In every boardroom, council chamber, and legislative committee, decisions are made that ripple through communities. These choices shape how we live, what we can afford, how safe our streets are, and what kind of future we can offer our children. But too often, the people seated around those tables share a familiar story, one marked by privilege, polish, and pedigree. What’s missing, far too often, are voices shaped by struggle. Voices that carry callouses, not credentials.

It matters who is at the table.

Once upon a time, I was a single mother of two little boys, trying my best to make ends meet on minimum wage. I didn’t have a savings account. I had handwritten grocery lists with just enough wiggle room for milk, bread, and diapers. And I ran out of gas on more Fridays than I care to remember, just trying to make it to the office to pick up my paycheck. I didn’t know policy. I knew pressure. And I knew how quickly things could fall apart when just one shift was cut or one unexpected bill showed up in the mailbox.

When decisions are made by people who have never had to choose between the power bill and a prescription, or who have never worked a double shift just to keep food on the table, we lose something essential. We lose context. We lose compassion. And we lose the kind of wisdom that only comes from lived experience.

Policies that look good on paper can collapse in practice. Programs designed with all the right intentions can still leave people behind if they aren’t built on a foundation of reality. It’s easy to write legislation about childcare subsidies. It’s much harder to do it well without knowing what it feels like to be the mother sitting in a parked car outside a daycare, holding her toddler, calculating whether she can afford groceries if she takes a job that starts Monday morning.

There is insight in nonprofit leadership, business ownership, and academic degrees. But there is also wisdom, quiet and hard-won, in the lives of people who have stocked shelves at midnight, delivered packages in the rain, raised babies alone, or rebuilt their lives after losing everything. These are the people who understand what policy feels like in real homes, not just what it looks like on a spreadsheet.

It’s one thing to vote on a bill for drug treatment reform. It’s another to have held the hand of someone you love while they fought for their life through addiction. It’s one thing to talk about job creation. It’s another to have filled out hundreds of applications and prayed that one might offer a second chance.

Lived experience is not a liability. It is a credential.

Too often we find ourselves toeing the line because of a party agenda or a political ideology. But the truth is, government only works when everyone works together. Opinions are a dime a dozen. Ideas are plentiful. But compromise is a scarce commodity.

Too often, our political systems reward image over insight. We elevate candidates who have mastered talking points and filtered out the messiness of real life. But real leadership does not require a flawless résumé. It requires humility, resilience, and the ability to listen with empathy and lead with conviction.

I’ve sat in rooms where the decisions being made didn’t reflect the reality I knew. Rooms filled with people who had never felt the sharp edge of poverty or the weight of being unheard. And I’ve seen what happens when those voices are the only ones making the call.

We need leaders who have felt the consequences of what they legislate. People who know what it means to survive setbacks, to rise again, and to lead with the kind of compassion that only comes from experience. People who don’t just speak for others but speak as someone who has been there.

This is not just about representation. It is about reality. It is about grounding our policies in truth, not theory. It is about creating space at the table where every voice is heard, not just the loudest, the most polished, or the most privileged.

We need great orators and skilled statesmen. But we also need lived experience to help craft meaningful solutions to everyday challenges. Both have value. But only together can they build something that lasts.

So the next time a decision is being made that affects your community, ask yourself: Who’s at the table? Who is missing? And what would change if someone with real skin in the game had a seat?

We don’t need more perfectly packaged politicians. We need people who carry the stories of their neighbors, their families, and their communities into every room they enter. We need those who remember what it felt like to be on the other side of the door, and who are willing to hold it open for someone else.

That is what real leadership looks like. And it is long overdue.