At the beginning of October, beloved conservationist Jane Goodall passed away at 91. Goodall was first introduced to me while I sat criss-cross applesauce on an alphabet-embroidered rug. Looking up at a picture book, I learned about Goodall, depicted as a small but sturdy woman, often dressed in earth-toned safari wear with her hair in a soft, white ponytail and her eyes smiling at a chimpanzee.

To me, Goodall represented what adulthood could look like. She felt like a hand extending down, showing me that my recesses filled with chasing dragonflies and climbing trees were not limited to the next few years, but instead could make up a lifetime ahead.

While I have headed on a different path than Goodall, and will likely spend the rest of my life working in cities, newsrooms and classrooms, her teachings remain more than relevant to me.

Goodall’s wisdom was the fruit of a life truly lived; it had the depth of decades. In these horrific times, from government shutdowns to genocides that our University — and nation — have contributed to, it is understandable that many people are losing hope. Goodall proposed a solution in “The Book of Hope,” which she wrote alongside Douglas Abrams in light of the coronavirus pandemic and general climate and political upheaval.

In a 2021 interview with The New York Times, when Goodall was asked why she wrote “The Book of Hope,” she responded, “If everybody loses hope, we’ve had it because, without hope, we give up, become apathetic and do nothing.”

Goodall anchors her book within her four reasons for hope: the incredible human intellect, the resilience of nature, the power of young people and the indomitable human spirit. 

The other day, I was let out of class early, affording me an awkward 20 minutes with nothing in particular to do before my next class. In the class I had just left, we discussed the corporate censorship beginning to dictate American media. My next class had assigned a great deal of Palestinian history readings, which I had done earlier in the day, holding back tears as I annotated pages detailing the story of a nation ripped to pieces.

Majoring in political science and journalism in these times is a blessing and a curse.

Defeat weighing on my shoulders, I took a seat on a bench in Associates Park and began to blast “$0” by Cameron Winter in my headphones. Winter’s voice streamed through my body; the wind tousled my hair; and the sun peeked down through the leaves above me. I watched the birds fly from tree to tree, and squirrels leap across the grass and through the bushes.

For just a couple minutes, my mind was empty. I felt a sense of safety, of assurance, that despite it all, there is consistency. The sun has always, and will always, warm me. The animals will never be stagnant. Winter sings, “God is real / I’m not kidding, God is actually real,” and the music continued on. 

Associates Park is not the great Tanzanian expanse, roamed freely by wildebeest and herds of hundreds of elephants. The chipmunks are not the chimpanzees that Goodall dedicated her life to. But in that moment, I was overcome with hope. A higher power felt tangible. Beyond the constructs of power we’ve developed, the beauty of our world overwhelmed me. My spirit, for the first time in weeks, felt indomitable.

Every day at USC, Goodall’s reasons to be hopeful are evident, as long as you look for them. The human intellect Goodall believed in electrifies our campus.

I’ve learned from professors who’ve dedicated their lives to pursuing knowledge with a passion so gripping it makes lecture halls feel fuller; I’ve made friends so driven in their respective fields my own efforts are constantly fueled; I’ve written articles while in a Thornton School of Music harp practice room, “Vers la source dans le bois” by Marcel Tournier enlightening the room we occupy together.

I’ve seen the power of the youth so evidently through the tireless work the plethora of student assemblies on campus dedicate themselves to. Despite severe budget cuts, the constant events they organize — promising marginalized students the community they deserve — display the undying resilience of our student body.

The promising commitment to continue publishing the student-run publications, from the Daily Trojan to Annenberg Media, against all odds, with all of the limited time that students can offer, proves to me that our generation is dedicated to our future, its freedom and its potential.

I’m not saying it will all be OK. I’m not saying that you should ignore the thorns when you stop to smell the roses — but make sure you do smell them. Take those minutes between your classes to watch the squirrels, walk into the event going on in Founders Park, talk to your professors after class and pick up a copy of the Daily Trojan on your way home.

I promise there will be something in those simple interactions that will show you just how unshakeable the human spirit is.

Goodall may not be here to share her wisdom with us anymore, but she’s left enough for us to explore our own.