I Ran For Office At 18. Here is What I Learned.

Lessons on finding your voice when no one expects you to have one.

The first time someone laughed at me, it wasn’t loud or cruel—it was quick, almost polite. A small chuckle, followed by, “Wait… you’re serious?” We were standing in a doorway at a community event, people brushing past us, and I remember feeling like the room tilted just a little. I nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’m running.” I was 18 and still in high school.

Up until that moment, this idea had all lived in my head—that I could step into something bigger, that I didn’t have to wait my turn. Saying it out loud made it real, and it really felt a lot heavier than I expected.

I didn’t run because I had it all figured out. I ran because I was tired of sitting on the sidelines.

I had grown up watching decisions get made about people who looked like me and had a last name like mine, often without us in the room. I remember thinking: if not now, then when? And if not someone like me, then who? There wasn’t some perfect plan behind it—just a gut feeling that staying quiet didn’t sit right anymore. Still, conviction doesn’t cancel out doubt. I carried both every single day.

There were mornings I’d wake up ready, confident, and clear—and then there were moments, sometimes just hours later, where I’d question everything. Who was I to do this? I hadn’t even lived enough life yet, right? I could feel the gap between how seriously I took myself and how seriously others did.

Some people were encouraging in a way that felt real. They looked me in the eye, asked thoughtful questions, and treated me like I belonged in the conversation. Those moments stuck with me more than anything else. But a lot of people didn’t know what to do with me.

Some talked slower, like I might not understand. Some smiled a little too much, like it was cute that I was trying. Others skipped over me entirely, directing their questions to someone older standing nearby. It wasn’t always disrespectful—it was something quieter. Dismissal disguised as politeness.

And then there were the direct moments.

“You’re too young.”
“Come back in a few years.”
“Get some experience first.”

It’s strange hearing that when the whole reason you’re there is to gain that experience.

One moment from that campaign still sits with me. I had knocked on a door—just another house, just another conversation. An older man answered. I gave my usual introduction, probably a little too fast, trying to sound confident. He listened, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When I finished, he paused for a second and then said, “You know, I don’t agree with everything you’re saying.”

I braced myself.

“But I respect that you showed up.”

That was it. No big speech. No dramatic endorsement. Just that.

It hit me harder than I expected. Because in that moment, it wasn’t about being right or winning someone over. It was about showing up when it would’ve been easier not to—about standing in front of someone, nerves and all, and choosing to be there anyway. That changed something for me.

I started to understand that courage isn’t loud. It doesn’t always look like confidence. Sometimes it looks like knocking on the next door, even after the last one didn’t go well. Sometimes it’s saying your name and your story again, even when your voice feels shaky.

What I learned at 18 wasn’t how to be perfect—it was how to move forward while being afraid.

And I learned how quickly people can decide who you are before you say a word. Age, background, how you carry yourself—it all shapes the room before you ever speak. But I also learned that you can shift that, slowly, conversation by conversation. Not by trying to prove people wrong, but by being consistent enough that they start to see you differently.

That sticks with me in the work I do now.

Whether it’s organizing, communicating, or helping communities navigate systems that weren’t built with them in mind, I think back to that feeling—what it’s like to walk into a space where you’re not fully taken seriously yet. It reminds me to make room for people who are still finding their voice, and to not mistake inexperience for a lack of value.

Young people don’t need to wait until they feel ready. Most of us never fully do.

What they need is a chance to step in, to be heard, and to figure it out in real time, just like everyone else does.

Looking back, I didn’t have all the answers at 18. I still don’t. But I’m glad I didn’t wait for that moment where everything felt perfectly aligned, because it never comes.

Sometimes stepping up just means deciding that “not ready” is good enough—and going anyway.