ArcaMax

Therapist waiting rooms are inherently awkward. We're all working through something. I'll sit and chat in a doctor's office, especially with the older generations who aren't as glued to their phones. At the therapist, I've picked sliding into a seat and being riveted to my small screen.

This week, though, I sat, hunched over, and caught a: "Councilor McClure!" I looked up and dipped into a smile that only slightly faltered when she continued, "I presented before the council a while back." Oh, no; I wasn't in the right headspace to remember who she was.

Her therapist came at the exact right time.

When I first ran for city council, I imagined the position as a balancing act between normal responsibilities and public service. What I didn't anticipate was the gradual and subtle shift in how people would perceive me -- how, over time, I'd go from being just another face in the crowd to someone they recognized as their city councilor.

Living in a smaller town means we are used to familiar faces. We nod in acknowledgment at the grocery store, wave at the school pickup line, and chat at community events. But there's something different about the recognition that comes with holding a public office, even in a place where everyone seems to be either related or one degree of Kevin Bacon from everyone.

Being recognized as a city councilor felt like wearing a new pair of shoes -- slightly uncomfortable, too tight, and very noticeable. I remember the first time someone approached me at the farmers market to discuss a pothole on their street. It was surreal. They addressed me as "Councilor," it took a moment to realize they were talking to me. I listened, took mental notes, and promised to look into it while thinking, "Is this really my life now?"

As weeks have turned into months, those encounters became more frequent. Neighbors, with whom I'd only exchanged pleasantries, began stopping me to discuss everything from zoning issues to park maintenance. They weren't just saying hello anymore; they were engaging, sharing concerns, and seeking reassurance. It is a humbling experience.

There's a quiet responsibility that comes with this recognition. People trust you, not just to hear them out but to act in their best interests. It's a weighty expectation, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't come with moments of self-doubt. After all, I'm still the person I was before the election -- no wiser, no more experienced. Yet, I'm learning that being a city councilor is as much about listening and learning as decision-making.

What's been most surprising, though, is how this shift has deepened my connection to the town. When you start recognizing faces as neighbors and constituents with real concerns, it changes your perspective. Every meeting and every vote feel more personal. These decisions will affect the people I see at the grocery store, the ones who wave to me on the sidewalk.

This growing recognition has also brought a more profound sense of responsibility. I think about the long-term implications of our decisions more often, knowing that I'll live with the results alongside everyone else. There's no anonymity in small-town politics; you're accountable. They'll find you in the canned vegetable aisle.

As I continue this journey, I'm grateful for my community's trust in me. The transition from stranger to city councilor has been slow and sometimes uncomfortable, but it's also been gratifying. I may not always have the answers, but I'm committed to listening, learning, and serving to the best of my ability. Ultimately, that's what this role is all about -- being present, engaged, and part of something bigger than yourself.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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