Behind the Door

By Saoirse Hyland

Each Saturday, during the hectic presidential election season, I walked up to hundreds of doors. Some were cracked open, vacant, others slammed in my face, yet some were home to listening ears. I was there to talk about voting, to remind people, to explain ballots, and to answer questions. But the truth is, I ended up learning more than I ever expected. Soon, I was collecting stories, immigrants, citizens, voters, and non-voters alike, all had one thing in common on the doors I encountered: voting wasn't on their radar, and politics never crossed their minds. In many cases, this wasn't because of ignorance, but because they lacked the civic education that so many don't receive. 

Each door was a window into how democracy lives, or struggles to, in people’s actual lives. So I started treating them like snapshots, moments that formed a kind of visual diary. These are a few of the ones that stuck with me.

Door #1:

A man, late twenties, opened the door, not shocked to see me, as I could see another political pamphlet lodged in his railing. 

I began with the same special they trained us to give, asked if he planned on voting, why yes, why no, did he know how, and so on. When I finished speaking, he had a tired but amused expression on his face. “Honestly, I'm not going, I hate them both.” He was referring to the two candidates up for the presidency. He went on to give a long list of the reasons he hates one, and one small, simple deal breaker for the other. 

I knew this was a common trend, the all-or-nothing standpoint, that if neither candidate defends everything I do, why vote? I had never encountered someone so honest about why they weren't voting. It made my job a lot easier. 

I started by telling him how rare it is to find a candidate that fits all of your wants and needs, but I emphasized, as I knew how frustrating it was to not be heard entirely, that voting isn’t about finding someone perfect, it’s about harm reduction, about choosing the candidate who gets us closer to where we want to go, even if it’s only by inches.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. I could tell he was listening, even if he wasn’t ready to agree. So I kept going. I told him about how local elections often have more direct impact than federal ones, how ballot measures shape schools, housing, transit, and how not voting doesn’t mean nothing happens, it means other people decide for you. He didn’t say much, just nodded slowly, looking out toward the street like he was thinking it over. Before I left, I handed him a flyer and said, “Even if you’re still undecided, I’m glad you answered the door.”

He smiled a little. “Yeah. Me too.” I walked away not knowing if he’d vote, but knowing that, for a moment, we had a real conversation about what democracy feels like: not perfect, not easy, but still worth knocking for.

Door #2

A man in his mid-thirties with a toddler standing behind him opened the door to greet me. I looked down at my list in confusion, as I had a woman's name written down. I asked if she was home, and he told me that it was his wife and she had just left. 

“Is this about the election?” he questioned, before I could give him a response, he reassured me he and his wife were voters, “we never miss an election,” he continued. 

He told me his wife is a teacher, that voting is so important to her because of the future of her students. I stood there and listened to what he had to say. There was something steady in his voice, like voting wasn’t a big event, but a habit, a responsibility. He told me how his wife comes home exhausted but still finds time to research ballot measures and how she reminds her coworkers to register.

“It’s not just about us,” he said, glancing back at the toddler now tugging gently on his pant leg. “It’s about her kids. Our kid. Their future.”

I smiled and thanked him, handed him a flyer just in case they needed any last-minute info. As I walked to the next house, I kept thinking about his words. For them, voting wasn’t abstract or distant. It was personal. It was protective. It was about showing up, for yourself, yes, but more importantly, for others who couldn’t yet.

Door #3

Some doors weren't quite as welcoming, that doesn't make me angry, but sad. An older black man opened the door for me. He looked unamused, like he had heard my spiel 100 times. I still went on, but I understood his disinterest. 

He told me he wasn't voting this year, and he hadn't in a long time, that these candidates were not representative of the majority. I thanked him for his time, for at least opening the door, as many don't.

I walked away, not angry, not frustrated, just heavy.

Heavy with the weight of how many times he’d likely been let down. Heavy with the realization that for some people, disengagement isn’t apathy, but protection. It’s choosing not to participate in a system that’s never felt like it was built for you. I thought about how many speeches he must’ve heard, how many promises broken, how many headlines that made him feel invisible or disposable. And yet, he still opened the door. He still listened. That small act meant something to me. Because behind every closed-off response is a story I don’t know.

Door #4

This next door is a collection of a common theme I noticed over many different openings. A person, afraid, would open the door just barely, unwelcoming of whatever it was they thought I was trying to press. Some told me to get off their step immediately, and some didn't listen but took the flyer. 

At first, I took it personally. I wondered if I’d said something wrong or knocked too loudly. But the more doors I visited, the more I realized this wasn’t about me, it was about trust. Or more specifically, the lack of it.

These weren’t just rejections of a flyer; they were reflections of a deeper truth: that for some, democracy has shown up as a threat, not a promise. In communities historically overpoliced, underfunded, and unheard, the knock of a stranger, even if I am just a teenager with a clipboard, can trigger anxiety instead of hope. Those doors taught me that civic engagement can’t start with a ballot. It has to start with rebuilding trust. And sometimes, the most meaningful thing you can do is show up anyway, and let people know that someone sees them, even if they’re not ready to be seen.

Door #5

One of the last lessons I learned through canvassing is reflected through this door. This particular Saturday, I was knocking with a friend and we came up to a door decorated with political banners and stickers. I turned to her and questioned what the point even was. It was clear this person was voting. But she revealed something important to me. She told me everything that we are putting into the program is important, that it's important people see, and that we see people care. Most importantly, it is important that we show this person that they are seen for completing their civic duty. We knocked anyway. The woman who opened the door was older, enthusiastic, and told us she’d been voting for decades, but she still thanked us. She said it gave her hope to see young people out in the neighborhood doing this kind of work.

That moment stayed with me. Because activism isn’t always about changing someone’s opinion or behavior. Sometimes, it’s just about showing up, listening, affirming, and reminding people they’re not alone in caring.

Every door I knocked on taught me something different. They didn’t just show me who was going to vote or not. They revealed how people feel about power, about their place in the system, about whether the system sees them at all. Some felt proud. Some felt forgotten. Some weren’t ready to open the door, but they still looked through the blinds. When we talk about voting, we focus on turnout numbers and maps. But behind those numbers are moments like these: Conversations. Silences. Laughter. Hesitation. Democracy doesn’t live in institutions, it lives in people. In their memories, their fears, their routines, their living rooms. And sometimes, it lives just behind a door.