Workshop at Dawn

The youth center's doors creaked open just as the first rays of dawn filtered through the high windows, casting streaks of gold across the polished linoleum floor. Mia stood to the side of the main hall, unnoticed, her arms crossed tightly as she watched Sarah shuffle nervously past the folding chairs arranged in a rough circle.

Flipcharts lined one wall, already scrawled with colorful arrows and motivational phrases. Markers lay scattered across a plastic table nearby, their caps long since gone. Sarah's sneakers squeaked faintly as she stepped into the circle of chairs, her movements uncertain yet deliberate.

A tall facilitator with a cheerful voice clapped her hands together. "Alright, team! Let's get warmed up! Icebreaker time! Name, favorite breakfast, and if you were a superhero, what would your power be!"

Mia flinched slightly at the word "superhero," the irony not lost on her. Her gaze didn't waver from Sarah.

Sarah sat rigid at first. Then, as introductions made their way around the circle, she glanced down at her hands, clutching the edge of her notebook. When her turn came, she cleared her throat softly. "Hi, I'm Sarah. I like toast with honey. And… I guess my superpower would be… not panicking in public."

A few chuckles rippled through the group, not unkindly. Sarah smiled, small but real. Mia exhaled.

The group moved into a team-building game involving plastic straws and marshmallows. Sarah hesitated before joining a trio already deep in strategizing. One of the girls handed her a straw. "You do the base?" she asked. Sarah nodded, then knelt and began assembling with quiet focus.

Mia stepped further into shadow. Anticipation fluttered in her chest—watchful, taut. Every time Sarah laughed or asked a question, it was like sunlight breaking through mist.

Still, unease threaded through Mia's mind. What if Sarah was just mimicking ease, playing a role to fit in? What if the social pressure was just another layer she didn't know how to peel back?

The marshmallow tower wobbled, then collapsed. Laughter erupted. Sarah burst out laughing too, one hand over her mouth. The facilitator clapped. "That's what teamwork looks like, folks!"

Sarah's eyes gleamed with something more than amusement—relief, maybe. Or pride.

A short break followed. The smell of instant coffee and pencil shavings filled the air. Sarah leaned against the wall, sipping water from a paper cup, scanning the flipcharts on the wall. Her eyes paused on one with a quote scrawled in red: "Leadership is not about being in charge. It's about taking care of those in your charge."

Mia saw the tilt of her head, the way she mouthed the words.

The second half of the session brought them back into the circle. The facilitator stepped forward again, clipboard in hand.

"Now, for the next exercise," she said, tapping her list, "we're going to do a quick spotlight activity. Each of you will share one moment you felt proud of recently. It can be small, anything that felt like growth."

Mia's heart leapt. She recognized the shift in Sarah's posture—shoulders tightening, eyes darting. The girl to her left stood first, sharing a story about helping her brother with homework. A boy spoke next about standing up to a rude customer during his weekend shift.

Then Sarah's name was called.

She blinked.

"Sarah?"

There was a long pause. Sarah stood slowly, her cup crumpling slightly in her grip. Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "Um… a few weeks ago, I talked to someone new. Just… said hi first. I don't usually do that."

Another pause.

Then, a warm ripple of applause.

Sarah sat down quickly, cheeks flushed. But she was smiling.

In the shadows beyond the window glass, Mia pressed her hand against the frame.

Sarah was holding herself upright.

Not because of Mia. But with Mia watching.

The workshop continued with another hands-on segment. This time, a collaborative art piece: poster boards, glue sticks, magazine clippings, and colored pencils. The participants spread out into groups of four, instructed to collage their personal visions of leadership.

Sarah joined her group at a corner table. She flipped through a worn National Geographic, snipping out images of open hands, doorways, and a watercolor sunrise. She didn't speak much, but she didn't retreat either. When someone asked if she liked what they were making, she answered, "Yeah. It reminds me of what I needed to hear a year ago."

Mia's breath hitched.

The girl beside Sarah nodded. "That's kind of the point, right?"

Sarah looked up. "I guess so."

The facilitator came by, pausing to admire their board. "I like this symbol here," she said, pointing to the cut-out of a cracked road mended with thread. "Very thoughtful."

Sarah shrugged with a smile. "It's not about making it perfect. Just… making it continue."

Mia leaned back slightly, her gaze softening.

By the end of the session, the tables were cluttered with scraps, tape rolls, and the smell of glue. The facilitator stood once more in the center of the room. "Before we wrap up," she said, "I want to thank all of you for your honesty today. Especially those who shared in ways that scared them."

She glanced toward Sarah, who instinctively looked down, then back up.

Mia could feel the weight of that gaze, the silent acknowledgement.

As the room emptied slowly, Sarah lingered behind. She helped gather markers, straightened chairs, and finally slipped her notebook back into her bag.

She passed by the flipchart once more, paused, and then, with the red marker in hand, wrote beneath the quote:

"Sometimes the smallest step is still forward."

Mia watched her cap the marker and set it back gently.

There was no ceremony in the gesture. Just a quiet truth left behind.

Sarah stood for a long moment in the doorway before stepping outside. The morning had grown into something brighter. Birds chirped. The sidewalk was dappled with light.

She walked slowly, but not aimlessly—her fingers brushing the fabric strap of her bag, her eyes scanning the street like it had new meaning.

Mia lingered behind the curtain, her presence like breath in fog.

And even though no words were spoken, the air between them held something unmistakable:

Sarah had begun.

Behind her, the room emptied, chairs clattering faintly as volunteers rearranged the space. The facilitator chatted quietly with another staff member, her voice too low to catch, but filled with an energy that reminded Mia of warm embers. There was something sacred in the ordinary today.

Sarah paused under a maple tree just outside the youth center. Sunlight dripped through its leaves, dappling her face in gold and green. She reached into her bag and pulled out her notebook.

She flipped past old pages—sketches, scribbled notes, bits of poems—and stopped on a blank one. Her pen hovered, then touched down.

Not with a poem.

Just a list.

Things I did today that felt brave.

She wrote the first entry slowly:

— Spoke in a group.

Then another:

— Laughed out loud.

— Shared something true.

— Wrote this list.

Mia stood by the doorway, half in shadow, watching her. Her own hands were folded loosely in front of her, posture relaxed. There was nothing left to do here—only to honor what had already been done.

A breeze caught Sarah's hair. She looked up, pen still in hand, as if catching the world mid-turn.

Mia's voice, inaudible to others but vibrant within herself, whispered only this:

You are your own threshold now.