one of us can do to “fix” it.
But here’s what we can do.
We can voice the riskier, more honest option when a leader is debating the best path forward.
We can say no to work that would further erode our institutions and our public dialogue.
We can say yes to the people and causes that could benefit from our way with words.
And we can help shoulder the burden with our fellow communicators when the weight of this work becomes heavy.
These actions may come with costs. They may strain relationships. They may limit opportunities. And, worst of all, they will never seem like enough in the grand scheme of things.
But they are enough to create moments of trust, clarity, and momentum. Small waves that can ripple out from each one of us and maybe—maybe!—start swelling into something bigger.
Progress won’t come from grand gestures or declarations of concern. It will come from everyday people taking responsibility in practice—at a human scale, with sustained care, even when no one is watching.
These smaller stakes won’t make the work easier. But they will make it possible.
Pluck: The Courage and Craft Behind Great Communication is produced by Justine Adelizzi, a strategic communications advisor and award-winning speechwriter. She is the founder of Pluck Works, a consultancy that helps executives and senior communicators translate bold ideas into messages that resonate.