A few weeks ago, I walked back into York High School to teach a storytelling workshop during Fine Arts Week.
Walking into that building always carries a lot of history for me.
As a senior, I was on stage as Dolly in Hello, Dolly!
My dad taught English there for many years and became something of a legend among his students for having them memorize poetry while standing on their chairs. (Popping into his classroom to borrow the car keys to take my friends to McDonald’s during my 4th period lunch hour was one of the great perks of having my dad teach there.)
After grad school, I actually came back and taught here for a short time alongside my dad.
Later, my husband Bill was the performing arts department chair. And all three of our kids went to school there.
So, York is woven into our family story.
Bill even came along to watch the workshop.
It had been a long time since I’d taught high school students, and given everything we hear these days about teenagers and phones and short attention spans, well, I wasn’t entirely sure how it was going to go.
The workshop started at 8:36, second period. The students were mostly freshmen and sophomores from the choir program, along with a public speaking class of juniors and seniors.
Early in the session, after sharing a story about my dad and his teaching at York, I gave them a simple prompt.
“Help me define the word belonging.”
I had them turn to the person next to them and come up with a definition together.
They took their assignment seriously and came up with definitions that were really insightful.
Then I said, “Now, turn to that same person and tell them a story about the first time you really felt like you belonged.”
Suddenly, the energy in the room shifted. Conversations became animated. People leaned toward each other, and the room filled with a buzzing excitement.
Something had changed. They weren’t just defining belonging anymore, they were experiencing it through sharing a story.
Over the rest of the hour we talked about how stories work—why stories are more memorable than facts and how even small moments can hold big meaning if we pay attention to the details.
What stayed with me most, though, was that moment when that choir room came alive. It was a reminder of something powerful about language: People have something to share, especially young people.
Watching them, I couldn’t help thinking about what happens to us later. Somewhere along the way, many of us stop speaking so freely.
We begin to second-guess our ideas, or we hold back, or we keep quiet about things that matter because speaking up suddenly feels risky.
In other words, we learn the habit of silence.
That’s why I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the cost of silence—and what it takes to reclaim your voice.
Sometimes the biggest changes begin with something small—like a question, a story, or the simple decision to speak.
If you’ve been holding something back—an idea, a perspective, a story that matters—
maybe this is your moment to start saying it out loud.
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