I never planned on becoming a politician. In fact, I used to think politics was for someone else—people with law degrees, flashy resumes, or at least better speaking skills than mine. But there I was, sitting in my car at the edge of an empty lot where my two kids, Ellie and Max, had just been scolded by an elderly neighbor for kicking a soccer ball too close to her garden. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t mean to be unkind. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how unfair it was that our neighborhood didn’t have a single safe, clean place for kids to play.
I drove home that afternoon feeling a strange mix of sadness and anger. The sadness I understood—any mom hates to see her kids disappointed. But the anger? That one was harder to pin down. Maybe it was because I had spent years telling Ellie and Max to stand up for themselves, and here I was, just swallowing my frustration. Maybe it was because I’d spent too many PTA meetings listening to parents complain about our neighborhood without ever seeing anything change.
That night, after the kids were in bed, I started googling: “how to make a park,” “funding for local projects,” and, eventually, “running for city council.” The last search felt ridiculous at first. What did I know about city government? But the more I read, the more it seemed like the only way to fix things was to step up myself. If no one else was going to fight for our kids, maybe I could.
The next morning, I told my husband, James. He was in the middle of making pancakes and nearly dropped the spatula.
“City council?” he repeated. “Like, you on city council?”
“Yes, me!” I snapped, more defensively than I meant to. “Why not?”
He set the spatula down and looked at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I think you’d be great,” he said. “But you’re going to need a campaign slogan.”
I rolled my eyes, but his encouragement lit something in me. Over the next few weeks, I dived into research. I learned about zoning laws, public budgets, and, most importantly, how to get my name on the ballot. My first campaign meeting was at our dining room table with two friends from the PTA. By the time word spread, we had a small army of volunteers—other moms, a retired teacher, a local college student with a knack for social media.
Our slogan? “Safe Spaces for All.” It wasn’t flashy, but it was honest, and it resonated.
Campaigning was harder than I expected. Knocking on doors, I met plenty of people who were skeptical. “What does a stay-at-home mom know about running a city?” one man asked me flatly. But for every naysayer, there were five others who were thrilled someone was finally paying attention to our community’s needs. I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t running to prove I was the smartest or most experienced. I was running because I cared, and because I believed our kids—and our neighborhood—deserved better.
Election night felt like a blur. I didn’t expect to win. Honestly, I would’ve been happy just knowing I’d started a conversation. But when the final numbers came in, James squeezed my hand so hard I thought he might break it. I’d done it. We’d done it.
The next few months were a whirlwind. I was sworn into office, started attending council meetings, and quickly learned how much red tape stood between ideas and action. But I refused to be discouraged. I pushed for grants, worked with local businesses, and even got a construction company to donate their time. A year later, that empty lot where Ellie and Max had been scolded was transformed into a beautiful park, complete with a playground, benches, and even a little splash pad for the summer.
Now, every time I walk past it, I see kids playing and parents chatting, and I feel a swell of pride. Not just because I helped make it happen, but because I proved something to myself: change doesn’t start with experience or expertise. It starts with someone saying, “Enough is enough,” and having the courage to try.
If I can do it, anyone can. Sometimes, all it takes is a mom with a big heart and an even bigger determination to make her community better. And if that’s not leadership, I don’t know what is.