One of the questions I’ve found myself thinking about over the years is this: What makes one policy conversation resonate while another is quickly forgotten?

During my decades on Capitol Hill, I sat through countless important meetings on many issues, and each conversation was grounded in research, data, and expert testimony. As it should be. Good policy depends on reliable information, and statistics help us understand the scale of a problem, identify trends, and evaluate whether solutions are working. Good information is grounded in evidence. Data is one form of evidence. Without it, too many conversations become driven by opinion rather than substance.

Over time, I noticed something else.

The meetings people remembered were not always the ones with the longest reports or the most polished presentations. More often, they were the conversations where someone connected the data to a real person’s experience. The statistics explained what was happening. The story explained why it mattered.

I still remember a man in his thirties who came to my office to discuss ovarian cancer. It had taken his wife as their married life began. His description of his life before and after her diagnosis still brings tears to my eyes.  I felt his pain as only a man in love with a woman who will soon die can convey.  His words were factual.  His pain was searing. His humanity was bare for all to see.  He loved her, and as he searched for a way to make sense of his loss, he became an advocate.  

He shared his frustration that screening for prostate cancer was readily available, yet an early detection test for ovarian cancer remained elusive. Decades later, that reality has stubbornly refused to change. Most ovarian cancers are still diagnosed at an advanced stage because early-stage disease rarely causes noticeable symptoms, and we still lack a reliable screening test for people at average risk. 

I no longer remember his name or even his face. But I remember his story. 

He taught me an unforgettable story.  The impact has been everlasting. 

Facts informed the conversation. His experience gave those facts weight.

That distinction has stayed with me throughout my career.

That experience has stayed with me throughout my work at BoricuActivatEd. We spend a great deal of time teaching people how to advocate, but advocacy is not simply about speaking. It is about helping people connect their lived experiences to the policies that shape their daily lives.

One of the most common misconceptions is that a personal story is “just an anecdote.” I see it differently. Stories do not replace research, and they should never replace evidence. They provide context that evidence alone cannot. A budget can tell us how much was invested in early childhood education. A parent can explain what it meant to finally access services for their child, or what happened when those services were delayed. Both perspectives matter because together they paint a more complete picture. 

Researchers in public policy and science communication have increasingly recognized the role narratives play in helping decision-makers interpret complex issues, particularly when stories are paired with credible evidence rather than presented in place of it. That distinction has stayed with me throughout my career. 

Over the years, I have worked with students, parents, community leaders, and returning citizens. Their experiences are very different, but I have noticed something they often have in common. Many assume their experiences are too ordinary to matter in a policy discussion. They believe someone else is more qualified to speak. 

I usually respond with another question: If policymakers never hear from the people living with the consequences of a decision, how do they fully understand whether that policy is working?

One of the highlights of this work is watching people realize their personal experiences are not separate from public policy—they are the real-world evidence of it. That realization changes the conversation. Instead of asking, “Do I have anything worth saying?” people begin asking, “How can my story improve this system for someone else?”

That shift is where advocacy grows into leadership.

Civic engagement shouldn’t have a narrow entry point.  Advocates are rarely created from scratch; they are recognized for what they already bring to the table. Our lived experiences are a vital form of knowledge that must shape public policy. Good policy requires sound research, thoughtful analysis, and reliable data. But it also requires listening to the people who live with the consequences of those decisions. Data shows us the scope of a problem, but human stories show us its impact.

The strongest public policy is built when we value both.