A few days ago, I sat in the crowded room of the Oldham County Board of Education meeting. People filled every seat and lined the walls, waiting for their chance to speak about LifeWise, a program trying to wedge Bible classes into public schools. My role that night wasn’t to take the microphone—it was to make sure what happened in that room didn’t stay there. I took photos, filmed testimony, and later shared it online so the voices of parents, teachers, and students could carry further than the walls of that boardroom.
That night taught me something: standing up doesn’t always mean speaking. Sometimes it means holding the camera steady, amplifying the voices of others, and making sure their stories reach the community
Over the last four months, I’ve learned that standing up is rarely glamorous. It’s a series of choices that add up to resistance. It begins with knowing your why. If your reason for engaging in this fight doesn’t come from deep within you, the weight of it will wear you down.
It also means refusing to go it alone. That school board meeting was a clear reminder—people showed up in groups, wearing colors that made their presence visible. Standing together gives courage. No one should have to fight these battles in isolation.
Strategy matters too. The news cycle pushes a daily flood of crises, each one demanding outrage. But no one can fight them all. Standing up means choosing where you can make the most difference, making a plan, and sticking with it.
And then there’s the simple act of showing up. Democracy isn’t decided only in Washington; it’s lived out in places like that boardroom in Oldham County. When ordinary citizens speak, when they refuse to stay silent, they shift the conversation—even if the vote doesn’t immediately go their way.
Sometimes standing up takes the form of protest in the streets, with signs, chants, and songs. Other times, it’s solidarity with the marginalized—joining groups that defend those most at risk, contributing time, skills, or resources.
Support also means giving financially. Grassroots organizations stretch every dollar, and larger groups like the ACLU push cases into the courts where national precedent is set. Every contribution, large or small, fuels the fight.
Writing is part of standing up as well—letters to officials, letters to the editor. Words still matter in Kentucky. Silence is too easily mistaken for consent, and even a short note can shift public perception.
And finally, I’ve learned that standing up doesn’t require special expertise. You don’t need to be a lawyer, a professional organizer, or a polished public speaker. Whatever you bring—whether it’s writing, organizing, cooking, making phone calls, or taking photos—someone needs it. Every piece strengthens the whole.
Standing up in Kentucky isn’t one grand gesture. It’s ordinary people showing up in boardrooms, marching on sidewalks, writing letters, or holding cameras. It’s the steady drumbeat of refusal to back down. What happens in our school boards and courthouses here shapes the kind of Kentucky we will leave to our children. And that makes standing up worth it—every single time.