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 Funny how certain stories hit differently depending on the moment in history. Recently, while revisiting J.R.R. Tolkien’s "The Lord of the Rings," particularly "The Two Towers," I found myself thinking less about the battles and heroes, and more about Treebeard and the Ents. For much of the story, Treebeard and the Ents see the growing conflicts across Middle-earth as distant problems. The wars of men, wizards, and kingdoms are unfortunate, certainly, but not truly their concern. Their focus is the forest. Preservation. Stability. Their own corner of the world. Then Merry and Pippin guide Treebeard toward Isengard. And suddenly, the illusion of separation disappears. The trees have been cut down. The land has been industrialized. Smoke pours into the sky. The destruction is no longer abstract or theoretical. It is personal. The conflict had already reached the forest long before Treebeard was willing to acknowledge it. Honestly, I think about that scene often when I think about artificial intelligence. Right now, many people still view AI as something happening “out there” in Silicon Valley, boardrooms, research labs, or tech companies. Something for software engineers, executives, policymakers, or futurists to figure out. Something that affects other industries, other jobs, or other people. But AI is not a distant issue anymore. It is already reshaping education, healthcare, finance, media, government, labor markets, communication, and even human relationships. It is influencing how information is distributed, how decisions are made, how students learn, how workers are evaluated, and increasingly, how power itself is concentrated. Whether we want to engage with these questions or not, they are already shaping the world around us. And that is precisely why more people need to be part of the conversation now, before decisions become irreversible and systems become entrenched. To be clear, I am not anti-AI. Far from it. I believe AI has the potential to help solve extraordinary human problems. It can expand access to knowledge, accelerate scientific discovery, improve healthcare outcomes, support accessibility, reduce repetitive administrative work, and help organizations operate more effectively. In many cases, AI can augment human capability in genuinely meaningful ways. Used responsibly, AI can absolutely be a force for good. But history also teaches us that technological progress without thoughtful human stewardship can create enormous instability. The printing press transformed civilization, but it also fueled upheaval. Industrialization created prosperity, but often at tremendous human cost before labor protections and societal norms evolved alongside it. Technology itself is not inherently moral. Its impact depends on the systems, incentives, and people guiding its adoption. That is why I become concerned when conversations around AI focus exclusively on efficiency, disruption, or shareholder value while treating human consequences as secondary considerations. There is a growing tendency in some corners of the tech world to speak about human labor as though it is merely friction in a system waiting to be optimized away. Entire professions are discussed as cost centers rather than communities of people whose work provides meaning, stability, dignity, and identity. And while I understand the argument that “new jobs will emerge,” I also think many leaders underestimate how destabilizing rapid transition can become if societies are not prepared for it economically, culturally, or psychologically. Human beings are not simply economic inputs. Work is tied deeply to purpose, self-worth, community, and social structure. When people begin to feel discarded, unheard, or economically irrelevant, history shows us that instability follows. Distrust grows. Polarization deepens. Institutions weaken. We are already seeing signs of this tension emerging. At the same time, there is another issue we should discuss more openly: concentration of power. AI development increasingly requires immense computational infrastructure, capital investment, proprietary data, and energy resources. That reality naturally consolidates influence into the hands of a relatively small number of corporations and institutions. Whether intentional or not, that concentration raises important questions about accountability, transparency, equity, and democratic participation. We can already see this in the physical footprint of AI: the rapid expansion of data centers, the strain on electrical grids, the demand for water, and the concerns from communities worried about costs, land use, and environmental impact. These are not abstract technical issues. They are local, human, and civic issues.
Those are not merely technical questions. They are human questions. Societal questions. Leadership questions. And that is why I keep returning to Treebeard. His mistake was not ignorance. It was disengagement. It was assuming the larger forces reshaping the world would somehow stop at the edge of his forest. I think many organizations, leaders, and even everyday citizens risk making the same mistake with AI today. This conversation cannot belong solely to technologists. It cannot belong solely to governments or corporations. Teachers, workers, students, artists, healthcare professionals, business leaders, parents, and communities all deserve a voice in shaping what comes next. Because AI is not just a technology story. It is a human story. The good news is that I remain fundamentally optimistic about people. One of the things AI cannot replicate is human wisdom rooted in lived experience, empathy, ethics, culture, and shared responsibility. Human beings still determine the values embedded into institutions and systems. We still choose what we prioritize. We still decide whether technology serves humanity, or humanity bends entirely around technology. That choice remains ours, at least for now. But meaningful choices require engagement. So perhaps the real leadership challenge of this moment is not whether we can build increasingly powerful AI systems. Clearly, we can. The deeper question is whether we are willing to engage thoughtfully, collectively, and courageously enough to ensure those systems ultimately strengthen human dignity rather than diminish it. Because unlike Treebeard, we do not get to say we were never warned that the world outside the forest would eventually reach us. Shawn Carey, PMP, is Director, Project Management Office at Measurement Incorporated, where he leads project and portfolio management efforts supporting large-scale educational assessment programs. His work focuses on operational leadership, organizational strategy, and the intersection of human-centered systems and emerging technologies, including artificial intelligence. In addition to his professional work, Shawn serves as a global advisor for Global Citizens Circle, where he contributes perspectives on the societal, ethical, and leadership implications of AI and technological change. He is particularly interested in how organizations can adopt innovation responsibly while preserving human dignity, trust, and meaningful engagement in an increasingly automated world. AI is not just a technology story. It is a human story." - Shawn Carey
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 By George Kinder We have it in our power to begin the world over again. — Thomas Paine I have been concerned for some time about the state of humanity. The feeling has increased over the last 10 years. I am concerned about the things that I care about most, like how we treat each other, the vast inequalities amongst human beings, the state of Mother Earth, democracy, and perhaps most important of all I am concerned about misrepresentations of the truth by those in power, those whom we should most trust in the community we call civilization. Coming out of the banking crisis of 2008, I suspected that although humanity seemed to be polarized, perhaps, in truth, everyone was concerned about the same things. And that we mostly wanted the same solutions. This idea launched my book, “A Golden Civilization & The Map of Mindfulness,” and a book tour to far corners of the globe. As I traveled, I was searching for how to create a vision strong enough that the whole world would act on it. To test my intuition, wherever I went I invited audiences through a structured exercise, to design their own vision of a Golden Civilization. Sure enough, whether I went to a rich country or to a poor country, and whether I went to a democratic country or a dictatorship or somewhere in between, everywhere people wanted similar things. Everybody wanted less inequality. They wanted adequate healthcare, food, and shelter. They wanted an end to corruption. They wanted an end to racism and to bigotry. They wanted kindness and good humor. They wanted a richness of culture. They wanted to be able to trust their scientists. They wanted trustworthiness everywhere. They wanted all media to tell the truth and to be trustworthy. This discovery was quite wonderful. I captured the vision words, weighted by frequency of use, from the first 20 conversations into a word-cloud shaped like the Earth.  Golden Civilization Conversations Word Cloud: Vision words weighted by the frequency that they came up n conversation during the first 20 Golden Civilization Conversations led by George Kinder around the globe. How self-centered we have been playing one country versus another, one team versus another, one person versus another. For generations, we’ve lived with the notion that evolution is about competition, but it’s much more clearly about Gaia and the creation of expanding environments of freedom. As the world becomes smaller and more accessible to us, it becomes our responsibility to create environments where all creatures thrive. We are being called as a species to deliver a structure of kindness, freedom, innovation, compassion, resilience, and sustainability for the whole Earth, for our descendants, and for all generations to come.
Two hundred and fifty years ago, at the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, there was an explosion of innovation, of creativity, and of the production of material things that would lead humanity to create the world we are now in, enabling many of us to live longer, healthier, and richer lives and be connected to each other all over the world. Clearly, the combination of capitalism, democracy, and the rule of law produced something remarkable, bringing to much of humanity greater longevity, greater leisure, and greater freedoms. But if our system was really the best that there could be, why is it that at the top of every hierarchy of power after these 250 years of innovation, we don’t find the very best of humanity, our wisdom and our compassion? Wouldn’t the best system automatically deliver the very best of humanity into every aspect of our lives? Something at the very base of the system is awry in the design of every organizational structure, something that keeps each institution from acting automatically with wisdom and kindness, so much so that no institution anywhere models it. We are back to the model of competition, where self-interest comes first. Our institutional structures are designed for self-interest to flourish. Rather than virtuous action, it’s self-interest that’s baked in. Think about it. When we give the right to incorporate or the right to govern to a person or an organization, we give the potential for enormous power. And they can leverage that power through hierarchy, minimize the threat of lawsuits with limited liability protection, and get special tax rates. They can further leverage their power to astronomical levels with capital and debt and through their ability to communicate. With all this power at their fingertips, is it any wonder that the production and delivery of humanity’s innovations, although they touch every aspect of our lives, is more tainted by the self-interest of hierarchies than touched by human virtue? For all the power we have granted their self-interest, why don’t we require something of them in return? What if we simply required each of them as a consequence of incorporation, whether they are corporations, nonprofits, or governments, to act in a humane way? Simply require them to be humane. But rather than require something of them, we keep giving more to them. After thousands of years of developing what it is to have secured rights as human beings in relation to the powerful institutions that govern our lives, we’ve granted a lot of those rights back to institutions as if they were human. We have granted them the power to dominate how we think through their ownership or influence of media, including through non-profits and their own advertising. And we’ve granted them the enormous power to influence elections in ways that takes away our democratic freedom. Only now do we realize that in using those rights, some of the most powerful have come to threaten our deepest values, our lives, our democracies, the lives of Earth’s creatures, and the stability of the planet we live on. We feel diminished, as if civilization is not ours but our institutions’. But civilization is ours. It is meant to be a domain of freedom, not for them but for us. It’s time we asked new and existing institutions (corporate, non-profit, governmental) to place humanity first, to place the truth first, to place democracy first, and to place the Earth first ahead of their own self-interest, as a requirement of their existence. This is the essence of the FIAT movement. Here is the simple, one-sentence legislative proposal that requires just that. “A Fiduciary standard of obligation is required for all institutions (corporate, non-profit, and governmental) to place the interests of all stakeholders, of truth, of humanity, democracy, and the living planet that sustains us, first above their own self-interest.” We fought a revolution in America for democracy, to establish human rights, and to free ourselves of the hierarchy of mad King George. But now, as a consequence of our system, we have created many hierarchies as powerful and more. It is time for us as a species to free the world as well as ourselves of the hierarchies that have power over us and that can diminish our freedom and guarantee instead that each of them always works in the best interests of humanity. This simple piece of legislation will make sure this happens. The idea and the language are simple enough to spread across the globe. Through speaking engagements, I’ve shared these ideas, reaching many parts of the world. It’s easy to think of obstacles to the accomplishing of such a human right, but at this stage, it’s the vision that’s most important to establish. A strong enough vision will conquer all obstacles, particularly when it’s the movement of a people, a species, inspired by the same torch. With the richest and most powerful billionaires, companies, and media moguls likely to oppose placing the interests of truth, democracy, Mother Earth, and humanity above their own self-interest, it is imperative we create a huge grass-roots movement toward Fiduciary In All Things becoming the law of the land. Many who first hear the idea don’t understand what the word “fiduciary” means, and to some it can seem controversial. I chose the term “fiduciary” because of its linguistic roots and its legislative usage. Fiduciary is an obligation for trustworthy service to others. At present all corporations have a single fiduciary responsibility. It is to their shareholders. All the power of their hierarchy and leverage is required to maximize profit for their shareholders alone. That is the nub of our problem. For a civilization to be a domain of freedom for all, hierarchies of power must have a fiduciary responsibility to all of us, and to truth and to Gaia and democracy, as well. I’ve been sharing simple statements to help bridge the gap between the term fiduciary and its meaning.
Even more accessible than words for a movement to go viral are images. In the United States, consumers can find a Certified Organic symbol on any organically processed food that is certified by the USDA. This simple symbol indicates to a consumer that the product has fulfilled conditions on how they are produced, processed, transported, and stored. For the Fiduciary In All Things movement, I’ve created easily recognizable symbols that can go on an organization’s website to symbolize that they care about the humane treatment of their employees, of democracy, and of the living planet that sustains them.  Fiduciary In All Things Legislative Proposal: A one-sentence legislative proposal crafted by George Kinder that advocates for all institutions to place the interests of all stakeholders above their own self-interest.  Fiduciary In All Things Globe Logo: A logo that can help spread awareness of the FIAT movement by adding it to your social media posts, websites, headers, and email signatures.  Fiduciary In All Things Square Logo: A logo that can help spread awareness of the FIAT movement by adding it to your social media posts, websites, headers, and email signatures. You can popularize these symbols by sharing them on social media and placing them on your website and in your communications to demonstrate your support of the vision of a fiduciary world. We have a strong vision. Let’s spread it widely. I’m optimistic that we can do this, despite those of enormous wealth and power that would prefer institutions to work solely for them. Already there are significant existing structures that can support the implementation of legislation. They come from the ESG movement, Business Roundtable, B Corps, and many organizations and corporations looking to put humanity’s interests ahead of their own self-interest. Extraordinarily helpful as each of these may be, at this point, establishing the vision is even more important than solving obstacles. It’s time to make Fiduciary In All Things the law of the land, by making its vision ubiquitous and for all people. Imagine all people of the Earth empowered, supported, and inspired, not diminished by the systems that surround them. Just a single sentence legislative proposal can start this and can change the world. Let’s establish the vision. We need all hands on deck. Please join us. Share what #FiduciaryInAllThings means to you. Place the symbols on your social media headers and banners, and on your website. Let’s make it happen. Consider these questions:
International thought leader and author George Kinder has been at the forefront of the financial services industry for decades, spearheading the financial life planning movement that identifies clients’ dreams of freedom and then delivers them with entrepreneurial energy. Through books, workshops, and speaking engagements, George has trained thousands of professionals globally in financial life planning. After 30 years as a financial planner and tax adviser, he founded the Kinder Institute of Life Planning in 2003. In "The Three Domains of Freedom," his latest of 12 books, George advocates a universal fiduciary standard across all institutions. In 2025, he was awarded the Innovator Founder visa by the UK Home Office to bring FIAT directly into businesses globally through transformative workshops and talks. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. “A Fiduciary standard of obligation is required for all institutions (corporate, non-profit, and governmental) to place the interests of all stakeholders, of truth, of humanity, democracy, and the living planet that sustains us, first above their own self-interest.” - George Kinder  By Andrew Boutselis One morning about a year ago, I was drinking coffee in my Brooklyn apartment when there was a knock on the door. My wife had left for the day and we were not expecting any deliveries, so I was naturally perturbed by the disturbance to such a sacred morning ritual. Like most New Yorkers, I contain that paradox of being openly friendly to strangers, while holding any waste of my time in utter contempt. It’s the same trait that leads us to yield to a pedestrian with a pleasant wave yet lean on our horn when they don’t cross the street quickly enough. Closing my robe tightly around my neck, I looked through the peephole to assess the uninvited visitor. Waiting patiently on the other side of the door, stood a bearded, Caucasian man roughly my age, with a Mets hat and stack of pamphlets. He’s either delivering lost mail or the good word of Christ, I assumed, and took my chance as I turned over the deadbolt and swung open the door. He was neither a neighbor nor a missionary but rather a political advocate, specifically for the Democratic Socialist mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani. I knew little of Mamdani beyond his striking name, made all the more memorable by the retro font used by his campaign that would look more at home on the front of a tiki bar than a political banner.  As a disillusioned Democrat who was quickly devolving into a full-blown curmudgeon since moving to Brooklyn many moons ago, the universal championing of Mamdani by hipster progressives primed me to write him off with little more than an eye roll without having done much investigation. Prescribing to neighborly etiquette more than any political philosophy, I gave the man the floor to sell me whatever rehearsed talking point he had. After a brief introduction, he asked me as a New Yorker what issues concerned me the most. Hoping to pass whatever moral purity test I anticipated coming my way and return to my coffee, I rattled off an uninspired sentiment about the homeless crisis and the need for the city to do more to protect its most vulnerable population. The man in the door nodded politely and agreed, as if I had said something of substance, before telling me his concerns: “I’m a dad,” he began, “and the things that keep me up at night at are the cost of rent and childcare.” Huh. That’s rather pragmatic for a socialist, I thought, embarrassed by my own grandstanding. He went on to tell me about candidate Mamdani, the energetic, 33-year-old assembly member from Queens, who was running an outright affordability campaign, promising to make life in New York easier by taking the financial burden off of residents struggling to meet ends meet, much like my wife and me. I listened to his case, confirmed that I was registered to vote, that I knew where my polling place was, and was left with some literature before he departed to continue his journey. As the door shut behind him I felt a familiar sensation creeping in that I wasn’t able to identify, like a song that comes on the radio that you haven’t heard since you were a kid but cannot put a name to. For a moment I allowed myself to daydream that should this Mamdani character be able to win and accomplish some of this wish list of ideas, how my dramatically that would improve life for my wife and I, who have been actively contemplating if we can still afford the city, let alone have children. I began to recognize the feeling as something from my 20s—hopeful. The feeling had just shown up, uninvited, even more intrusive than the man at my door, but extinguished almost as soon as it had arrived by a reflexive cynicism. Picking up my lukewarm coffee, for the first time in a long time, I considered the option of being hopeful.  I hadn’t always been this much of a grouch. Like Mamdani himself, I’m a 33-year-old millennial, a mix of people who I feel have had a particularly tough political journey in their third of a century on the planet. While I know that every generation has its own tragic historical landmarks to define them, the chasm between where our country was when we became of age to participate in politics, and America of 2026, feels like an indescribable decent into chaos. As with most people my age, one of the earliest national events burned into my memory was September 11th. For many of us, it was a coming online point, a complete loss of innocence, the first steps towards recognizing the world as a bigger, scarier and far more complicated place than our backyards. Tragedy birthed further tragedy and we saw our country dive headfirst into a war that we did not understand led by people, who even as a 10-year-old overhearing the nightly news was able to recognize as morally dubious characters. By the time I neared voting age, the country had been at war for more than half of my life and was in the depths of The Great Recession. Up until that point, it seemed in fashion among most people I knew to assume that the government was run by war criminals, the president to be a buffoon, my best friend’s father famously enjoying his coffee from a mug with a devil-horned George W. Bush on it. The biggest album of my graduating class was Green Day’s “American Idiot.” Something else had happened, however, by the time I turned 18. Barack Obama was elected president, a historical event that had such an impact on this young white kid from New Hampshire that I cannot fathom the effect it had on more disadvantaged people around the country, let alone the world. The significance was not lost on me, and for everything terrible I had known to be true about America in the present and it’s not-too-distant past, the 2008 election signified to me that change is possible, that things can actually get better. While a child may not understand the minutia of foreign affairs or puzzle of the American economy, I cannot stress enough the impact the character of a leader can have on a child.  Photo credit: Courtesy Barack Obama Presidential Library. This optimistic outlook for the country mirrored a pivotal time in my own life as a I prepared for college and looked to my own future. Through graduation, college and the tumultuous post-grad years, there would be ups and in downs, but one constant in my life was my admiration for the president, the pillars of the Democratic Party aligning with my own values. The youngest of four children in a barely middle-class home, I was essentially raised by a single mother because of my father’s chronic, debilitating illness. Through this upbringing, I saw firsthand the importance of a strong social safety net, the value of the arts in public education, and the nightmare that is our healthcare system. In short, life was hard for my family, but we had leaders to look to and keep us inspired. Believing in my elected leaders and supporting their fight for a better future was an inherent part of my character, as essential to my identity as the books I read or the music I loved. This sentiment seems laughable now, as this romanticized idealism of politics in 2026 sounds as dated and quaint as stump speech given out of the caboose of a steam locomotive. As the Obama years wound down, I found both myself and the country preparing for an uncertain, new future. I had made up my mind to move to New York City to pursue a career in the film industry, and my final few months in New Hampshire were spent basking in the political frenzy that is this key state during an election year. Saddened by the end of a presidency that had defined my formative years, I saw an exciting, more progressive future in the senator from Vermont, Bernie Sanders. Much to my dismay, as well as virtually every other Democrat I knew, he was not our candidate. Dismissed by many establishment Democrats as “extreme” or “unable to win an election,” this seemingly blatant rejection of the will of the party’s base was the first crack in the foundation of my faith in the Democrats.  Photo credit: Facebook Nonetheless, my friends and I threw our support behind the Clinton-Kaine ticket enthusiastically, even having an opportunity to see the former first lady speak, introduced by then first lady Michelle Obama. Unstirred by the trollist rhetoric coming from the other candidate on the right, a friend and I had dinner on election night and even cheered to the presumptive first woman president. It was cold and grey when I moved to Brooklyn in January the following year. I found myself, as well as the country, in a new, unknown place. While exploring a new city was a welcome distraction, I couldn’t escape the existential dread of the direction our country was headed, like waiting for a diagnosis after the discovery of a potentially malignant lump. We looked to leaders but they were still licking their wounds. It felt quite powerless at times. The party was having an identity crisis and seemed to be trying to try to cleanse itself in any way it can. Progressive movements spiked up like #MeToo, leading to long overdue justice for so many women, but adding to further disillusionment of men in power. It was a confusing time and I did my best to listen and learn. I went to protests, met plenty of liberals in my community, but more often than not it appeared to me we were finding more reason to divide amongst ourselves at a time when we should be building a strong coalition more than ever.  Photo credit: Pamme Boutselis Things were reaching a boiling point when the pandemic hit, and a red-hot populace stayed home and had nothing but time on its hands—hands that were constantly holding their phones. Misinformation, toxic algorithms, and age-old police violence, now impossible to ignore, filled everybody’s screens. The American culture had become a dumpster fire and the first year of what should have been an exciting new decade did nothing but pour gasoline onto it. The beaten down idealist in me, still clinging to hope, believed that a new leader could emerge from this 24-hour a day shit show. We got Joe Biden. The next four years were a bit of a respite, but it felt like a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, a minute to catch our breath in the corner of the ring before hearing the bell and going another eight to ten rounds. There were whispers of something called Project 2025—and in seeing the growing lack of faith in Biden, it became increasingly apparent to me that in 2024 there would need to be new energetic leadership to seize this moment and protect the country from the monster waiting in the wings. By July of 2024, as I watched the addled, feeble president fumble his way through the most important debate of his life, I felt a long way from the young man who had watched Barack Obama’s inauguration speech 15 years ago. It was a fittingly frigid day when the orange man was sworn in for his second term. Record-low temperatures moved the ceremonies indoors, although the chill was felt far beyond the borders of the capital. As I watched him take his oath, surrounded by many of the people responsible for eroding the decency of our culture, I felt any hope left in me expire. I wasn’t sad. I was angry, bewildered, and felt that my own party had failed me, the country, and future generations. All these things were on my mind as I drank my cold coffee and looked at the big, yellow letters on the pamphlet in my hands. ZOHRAN. I cast it to the purgatory of unread mail in my office and assumed I’d forget about the wonder kid from Queens. History proved to make this impossible over the next several weeks. I could not escape the name Zohran Mamdani. Posters in bodega windows, stickers on the Q train, wheelbarrows of mail, and above all, a relentless social media presence speaking directly to voters.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy My knee-jerk reaction was to dismiss the digital blitzkrieg as a shameless attempt to seem relevant to younger voters, until remembering Mamdani was my age and, in fact, a young voter himself. This was not a typical candidate awkwardly appearing on podcasts and desperately speaking to influencers in a calculated ploy to assimilate to the next generation’s language. Mamdani spoke that language. Additionally, he was an immigrant from a working-class neighborhood in Queens, understood the hustle culture of New York City, and even more importantly, had a sense of humor. Most impressive was the clear communication and frank goals of his campaign that you could rattle off the top of your head: freeze rent, universal childcare, free buses. No grandiose statements about equity or demonizing folks who had a different perspective. Direct messaging, instead, to voters about how he will improve our lives. Inevitably, Mamdani’s candidacy became the main talking point over drinks or dinner with friends, whether it be their fiery support or outright dismissal based on the scope off his ambitions. Always more comfortable seated at the skeptic table, I largely agreed with the latter and found the Mamdani agenda a bit fantastical. The rest of the democratic establishment seemed to agree, everyone from the governor to mainstream podcasters labeling him as “radical.” Despite following this logic, emotionally it didn’t sit well with me, perhaps bringing back memories of that old senator from Vermont and his ill-fated nomination back in 2016. As time went on, my flirtation with the omnipresent Mamdani developed into full-fledged support when it became clear the alternative was none other than disgraced former Governor Andrew Cuomo. Having resigned over sexual misconduct, Cuomo’s brand of politics reeked of a bygone era, like the stench of cigar smoke in the woodwork of an Albany steakhouse. Positioning himself as a political heavyweight who had the strength to go toe-to-toe with the President, he seemed to think the title of Mayor was nothing more than a consolation prize that he was entitled to. Contrasted with Mamdani’s direct to the people approach, Cuomo barely did interviews or made his case for himself. He didn’t seem to be seeking people’s vote but rather demanding it. His statements regarding his past lewd behavior can be summed up as “boys will be boys,” a total parade of arrogance not too dissimilar to the president he claimed that only he could stand up to. For anyone on the fence about Mamdani, the choice seemed crystal clear in my mind, as this was a decision between returning to the past or stepping into the future.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy Faced with the choice between fresh idealism and business as usual, I was frustrated to find many of the people in my life, who I was ideologically aligned with, still weren’t convinced. “He just won’t be able to get anything done,” they’d proclaim with tired eyes and defeated certainty. No rational person could argue against the mountain of improbability facing the young candidate, but is dreaming big not the purpose of seeking higher office in this country? Obama spoke of the audacity of hope. For eight years in this country, we said yes we can, even when we were defeated and the odds stacked against us. Did John F. Kennedy tell us we would go to the moon because it would easy? Hell, the current president has spent the last decade making promises that he cannot deliver. That is not to equate his incessant lies to Mamdani’s lofty agenda—no, but it is to say that the goals of a candidate don’t inform you of what they for certain will accomplish, but to inform you of who for certain they will be fighting for. The word that came up over and over in this dialogue was “radical.” Every time I would hear this word, I felt an anger growing inside of me. When I looked around, there were plenty things that seemed radical to me beyond Zohran Mamdani. What seems “radical” to me was accepting the status quo, that so many New Yorkers worked more than 50 hours a week and struggle to pay their rent. What was “radical” was expecting people who had been living under an authoritarian to elect a sexual predator as the mayor of their city. It is “radical” to accept that we cannot choose a leader who will fight for us because we need to accept that large-scale change in this country is no longer possible. Surrounded by such rank pessimism, I found myself for the first time in a decade feeling like an idealist. And it felt good. Even if Zohran can only accomplish a fraction of what he has promised, he will have mobilized a new generation.  Photo credit: Kara McCurdy It was a bright, brisk day on January 1, 2026. As the world celebrated a New Year and nursed their hangovers, my city celebrated a new chapter. The sun beamed hard as the young mayor was sworn in by none other than the senator from Vermont himself. It was the beginning of what would be a historic, brutal winter, but I felt some of that cynicism in me melt away. “Beginning today, we will govern expansively and audaciously. We may not always succeed. But we will never be accused of lacking the courage to try.” In those remarks, Zohran Mamdani articulated a core tenet of American idealism. Falling short in the pursuit of a better world is not a failure, but a noble effort, one that is essential to the American story. A lot has been said about the state of our democracy because of the current administration. While it is true that the president is morally bankrupt, culturally poisonous, and globally harmful, he was brought to power by the will of the American people. Rather than let that understandably horrify me and shatter my hope for a better world, I choose to focus on the fact the American people can still choose their leaders, no matter how “radical” they may be perceived. We can educate, inspire, and mobilize an electorate that can make a tidal, historical change in this country. Andrew Boutselis is a writer and filmmaker, currently working in location management in the film and television industry. He studied film production at Fitchburg State University and earned a bachelor’s in communication at Southern New Hampshire University. After two-plus decades of New Hampshire life, he now resides in Brooklyn, New York. Connect with him on LinkedIn. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. I choose to focus on the fact the American people can still choose their leaders, no matter how “radical” they may be perceived. We can educate, inspire, and mobilize an electorate that can make a tidal, historical change in this country." - Andrew Boutselis  By Dr. Esperanza Freitchen Webster’s Dictionary defines pivot as: to adapt or improve by adjusting or modifying something (such as a product, service, or strategy). At this stage in my mid-to-late career, after decades in higher education, nonprofits, and K–12 charter schools, I find myself reflecting deeply on that definition. My entire professional life has been rooted in expanding educational access for marginalized and underserved communities. I’ve been doing what we now call “DEI work” long before the acronym existed. Two years ago, I stepped into what felt like the pinnacle of that work — a senior leadership role at a major university in my hometown. It pulled together every thread of my experience: higher education, multicultural student affairs, diversity and inclusion, and community impact. The opportunity felt aligned with my purpose. And as a bonus, my youngest daughter attended the same university, receiving a tuition discount because I was an employee. From the outside, and honestly from the inside too, it looked like I had finally landed the job. I was back on a campus, shaping strategy, rebuilding a team, and steering initiatives that mattered deeply. It was hard at first — my team had been through significant turmoil. They were skeptical, guarded, unsure of my intentions and leadership style. But I trusted my belief in authentic leadership. I showed up every day with consistency, transparency, and empathy. Slowly, brick by brick, trust formed. By the six-month mark, we were healing, rebuilding, and imagining new possibilities. By late summer 2024, I felt confident enough to discuss my role with my supervisor. I was underpaid and carrying far more responsibility than the position reflected. She agreed we should work with HR to re-map and elevate the role. For the first time in a long time, I felt aligned, valued, and hopeful. I was thriving. Then came November. The unexpected results of the 2024 election hit like a boulder. Almost overnight, discussions about growth and promotion evaporated. Higher education nationwide was thrust into upheaval. Policies affecting minority-serving institutions, women’s research, global microcampuses, outreach services, and anything that resembled DEI were called into question or outright dismantled. When the U.S. Department of Education released its “Dear Colleague” letter that February, I felt the rumbling under my feet. Something foundational was shifting. By early spring, the environment in my division grew increasingly tense. Micromanagement escalated. Decisions were increasingly made to dilute, minimize, or erase student-centered initiatives, especially those supporting students of color, queer students, disabled students, and other marginalized identities. It felt like we were being asked to hide our work — as if equity had become a liability rather than a value. And that was the moment I realized my values were in jeopardy. So I began to explore new roles — first casually, then more urgently. Internal postings, other universities, local nonprofits, national organizations, EdTech. I wanted to stay connected to education and community, but I also needed to protect my integrity, my energy, and frankly, my sanity. May confirmed my fears. A meeting between my supervisor and the incoming provost created a tension I couldn’t ignore. Her sudden withdrawal and silence said everything she didn’t. My intuition — that familiar, uncomfortable knowing — pulsed louder and louder. On May 20, my supervisor told me verbally that she would likely not be retaining me — and that my direct reports would be laid off as well. She questioned my work, my capacity, and even my dedication. It was cruel, abrupt, and deeply personal. I tried to reason with her, but the door was closed. The next day, she confirmed it: eight positions, including mine, would collapse into two. When I asked about applying, she told me I shouldn’t bother — that even my own team would be “more competitive” than I was. In that moment, my years of work, leadership, and contributions were reduced to nothing. She offered empty reassurances — references, placement support, HR transfers — but I see now they were attempts to soften her own fear and preserve her own position. On June 2, 2025 — my birthday — I received my official layoff notice. I stayed until June 23, closing out projects and packing up my office, holding back tears I didn’t want to shed in a place I once loved. Then began the grind. I applied for over 300 jobs from February through September. I invested in career coaching, résumé rewrites, and new job boards. Out of hundreds of applications, I received nine interviews and three second rounds. One organization took me through three rounds only to tell me I was “overqualified.” I applied in every sector imaginable: healthcare, gaming, utilities, social media, education, defense, even industries I’d barely considered before. I leaned on my transferable skills like they were life rafts. Then, almost randomly, I applied to an EdTech company providing supplemental transportation for McKinney-Vento students — something that still connected to educational access. I moved through a phone screen and three interviews in less than 30 days and received an offer. The speed and efficiency shocked me. I began the role last month. The learning curve has been steep. Shifting from the public sector to the private sector has required rewiring how I think, work, and communicate. I stepped back from leadership into an individual contributor position with a level of oversight and structure that feels unfamiliar. I’ve had to learn new software at lightning speed and adjust to a new culture. But I’m also relieved. I have income again. Health insurance. Stability. The ability to contribute to my household without fear or guilt. I work remotely, which has its own advantages. And while the pay is lower than my previous role, it aligns with the market — and right now, employment itself is a blessing. And yet… I feel lost. I feel disconnected. I miss community. I miss being where the people are. I miss leading, mentoring, problem-solving, and building something greater than myself. I feel grateful, yes — but also restless, conflicted, and hungry for alignment again. This pivot has taken a toll. It has challenged my identity and my sense of purpose. It has forced me to confront uncomfortable questions about what I truly want versus what I can reasonably expect in this job market. And just when I began to wonder whether I should settle into this new reality, three different people — who don’t know each other — sent me two CEO job openings in my local community. Completely unprompted. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s a sign that the story isn’t over — that this pivot is still unfolding. Time will tell. But for now, I’m learning, adjusting, and listening closely for what comes next. Dr. Esperanza Freitchen is a native of Tucson and a lifelong Arizona resident. She has over 20 years of experience working in nonprofits and higher education organizations in a variety of capacities, including fundraising, grant writing, project management, and executive leadership. As a consultant, she focuses on leadership development and strategic planning for community-based organizations. Her work has led her to speak at statewide conferences and offer training on workplace communication, cultural competence, allyship, and intersectionality. Dr. Freitchen was a first-generation student and has dedicated her career to removing barriers to accessing postsecondary education for historically marginalized populations. She holds a BA in Spanish Literature from the University of Arizona, an MS and MBA from Western Governors University, and an Ed.D. in Leadership and Innovation from Arizona State University. She is a graduate of UC Berkeley’s Executive Leadership Academy, the Hispanic Leadership Institute, Greater Tucson Leadership’s Lead Tucson, CSU Fullerton’s LIFT program, and is a member of the Sunnyside Foundation’s Hall of Fame. She is also a proud Star Wars nerd and shameless Disney Adult. She and her family own Presidio Comics, a Tucson-based comics and collectibles retail store. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Decisions were increasingly made to dilute, minimize, or erase student-centered initiatives, especially those supporting students of color, queer students, disabled students, and other marginalized identities. It felt like we were being asked to hide our work — as if equity had become a liability rather than a value." - Dr. Esperanza Freitchen  By Mariam P. When people hear about Afghanistan, they often think of war, loss, and restrictions. But behind all the headlines, there’s another story that is less told but deeply true. It’s the story of Afghan youth who, despite living in crisis and uncertainty, continue to find strength, hope, and purpose. I have seen this resilience in the faces of young people around me — friends, classmates, and even strangers online. Many of them have lost access to schools, jobs, and even basic freedoms, yet they still find ways to learn, to dream, and to stay connected. Hope has quietly become our form of resistance. For many Afghan youth, mental health has become one of the biggest challenges. The constant fear of the unknown, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, often leads to anxiety, sadness, or hopelessness. Yet, we rarely talk about mental health openly. In Afghan culture, these topics are still surrounded by silence. People are taught to “be strong,” to not show emotion, and to move on. But strength doesn’t mean hiding pain. Sometimes, real strength is found in facing it and choosing to grow from it. Learning as Healing Education has always been more than just lessons and grades for us; it has become a lifeline. When girls’ schools were closed and universities restricted, many young people turned to online learning. They joined free virtual programs, watched lessons on YouTube, or created small online study circles. These moments of learning make us feel alive again. Even though our opportunities are limited, we try to create our own. Some teach younger students at home, some start small study groups, and others volunteer online. Through these efforts, we remind ourselves that education cannot be fully banned, not when it lives inside us. Community as a Source of Strength In difficult times, community becomes everything. In Afghanistan, we rely on each other to survive — emotionally and practically. But for girls, this connection has a deeper meaning. We often say that we are all we have because society doesn’t protect or support us the way it should. Patriarchy still controls every part of our lives, from what we wear to whether we can study or work. So we lift each other up. We share resources, lessons, and opportunities. When one of us learns something new, we teach the others. We encourage each other not to give up, even when everything feels unfair. This sisterhood among Afghan girls is one of the strongest communities I have ever seen. It’s where we find hope, love, and the courage to continue. Online spaces have also created a kind of global community for Afghan youth. Through digital programs and leadership fellowships, we meet people from other cultures who remind us that we are not alone. Intercultural dialogue gives us a sense of belonging that many of us have lost in our own country. Learning from people who listen, understand, and support us helps rebuild our confidence and reminds us that our stories matter.  Finding Purpose Amid Pain When your country is in crisis, it’s easy to lose sight of purpose. But Afghan youth continue to prove that purpose can grow from pain. Many young people are using their voices to raise awareness about mental health, equality and education rights. Some start small campaigns on social media, while others join global programs or local volunteer groups. We don’t have perfect systems or many resources but we have determination. Our hope doesn’t come from comfort; it comes from the belief that one day things can be different. Resilience isn’t something we are born with; it’s something we build, piece by piece, through every hardship we face. For Afghan youth, resilience has become a quiet revolution. It shows in how we keep learning, helping and dreaming even when the world feels heavy. The Role of Global Solidarity Support from international communities matters more than many realize. When global organizations open doors for Afghan youth to learn or share their voices, it gives us visibility and hope. It reminds us that our stories are not forgotten. Intercultural dialogue and inclusion are key to healing divided societies. When people from different cultures listen to one another, stereotypes begin to fade and understanding grows. That’s why spaces like Global Citizens Circle are so meaningful. They bring people together not just to talk but to truly see one another as human beings with shared struggles and dreams. A Message of Hope Despite everything, I still believe in the power of youth especially Afghan youth to create change. Even if we can’t always change our environment, we can change how we respond to it. We can continue to learn, support each other and speak up for those who cannot. One day, I hope mental health will no longer be a taboo topic in Afghanistan. I hope that every young person, especially girls, can study freely and chase their dreams. Until then, we will keep doing what we can: learning, teaching, connecting, and hoping. Because sometimes, resilience is not about winning. It’s about refusing to give up. Mariam P. is a young Afghan woman passionate about technology, education, and creating opportunities for women. She continues her studies online while volunteering and participating in global leadership programs. She enjoys reading, exploring art, and engaging in a variety of extracurricular activities, including digital projects. Living through years of conflict and restrictions has shaped her belief that learning, commitment, and community are powerful forms of healing and hope. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Resilience isn’t something we are born with; it’s something we build, piece by piece, through every hardship we face. For Afghan youth, resilience has become a quiet revolution. It shows in how we keep learning, helping and dreaming even when the world feels heavy." - Mariam P.  By Stanley Thomas Asango My relationship with Global Citizens Circle started in 2023 while participating in the Young Leaders Fellowship program with MCW Global, one of GCC’s partner organizations. Instantly drawn to GCC’s mission and the vibrant community it fosters, I was eager to learn more and get involved. That curiosity led me to reach out, and soon after, I found myself leading a Circle focused on the intersection of technology, artificial intelligence, and mental health. But my journey with GCC didn’t stop there. I later stepped into the roles of Social Media Director and Youth Engagement Lead, positions that deepened my connection with the organization and broadened my leadership experience. GCC has also consistently placed me in rooms with highly accomplished individuals, spaces where one might naturally feel hesitant to speak up. Yet, through the kindness and openness of the community, I’ve learned to own my voice and take up space. That confidence is something I now carry with me into every new opportunity. Looking back, GCC has played a pivotal role in shaping my growth as an emerging leader. As I continue to climb the ladder of leadership and professional development, I carry these experiences with me, now stepping into a new chapter as a Master of Nonprofit Administration student at the University of Notre Dame’s Mendoza College of Business, where I will Grow the Good in Business (Mendoza’s catch phrase). As a dedicated mental health advocate and counseling psychology graduate, Stanley Thomas Asango is committed to promoting mental health and wellbeing. Through his active involvement with nonprofit organisations like Miracle Corners of the World Global (MCW Global) and Global Citizens Circle (GCC), he has honed his leadership skills and gained a global perspective. These experiences have fueled his passion for making a positive impact on mental health, both nationally and internationally. Stanley's goal is to leverage his knowledge and skills to drive meaningful change and support communities in achieving better mental health outcomes. Now, he is moving toward a greater role in the nonprofit world by earning his master's in nonprofit administration. Please note: Each week, we invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Global Citizens Circle has also consistently placed me in rooms with highly accomplished individuals, spaces where one might naturally feel hesitant to speak up. Yet, through the kindness and openness of the community, I’ve learned to own my voice and take up space. That confidence is something I now carry with me into every new opportunity."  By Elizabeth Richards Like so many people, I frequently face today’s news with feelings of despair and hopelessness. But in a world that often feels divided and uncertain, one of the most powerful sources of hope I encounter is working with college students who are deeply committed to social change and community engagement. As the leader of The Chandler Center (Southern New Hampshire University’s center for service and community engagement), I daily witness young people’s passion, creativity, curiosity, and determination in service to their community. This reminds me that the future is not only in capable hands, but also in hands that care deeply about justice, equity, and collective well-being. Young adults today are facing a world that is complex and full of challenges—climate change, systemic inequality, political polarization, and rising costs of living, just to name a few. And yet, rather than turning away from these issues, many of them are choosing to lean in. They are volunteering in local food pantries, organizing voter registration campaigns, facilitating difficult conversations, and developing innovative solutions to problems that affect their communities. It’s not performative. It’s personal. They believe they have a role to play in creating a better world—and they act on that belief. They lead with collaboration rather than competition. They prioritize listening and learning over ego and expertise. Many of them approach community work with humility, understanding that change doesn’t come from “saving” others, but from partnering with communities, sharing power, and building relationships grounded in mutual respect. That mindset represents a profound shift from older models of leadership and service—and it’s a shift we desperately need. They’re also unafraid to ask hard questions. They challenge institutions, including their own universities, to live up to their stated values. They push for inclusive policies, more equitable systems, and meaningful opportunities for civic learning. They are not satisfied with symbolic gestures; they want structural change—and they are willing to do the work to make it happen. Of course, young people don’t have all the answers. None of us do. But the energy they bring, the values they live by, and the solidarity they practice remind me every day that positive change is not only possible—it’s already underway. The future is being shaped right now in student-led meetings, community forums, voter registration drives, mutual aid projects, and classrooms where difficult truths are being confronted with courage. Working with college students doesn’t just give me hope—it keeps me going. It reminds me why this work matters. It provides daily evidence that the legacy of our elders lives on in the courage and conviction of young people and in their belief that a better world is possible. Elizabeth Richards serves as the assistant vice president of The Chandler Center, Southern New Hampshire University’s center for civic and community engagement. The Chandler Center envisions a community where every individual is empowered to be curious about and committed to social action and works to meet that vision through the cultivation of community-based leadership opportunities, meaningful community partnerships, and social issue education for students. Elizabeth holds a Bachelor of Specialized Studies in Conference and Event Planning & Master of Education in College Student Personnel from Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. She has held professional roles in residence life, student conduct, student leadership, and community engagement. Elizabeth has presented at state, regional, and national conferences on the Social Change Model of Leadership, the challenges faced by first-generation college students, and the role of white people in anti-racism work. She teaches courses related to race, gender, and power and has 15+ years as a social justice educator. When she’s not working, Elizabeth is reading queer romance novels, crocheting, baking, or volunteering in her community. She lives near Concord, New Hampshire, with her wife, two children, and a very fluffy cat. Please note: We invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Of course, young people don’t have all the answers. None of us do. But the energy they bring, the values they live by, and the solidarity they practice remind me every day that positive change is not only possible—it’s already underway. By Theo Spanos Dunfey GCC Assistant Director Phoebe de Larrabeiti and I recently attended CSW69, which marks the 69th session of the Commission on the Status of Women, held at the United Nation Headquarters in New York. We are grateful to Marlyn Tadros, CEO and Executive Director of Digital Democracy Now for hosting GCC at UNCSW. A highlight was meeting one of GCC's Emerging Leaders, Nilab Ahmadi from Afghanistan, and celebrating her selection for the UN youth cohort. We enjoyed GCC Board member Priscilla Lee’s presentation on Afghan girls’ education and were deeply moved by a panel of survivors of sexual abuse and prostitution. Inspiring sessions featured young leaders and storytellers, while cultural moments included learning a Maori proverb and enjoying their singing. A final interactive session felt like a fitting celebration of our experiences and gave us hope for what’s to come. I hope you enjoy this video compilation of our time at CSW69. Theo Spanos Dunfey is president and executive director of Global Citizens Circle. She has over 30 years of global experience in non-profits, higher education, and international affairs. Dunfey is a graduate of the Fletcher School of Law & Diplomacy at Tufts University, where she earned a Master of Arts in Law and Diplomacy, concentrating on American diplomatic history, international communication, and international development. It was during her studies at the Fletcher School that she first began volunteering with Global Citizens Circle’s Boston programs. She also earned a bachelor’s in international relations and French at Brown University. With a primary focus on global issues, Dunfey taught international development at the University of New England, led student groups on global citizenship service-learning trips abroad, directed the World Affairs Council of Maine, and produced numerous global editorial conferences for The WorldPaper before taking the helm at Global Citizens Circle. I walk backwards into the future with my eyes fixed on my past.  By Kibar Moussoba I was sitting in my classroom on 9/11 when someone turned to me and said: “Kibar, was that you? What did you do? Was your dad flying that plane?” I froze. It took me a moment to even process what had just been said. The news had been playing on all TVs showing footage of smoke, destruction, and fear. And now, somehow, I was being linked to it. I didn’t have the words to explain how wrong that moment was. All I knew was that things were changing, and quickly. In the weeks and months after 9/11, I was no longer just a kid in high school. I was an Arab-American that constantly had to look over my shoulder. It didn't matter that I was 15 years old. It didn't matter that I was Christian. It didn't matter that I lived in rural New Hampshire with absolutely no connection to any terrorist organization. The bullying, name calling, and snickering at my expense continued longer than I care to explain. What I learned years later is this: when people don’t understand you, they create their own version of your story. And the best way to change that was to tell your own story before they tell it for you. For a long time, I stayed silent. I kept my head down. I knew that if I ignored the comments, they would simply go away. The following year, my English teacher announced a school-wide essay contest inviting students to share their reflections on 9/11 and what freedom meant to us. At first, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to participate. After all, I was not in a positive state of mind about this topic so I saw no reason to subject myself to this exercise. But, of course, the same day they announced this essay contest, the kid that was making my life miserable for a year decided to take another stab at me. I wrote the whole thing that night. I wrote about my family’s journey to America. About what it meant to leave behind a war-torn country. About how proud we were to become citizens. And about how, after 9/11, that sense of belonging was gone for me and most Arab-Americans in this country. When I was selected to read my essay in front of the entire school, I was terrified. The same students who had been bullying me, who had laughed, who had made me feel like an outsider — they would all be in that room. What felt like the next day, I stepped onto that stage as the last finalist to read their essay. I closed my eyes, and with slight anger in my voice I belted out the first words, "I was born during a war." Over the next 4 minutes I spoke about freedom from my lens, but what it could truly look like. I spoke about the façade of unity in this country. I spoke about pride and perseverance; how escaping war from my birth country only led to war in this country. When I finished, there was silence. I could practically hear the jaws hitting the floor. I was unsure if what I had just done was going to help me or hurt me, but the principal encouraged everyone to applaud and I walked off stage. As we exited the assembly, something unexpected happened. The one kid who led the charge at making my life miserable for the past year stopped me in the hallway. He looked at me, but didn't say anything this time. As he stuck out his hand, his blank face turned to remorse. He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. That moment told me everything. He saw me. That moment taught me a lesson I will never forget: stories have the power to shift perspectives in ways that arguments never will. People fear what they don’t understand. When we don’t know someone’s story, we fill in the blanks with assumptions. The best way to break down bias is to make yourself known. Stories create connection. Facts inform. But stories connect. When someone hears your lived experience, they don’t just process information — they feel it. When you share your truth, you take back control. For a short amount of time, I let others define my identity. But telling my story helped me reclaim it. So, if you feel misunderstood — don’t allow yourself to shrink. Share your story. Let people see you. Because when they do, their perspective might change forever. We all have a story that could change someone’s perspective. My story brought me to the TEDx stage. Ask yourself, what’s one part of your story that others could benefit from hearing? Kibar Moussoba is the senior program manager of People Experience at Southern New Hampshire University, where he leads strategic Inclusive Listening initiatives to enhance employee engagement and equity, diversity, and inclusion. With a deep passion for fostering meaningful workplace experiences, he helps drive key initiatives aligned with the university’s strategic goals. Beyond his role at SNHU, Kibar is an award-winning entertainer and professional DJ, known for creating unforgettable experiences at events across New England and beyond. His love for music began at the age of five with piano lessons, and by 19, he had launched his professional DJ career with Main Event Entertainment. Originally from Beirut, Lebanon, but having spent most of his life in Southern New Hampshire, he developed his DJing skills early and quickly became a sought-after performer. His ability to blend diverse musical influences and craft dynamic atmospheres has made him one of New England’s top DJs. In addition to his professional commitments, Kibar serves on the Board of Directors for the Mental Health Center of Greater Manchester and has been recognized with several accolades, including the prestigious 40 Under Forty award in New Hampshire. He is also a TEDx speaker, sharing insights on resilience, perspective, and personal growth. A husband and father of two, Kibar balances his career with his dedication to family, mentorship, and making a meaningful impact in every space he enters. Please note: Each week, we invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. When we don’t know someone’s story, we fill in the blanks with assumptions. The best way to break down bias is to make yourself known. Stories create connection. Facts inform. But stories connect. When someone hears your lived experience, they don’t just process information — they feel it. When you share your truth, you take back control.  By Michael Lockett This past summer, I shared a bit about me and how I first got involved with Global Citizens Circle. I invite you to check out "The Not-So-Accidental Activist" if you haven't had the chance. If, like many of us, you're feeling a bit stuck these days, perhaps this video I created will spur you into action. You may start small, but you can still do big things. While International Women's Day was recognized on March 8, Global Citizens Circle has partnered with Southern New Hampshire University for a breakfast program on March 11, 2025, from 9-10:30 EST. You're welcome to attend in person (at the university's upper dining hall) or virtually. The details are available here. We hope you'll join us at this special Circle event: "From Crisis to Change: Addressing Gender-based Violence in Conflict Zones," featuring Theresa de Langis and Rashida Eltag Mohamed. Michael Lockett is a New York screenwriter, director, and sometimes producer, as well a member of Global Citizens Circle’s Board. A lifelong storyteller, Michael graduated from the University of Delaware with a degree in visual communications. After a stint in advertising, periodical design, and marketing/PR, he delved back into the longer storytelling forms with film and TV screenwriting. Although specializing in horror with dark, thought-provoking overtones, Michael is always prepared and happy to lend a hand or idea to make his or others' projects a success. Please note: Each week, we invite members of the greater Global Citizens Circle community to contribute to GCC Voices. The views and opinions expressed in each blog post are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Global Citizens Circle. Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.” ― Margaret Mead |
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