Let it.

Close your eyes for a moment.Listen. What would your younger self have imagined in this sound? A monasteryhidden in the hills? A forest untouched by roads? There’s something groundingabout

Welcome to Stone and Signal. I’m Lawrence Nault.

This episode is for the young—andthe once-young—who still believe the world can be saved. For those who aretired, but still showing up. For those whose hope hasn’t hardened intocynicism, even when the world tells them it should.

Today, we’re talking about youth.Not just youth as an idea, but as a force. A presence. A rising tide. We’llexplore the voices that are leading, resisting, and remembering. The ones thatrefuse to stay quiet.

Youth is often framed as aphase—something to grow out of. But what if it’s something we grow from? Whatif it’s not just an age bracket, but a frequency some people never stop tuninginto? The kind that pulses beneath movements, melodies, uprisings, and dreams.The kind that doesn't wait for permission.

We’ve been told that the youngare naïve, idealistic, impulsive. Maybe. But maybe that idealism is a kind ofclarity—a refusal to accept that the way things are is the way they must be.And maybe that refusal is exactly what this moment needs.

[Segment 1 – The Riseof Youth Voices]

In recent years, we’ve seen youthstep into roles many adults have abandoned. From Greta Thunberg’s school strikethat sparked a global movement, to the young water protectors defending sacredland, to Indigenous youth reclaiming culture and sovereignty—these voices arenot future leaders. They are leaders now.

And they’re not just shoutinginto the void. They’re organizing. Creating. Rebuilding.

They’re holding intergenerationaltrauma in one hand and digital megaphones in the other. They’re navigatingburnout, surveillance, and systemic gaslighting—all while doing their homework.They are teaching the world how to fight with both fire and care.

Still, it isn’t easy. Many ofthem are dismissed. Labeled as naïve or extreme. Others are exhausted, carryingburdens too heavy for their age. They inherit crises they didn’t cause, andstill manage to meet them with imagination.

What I keep seeing—and what Ikeep writing—is that young people are often the first to understand what’s atstake. And the last to walk away.

They show us that leadershipdoesn’t always look like power suits or podiums. Sometimes it looks like ateenager testifying at a town hall. A youth-led march in the rain. A digitalzine shared among friends. Sometimes it looks like grief turned into music. Orsilence broken in a classroom.

Their movements remind us thaturgency and hope can co-exist. That systems can be challenged not just withfacts, but with story, song, and ceremony. That resistance can be quiet,collective, and deeply cultural.

So the question isn’t whetheryouth are ready to lead. The question is whether the rest of us are ready tofollow.

[Segment 2 – The YoungDragons as Reflection]

In the Draconim series, the YoungDragons aren’t chosen by fate. They’re chosen by purpose. By urgency. By thequiet ache of knowing something needs to be done—and no one else is doing it.

Kai, bonded to the ocean. Amy,with her deep ties to land and spirit. Anne, whose art speaks louder thanprotest. Each of them reflects a real-world counterpart. A teen who stands up,even when they’re scared. Who speaks, even when their voice shakes.

They don’t always have the rightwords. Sometimes they get it wrong. But they show up anyway. Because somethinginside them knows that silence is not an option. That waiting for permission isjust another way of letting things fall apart.

There’s a scene in Fingerprints in the Water when Kai, after nearly drowning in grief,is pulled back to the surface by Amy—not with magic, but with memory. Withpresence. She calls him back through their bond, reminding him of who he is andwhat he carries.

That moment came from watchingreal youth break down—and then get back up. Not because they’re resilient bydefault. But because they’re connected. To each other. To place. To whatmatters.

So often we talk about youth asif they’re lone heroes or symbols of hope. But the truth is, they don’t actalone. They carry entire communities with them. Ancestors. Teachers. Friends.The land itself.

Kai’s grief isn’t just hisown—it’s the ocean’s grief, made personal. Amy’s strength isn’t hers alone—it’sthe medicine of the land moving through her. And Anne’s voice? It’s everyunheard story finally finding a way to be seen.

These characters aren’t escapist.They’re reflections. And when young readers recognize themselves in Kai, orAmy, or Anne, I want them to feel seen—not as the world imagines them, but asthey already are: complicated, capable, and worthy of being listened to.

If there’s magic in thesestories, it isn’t fantasy. It’s the real kind. The kind rooted in connection.The kind that says: You’renot alone. You were never alone.

[Segment 3 – The Roleof Adults]

I often ask myself what my roleis—as an older writer, a quiet observer, someone who’s seen the patternsrepeat.

We’re not here to lead them.We’re here to walk beside them.

Support doesn’t always meanstepping in. Sometimes, it means stepping back. Making space. Bearing witness.And when asked—lifting up, resourcing, amplifying.

But let’s be honest: there’soften a deep reluctance—even fear—when it comes to truly empowering youngpeople. Not because we doubt their intelligence or their passion, but becausewe sense what might happen if they’re given real influence. They might notpreserve the status quo. They might dismantle it. And for those of us who’vegrown used to its comforts, that’s unsettling.

It's easier to praise youth thanto trust them with power. Easier to host panels than to share platforms. Easierto admire their courage from a distance than to yield control, shift systems,or let go of outdated hierarchies.

I write these stories not tospeak for youth, but to speak with them. To offer language where silencethreatens to settle in. To hold a mirror, gently—not to reflect what adultsexpect to see, but what young people alreadyknow about themselvesand the world they’re navigating.

Because they’re not waiting forpermission. They never were.

And the real question is notwhether they’re ready. It’s whether we are—ready to listen, to be changed, tofollow when it’s our turn to fall in step behind.

[Segment 4 – Empowerment]

I’ve often heard people say,“Youth are the future.”
But I’ve started to resist that phrase. Not because it’s wrong, but because itdelays responsibility. It implies that the work—the power, the choice, thereckoning—belongs to some later version of them. After they’ve aged, afterthey’ve learned the rules, after they’ve waited their turn.

But what if their turn is now?

What if the most radical thingwe can do as adults is to stop preparing young people to inherit a brokenworld, and instead work with them to change it—before the handover happens?

This isn’t a metaphor. It’shappening. Young people are stepping forward in schools, in community halls, onriversides and forest edges and oceanshores. And when they do, they don’talways need a microphone. Sometimes they just need someone to lower the volumein the room long enough for them to speak.

We say we want their voices. Butdo we create the conditions for them to thrive?

Do we design classrooms wherequestioning is encouraged?
Do we make meetings accessible, not just physically—but emotionally,culturally, psychologically?
Do we treat their ideas as valuable contributions or polite afterthoughts?
Do we ask them what they need, or do we assume we already know?

Empowering youth isn’t aboutgiving permission. It’s about sharing power.
It’s about handing over the keys—not when we retire or burn out—but now, whilewe still have the energy to walk alongside them.

And yes, it’s uncomfortable.
Because the voices rising now don’t always echo the ones we’ve nurtured.
They challenge the norms we once accepted.
They push against the systems we’ve made peace with.
They force us to ask: What are we really protecting when we withhold power?

Too often, it’s not them wefear—it’s the changes they might bring.

Because empowering youth meansthings might look different.

It might mean slower processes,or louder gatherings, or decisions we wouldn’t have made ourselves.
It might mean rethinking traditions. It might mean giving up control.
It might mean that what we built—our programs, our plans, our movements—aren’twhat’s needed anymore.

And that’s hard.

But it’s also the point.
We’re not here to be gatekeepers. We’re here to be gardeners.
To nurture what’s growing, not prune it into familiar shapes.

Sometimes that means saying: Wetried it this way—and it failed. You don’t have to repeat us.
Sometimes it means saying: We believe you. Even when the world doesn’t.
And sometimes, it just means listening.
Really listening.
Not waiting for our turn to speak.
Not looking for flaws in their logic.
But letting their stories land. Letting their anger breathe. Letting their joylead.

I’ve sat in circles with teenswho were told they were “too emotional,” “too idealistic,” “too impatient.”
But what I heard were hearts unwilling to go numb.
What I saw were people refusing to accept a poisoned status quo.

I’ve seen young leaders namewhat adults won’t:
That climate collapse isn’t theoretical. That racism isn’t just historical.That injustice isn’t just unfortunate—it’s engineered.

And when they say these things,we shouldn’t be asking them to be more polite.
We should be asking ourselves why we waited so long to say them, too.

So what does it look like to makespace?

It can be structural:
Youth-led councils with real budgets.
Policies that require intergenerational collaboration.
Platforms that prioritize youth-made media.

It can be cultural:
Mentorship that centers humility, not heroism.
Ceremonies that honor transitions—not just achievements.
Elders who share stories without expecting replicas.

And it can be personal:
Taking the time to ask, Who’s not in the room?
Saying, I don’t have the answer—but I’ll stand beside you while you ask thequestion.
Letting go of our need to be the center.
Trusting that the rising generation might see something we’ve missed.

Because they do see whatwe’ve missed.

They see the interconnectednesswe were taught to forget.
They see the climate, not as a distant science, but as their lived reality.
They see identity, not as a binary, but as a spectrum.
They see power, not as something to hoard, but something to share.

And that clarity—thatvision—isn’t naïve. It’s necessary.

We are not just passing them aworld. We are shaping the conditions of their becoming.
And if we’re lucky, if we’re humble, they’ll shape us in return.

I don’t want to end this episodewith a call to action.
I want to end it with a call to attention.
To notice who’s already leading.
To notice when silence is a symptom of exclusion—not disengagement.
To notice when our own comfort becomes a cage.

Empowering youth isn’t aninvestment in the future.
It’s an act of love in the present.

Let them speak. Let them lead.Let them reimagine what we forgot was possible.

And let’s not just cheer fromthe sidelines.

Let’s walk with them.

 [Segment 5 – Reflection& Invitation]

If you’re listening and you’reyoung—this space is for you. You don’t need to have the answers. You don’t needto carry it all. Just know that your voice matters. It always has.

And if you’re not so younganymore—what did you believe in once, before the world taught you to shrink?

What would your younger self askyou to remember?

If you’d like to explore theYoung Dragons’ journey, you can find their stories in my books. Sales helpsupport this podcast—and the quiet time it takes to make it.

You can also find transcripts andquiet reflections on my blog.

Thank you for being here. Untilnext time, may your signal find the stones that hold it.