In a world that rewards speaking—publishing, posting, persuading—it is easy to forget the quiet, transformative power of listening. Not the performative type of listening where one waits impatiently for a turn to speak, but the kind that requires presence, humility, and a willingness to be changed. I have been thinking about this often, especially since joining the Indigenous Council of One Young World. It is one of the rare spaces in my life where listening is not just encouraged; it is the foundation of everything we do.

When I first joined the council, I expected to contribute ideas, share my experiences, and represent my own community. I did all of that, of course, but what I did far more—and what shaped me more deeply—was listening. I listened to stories of displacement and resilience, of communities fighting to preserve their language, land, and identity. I listened to frustrations that echoed my own and to frustrations born of realities I had never lived. I listened to strength disguised as softness, and to courage spoken in measured, steady words.

Through listening, I encountered the kind of learning no classroom or policy document can ever replicate.

There is something profoundly grounding about hearing people speak from places of lived truth. In those conversations, there is no room for pretense. No metrics. No performance. Just people speaking about who they are, where they come from, and what they carry. Listening to them made me aware of how narrow my understanding of the world once was. Not because I lacked empathy, but because empathy without exposure is limited. You cannot understand what you have never encountered.

Traveling—physically and intellectually—has broadened the map of my understanding. It has exposed me to cultures whose histories stretch back centuries before colonization, communities whose relationships with land and tradition resist the pace of modern erosion. And each time I listened—really listened—I felt something inside me shift. I became more aware of how interconnected we all are, more grounded in the truth that identity is not a fixed shape but a layered story, and more authentic in my desire to speak only after I’ve understood.

Listening, I have learned, is not passive. It is an act of generosity: you offer your time, your attention, your willingness to be unsettled or surprised. It is also an act of courage: you open yourself to perspectives that may challenge your assumptions or widen your responsibility. And it is, in its simplest form, an act of respect—especially in Indigenous contexts, where listening has always been central to community life.

In the Indigenous Council, listening becomes a form of solidarity. By hearing each other, we affirm each other. By understanding each other’s struggles and strengths, we build connections that transcend borders and timelines. I began to understand that our collective power does not come only from shared advocacy, but from the relationships we nurture by giving space to each other’s voices.

And with every story I heard, I found myself becoming more patient, more attentive, and more rooted in why this work matters.

At a time when the world feels increasingly loud—when social media rewards interruptions, when opinions spread faster than understanding—listening feels like a radical choice. But it is a necessary one. If we are to build a future that honors Indigenous communities, marginalized voices, and cultures fighting to be seen, then we must start by listening to one another with sincerity and depth.

I am a different person now than when I first joined the council. Not because I spoke, but because I listened. Listening has made me more aware. More grounded. More authentic. It has expanded my sense of responsibility—and my sense of hope.

In the end, listening is not just something we do. It is something that shapes who we become.