The Room Where It Happens: How 30 Seconds Changed My Perspective

I have moved more times than years I have been alive. Born in Ukraine, I came to Canada as a first-generation immigrant when I was just two years old. I don’t remember the move, but I’ve been moving ever since. Cities, schools, houses—every few years something would change, almost as if my family were allergic to standing still. 

Moving always came with mixed feelings that I had never truly been able to say aloud. A part of me was glad for the reset, a chance to start anew. I had repeated “thank you” one too many times and had been inadvertently rude in ways I would only understand later. A new school meant that I could try again. And each time, I did; I changed a lot. I was never perfect, but each school taught me something I would only comprehend once I’d left. But I never wanted to be that student who was standing alone in the imposing hallways everyone else had known for years.

By the fourth switch, I stopped dreading the first day of school and being the “new kid” again. Instead, I listened. I started noticing who was sitting alone, who shut down whenever someone came near. I noticed who didn’t seem to fit—there wasn’t anything wrong with them; they just hadn’t found their right place yet. So, I joined the ambassador program to do something about it. I had been one of them too many times, and I wanted to make the room feel a little less foreign to someone who had just stepped in. Next, I joined student council; I wanted to advocate for all the worries and silent questions every new student had once held.

When my teacher suggested I apply for the Mayor for a Day contest, held in Richmond Hill, something in me hesitated. It felt too unrealistic to try—more like something other people did.

Rooms like that—full of people who knew exactly what they were doing—made me feel like an intruder, like the awkward kid again. But I submitted my application and won!

I spent the day in the shoes of Richmond Hill’s mayor. I expected the day to be full of boring paperwork and limited human interaction, but as I sat in the council chamber, I saw residents come up and speak directly to the people making the decisions. A volunteer wanted recognition for their services; a mother was concerned about available housing for her children after they graduated. I had always thought politics was something that happened to people, but I realized it was just another room full of people deciding what to do.

The Mayor for a Day program gave me the courage to apply for a more daunting position: the Ontario legislature at Queen’s Park. After a few months of waiting, I was accepted alongside a dozen other teenagers from across Canada. It was by far the biggest room I had ever walked into. I didn’t think I would be nervous, but I was. I felt just like that student lingering at the door of the cafeteria after getting my food, not sure where to sit. The legislature held centuries of brilliant politicians and ancient traditions, and here I was, a grade eight student from Richmond Hill.

I learned how Parliament works, the schedule and order of the day. As a page, I handled key documents and transported new laws. I got to see firsthand how decisions that affected the entire province were made. Despite this, I still felt like I was watching something from the outside—similar to how one might observe a play.

A member of the provincial parliament (MPP) changed that, though. I was lingering near the edge of the room when she walked up to me and asked for my name. She told me that I was free to talk to her at any time; she didn’t know it, but she changed the entire course of my three weeks at the program. The moment was brief, maybe 30 seconds, but suddenly I stopped feeling like an uninvited visitor and more like a welcome guest.

The first female Speaker in Ontario was presiding during my visit. I watched how she kept the House in order; it seemed as if the legislative assembly was built for her. But it wasn’t. She had walked into one of the oldest buildings in Canada and decided that she deserved to be there—to belong. Later, as I had lunch with my MPP and she asked me genuine questions, I looked back on those simple 30 seconds and how they had changed my life, maybe forever.

I’ve spent most of my life learning how to walk into rooms, slowly at first, like a baby taking their first steps. As I continued, I found that I became steadier and surer in my footsteps.

What I’ve now come to believe—and what my experience at Queen’s Park has come to confirm—is that who gets a voice is more about whether they feel like they can be heard. Like the room is theirs to speak in.