I don't want to hope anymore. I don't think we should hope

Hear the drumbeat in will.i.am’s words: “I don’t want to hope anymore. I don’t think we should hope anymore. We hoped enough. Now we have to do. We all have to do now.” This is not a rejection of hope as light; it is a summons to kindle that light into action. For hope is seed, not harvest; a compass, not the road. The ancients would say: wish is the wind, deed is the oar. When storms gather, the sailor who only prays for fair weather will be carried where the gale decides; the one who rows, guided by prayer, makes harbor.

The saying’s meaning is flint against our passivity. It warns that excessive hoping can become a narcotic—sweet, numbing, endless. When our lips repeat “someday,” our hands forget “today.” Thus the refrain—“we have to do”—strikes like a staff upon the ground. It does not despise vision; it insists that vision incarnate. To do is to take responsibility for the portion of the world within reach: our street, our craft, our circle, our vote, our code, our care.

As for the origin, this line is widely attributed to will.i.am in collections of his quotations; it appears in multiple anthologies and databases of notable sayings. The precise interview or date is not clearly cited in those compilations, but its cadence and ethos match his public persona—technology-forward, solution-driven, impatient with empty slogans and performative optimism. In short: a maker’s creed rather than a spectator’s wish.

Indeed, his recent talks about technology and ethics echo the same drumbeat: don’t merely admire the future—build it, govern it, and protect the vulnerable within it. He urges standards, stewardship, and concrete frameworks rather than vague faith that things will “work out.” Even in domains like AI, he argues for guardrails and practical responsibility, not just enthusiasm. The spirit is consistent: less hoping, more doing.

Consider a story from the age of buses and boycotts. In Montgomery, a seamstress named Rosa Parks sat, stayed, and—quietly—did. For years her community had hoped for change; sermons were preached, wishes spoken. But on that winter evening, the hope put on shoes. Organizers mapped routes. Volunteers drove carpools. Churches turned into dispatch centers. The boycott lasted 381 days—not by incantation, but by calendars, gasoline, and grit. Hope remained the star by which they steered; doing was the oar that crossed the river.

Or remember a humbler parable. In a flooded village, neighbors stood on a roofline waiting for rescue, repeating, “I hope the boat comes.” One woman climbed down first, waded to the shed, and loosed a skiff tied there since spring. She ferried the elders across while others still scanned the horizon. Her hope was not smaller; it was closer. She did not scorn prayer; she answered it with motion. By nightfall the street was a chain of helpers, each rowing, each learning that muscles are also instruments of faith.

What, then, shall we take from this? First, translate hope into a schedule. Write the next three steps toward the change you seek—no abstractions, only deeds. Second, shrink the arena. Ask, “What can I finish before night?” and finish that. Third, enroll companions. Lone flames flicker; lanterns travel. Fourth, replace pronouncements with prototypes: one pilot project, one draft policy, one reconciled conversation. Finally, measure by outcomes you can touch—meals served, lines of code shipped, letters sent, trees planted, students tutored.

Carry the cadence like a marching song: We hoped enough. Now we have to do. We all have to do now. Let it be stern with your procrastination and tender with your fear. Let it turn hope from a mirage into a well, from a speech into a shoulder under the load. For the world is moved not only by the size of our dreams but by the weight we are willing to lift. Dream widely; do daily; and teach your hands to speak the language your heart has been singing all along.