Who We Are When We Choose

I always vote in elections.
Even if it weren’t compulsory, which it is in Australia,
I would still show up.
Not because I think my single vote will tip the scales,
but because voting is part of the story I want to tell
about who we are and who we might yet become.

I don’t vote to protect my own patch of grass.
I vote for the common good—
for compassion over convenience,
for fairness over fear,
for long-term justice, not short-term gain.
I care less about which party wins
and more about the kind of people we are becoming
in the way we listen, speak, and choose.

I don’t need to win to feel represented.
What I need is a process
that is open, respectful, and accessible.
If we’ve argued it out in good faith—
if the voices have been heard and the barriers low—
then I’ll stand with whatever result we get.
Because we got it.

Voting isn’t just a civic task—
it’s a community rhythm.
In Australia, it smells like sausages
and sounds like small talk at school halls.
It’s both sacred and ordinary—
a symbol of our messy unity.

So yes, I vote.
Not just with a pencil and paper,
but with a posture of hope.
Because democracy, at its best,
is not the perfection of systems,
but the dignity of participation.

I don’t vote
because I think it will fix everything.
I vote
because we belong to each other.

It’s not about what I get,
but who we are
when we choose together.

No party lines for me—
just a stubby pencil,
a quiet hope,
a shared queue of strangers
becoming something more.

I don’t need to win.
I just need it to be real.

And this—
this small act on a Saturday—
is one way I say:
we still have a future,
and I am part of it.