The Cost of Courage: Writing for Young Voices in a Fractured World

I wrote the Draconim series with a fire in my chest—the conviction that young people have a voice, and that voice matters. That they can rise, speak, and lead the way in protecting the Earth and reimagining the future. That they don't have to wait for permission.

The idea for Draconim lived in my notes and drafts for many years, and I often think I should have brought it to life sooner. Now, with the third book set to release in June, I find myself wrestling with something deeper: What does it mean to encourage young people to stand up when the world around them—and the regimes in power—seem determined to punish that courage?

Is my hesitation to continue this series a kind of compliance in advance?

Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/boy-leaning-on-a-tree-5427543/

Throughout history, young people have been at the forefront of transformation. From the student-led protests of the Civil Rights Movement to the global climate strikes sparked by Greta Thunberg’s solitary stand with a sign, youth-led movements have carried truth with a clarity and force that institutions often resist. They speak with urgency because they must—they are the ones who will inherit the consequences of inaction.

But speaking out isn’t without cost. In today’s fractured world, where authoritarian tendencies are rising in many corners—including here at home—dissent is increasingly framed as danger. Young activists face doxxing, surveillance, arrest—even reputational ruin. Some are labeled as extremists simply for demanding a livable future. Even peaceful protest can carry lifelong consequences.

You may remember the news stories about Haven Coleman, who, at just 13 years old, was one of the organizers of the U.S. Youth Climate Strike in 2019. Even then, that kind of action took enormous courage. But I find myself wondering: in this present moment—when environmental protections are being stripped by executive order, when the rule of law is being twisted to serve authoritarian aims, when masked federal agents detain protesters without charges, and people are disappeared into detention centers, with no due process, under the guise of law—would Haven, or others who once led the way, still urge young people to rise up today?

I think about that as I write stories where young protagonists speak up, fight back, and imagine something better. I want to empower young readers—to say: you matter, your voice counts, you are not too small. But there’s a knot in my chest, too. Because I know that in the real world, courage can come with scars.

Am I encouraging them to step into danger? And if I don’t tell those stories, am I quietly agreeing to the silence?

What is the responsibility of a storyteller when courage becomes dangerous?

Is it enough to write the light—to show what could be—and trust young readers to navigate the shadows on their own? Or do we owe them more? Do we also need to name the risk, to trace the real-world cost of standing up when the world wants you silent?

I believe stories can be both compass and companion. They can stir something vital: conviction, defiance, resilience. But stories can also wound if they ask the impossible and don’t warn about the cliffs.

I want to call young people to rise—but not blindly. I want to believe that we can offer them hope without offering them lies. That we can write truth without leaning into despair. That we can say, Yes, this path may cost you. And yes, it is still worth walking.

Maybe our job as writers—especially those of us writing for young people—is not to shield them from danger, but to give them the language, the vision, and the grounding to face it with eyes open and hearts intact.

Hope without naivety. Courage without coercion. That’s the balance I’m trying to hold.

I don’t have a tidy answer. I still believe in the power of youth, in their vision, their courage, their creativity. I believe in stories that remind them they are not too small or too late.

But I also believe in honesty. And the honesty is this: speaking out may come at a cost. That makes their courage more precious, not less.

As a writer, all I can do is try to tell the truth, and hope that somewhere in that, they find both fire and caution, both warning and a light to walk by. I have woven some of that truth into Fingerprints In The Water, book 3 of the Draconim series, and as my readers grow and age with the characters in the series, I will weave even more in, because it's not dragons that our youth need to fear, but the people who fear the dragons...

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