In the past week, I have noticed the phrase “millennial optimism” appearing in political commentary and social media hopecore edits. It is usually invoked to describe a period when many young adults believed the political system could produce meaningful change and when trust in national institutions had not yet collapsed into its current levels. It is clear there is a generation divide whereby millennials can recall a period when political hope felt socially normal, while Gen Z largely cannot.
Obama’s Hope Campaign
I trace this difference back to the Obama Hope era. The 2008 Obama campaign was flooded with posters that plastered “hope” below the future president’s image. It included the recognizable visual branding, the forward-looking policy messaging, and the broad public sense that the country was entering a new chapter. For many Americans—especially young adults—politics briefly felt empowering, accessible, and rooted in the idea of collective progress. Conversations about racial progress, national belonging, and civic participation carried a tone of confidence that now feels distant.
Gen Z does not share this political memory. Most of us were too young to participate in or fully understand the Hope environment as it was happening. Instead, our political development occurred in a period marked by polarization, institutional distrust, and nonstop national crises. The news cycle reinforced an understanding of politics as volatile and adversarial. The role of race in national life also shifted. Rather than hearing public narratives that emphasized racial advancement, we grew up in an environment where racial inequality was constantly visible and widely debated. As a result, many Gen Z voters have never experienced a political landscape in which race felt secondary to national cohesion.
A Modern Political Culture of Division and Animosity
This contrast helps explain why contemporary politics feels unusually grim to many young people. The issue is not that Gen Z is inherently cynical. It is that our earliest political reference points contained little evidence that the system could foster unity or optimism. For us, conflict and division were not disruptions to political life; they were drivers of political wills.
I do believe political Hope will re-emerge. I felt a version of it during Kamala Harris’s 2024 campaign. There was a brief national momentum that resembled the emotional clarity of 2008. There were moments when voters expressed confidence in a future-oriented vision of the country, and for a short time, optimism felt plausible again. But I also believe the United States is not ready to sustain that kind of political culture right now.
What Can We Do?
We are in a period that is supposed to feel uncomfortable. There are unresolved discussions about race, ethnicity, human rights, and national belonging that cannot be avoided or glossed over. These issues require confrontation, transparency, and public honesty. If they remain unaddressed, the country risks repeating a cycle in which brief periods of optimism collapse into deeper waves of cynicism. Without confronting underlying inequities, any new Hope moment will be temporary and fragile.
For political hope to return in a durable way, it must rest on a national foundation that is willing to acknowledge and address its conflicts directly. Until then, Gen Z’s political realism may be less a sign of pessimism and more an accurate reflection of the political world we inherited.