Over a cup of lemon tea, my mom shared stories about the perils of back alley abortions before Roe v. Wade. She explained that not all women can physically carry pregnancies to term without great risk or the means to support themselves, and that often the same institutions that bar women from abortion block other forms of reproductive health care access, like birth control that would prevent unintended pregnancies. Most importantly, she told me stories about people I knew and loved who had chosen abortion. These stories transcended the stereotypes and stigma I encountered at Sunday school, and etched themselves into my heart. I reflected on her perspective, and continued to read about the issue in articles from both sides, and gradually shifted my own views in support of reproductive justice—so much so that I dedicated much of my career to this work.

Personal stories also complicated, and then transformed, my views about immigration. I grew up in a vibrant and diverse community of immigrants from around the world and was in favor of immigration without regulation. That was until freshman year of high school, when a speeding car driven by an undocumented immigrant killed my great-aunt and critically injured my cousin and grandmother. When I heard that the driver did not have a license, insurance, or the title to the car she was driving, I demanded accountability.

In the aftermath, the chaos and loss shook my beliefs about immigration; I was angry and sought something to blame for my family’s suffering. My mind became an uncomfortable place for me to reside as grief and confusion dominated my thoughts. Since I prided myself on not making decisions or assumptions due to visceral reactions or feelings, the ugliness of my new fears and outrage frightened me.

When my grandmother awoke a few days later, one of the first things she asked was, “Is the baby OK?” about the pregnant driver of the car that hit her. Her profound love and thoughtfulness soothed my sadness and began to reshape my perspective. My father was also rocked by sorrow and grief, but his rage was focused on the social and political system that excluded certain human beings from public life and forced them to live off the grid His wisdom and Grandma’s compassion helped me to see that undocumented people were not the problem, and that the real crisis was a system that forced a pregnant, undocumented woman underground, so that she couldn’t legally take driver’s education, register a car of her own, get insurance, or a license.

The shift in perspective the car crash ignited swelled into a sea-change after college. In my early twenties, I learned that an old friend was living undocumented after her student visa ran out. Since she was born in a country hostile to women and LGBTQ citizens, she was unable to return after being outed by a relative. She had been the victim of a hate crime, and was unable to access adequate medical assistance due to fear of deportation. Unable to work legally, she asked me to lend her money for a bus to Canada where she was seeking political asylum. As quickly as a hard-hitting personal tragedy shifted my perspective in a maelstrom of anger and sadness, I have been moved by witnessing the dignity and justice at stake when human beings are deemed “illegal” and othered in our society.

Even though second-wave feminists coined the rallying cry “the personal is political” over 40 years ago, the heart of the message resonates today. We’re all impacted by the beliefs, values, assumptions and social systems we grew up with, and continue to live with. For some of us, these experiences come with privilege, and for others marginalization and oppression. That’s why I believe it’s less important to determine which externally imposed labels we inherit or fit into, and more about learning as much as we can about important issues. While impossible to unequivocally determine how our specific path should or will inform our place on the political spectrum, we can educate ourselves about the issues of the day, and engage in politics in the ways that feel right for us.

For me, this took the form of joining Model United Nations, running for student council, and writing opinion editorials in the school paper. The opportunity to sharpen my own point of view, and the experience of learning from other people’s arguments were integral in my own exploration of my political identity. But my approach is not one-size-fits-all: Other people might find registering to vote (if you’re 18), phone banking and canvassing for local campaigns, taking a civics class, or joining an organization like Running Start that brings young women into politics enriching and fun. Until you can cast your ballot, you can vote with your cash when you buy from companies who share your values, and vote with your voice when you speak out about injustice in person or online.

Since our generation will be charged with fixing problems whose roots were established way before our time, it’s imperative that our opinions and perspectives are represented and counted. I know this first hand: My student debt, high out-of-pocket healthcare expenses, and fears about future social security keep me up at night, and probably will for years to come.

Wherever you are on the political spectrum, what matters most is that you know where you stand and define this for yourself. While it may seem frustrating to be asked to define your political views before you can flex your right to vote, beginning to explore and develop your personal political compass will serve you and your community today, and in the long run. ♦