First published in the summer 2025 issue of the National Civic Review, a quarterly journal of the National Civic League.

If civic engagement is the engine of democracy, then storytelling is the fuel. Governments, businesses, social organizations, family histories and social media accounts all operate best when they tell their individual stories well. In educational extension work, especially in urban, underserved and transitional communities, our ability to foster trust, collaboration and transformation depends not just on what we do, but on the stories that surround, support and propel our efforts forward. Stories are not peripheral to public life; they are paramount.

This fueling function of story is why I piloted the Veteran R.E.A.D.S. Program (VRP) at University of Missouri Extension in Kansas City. Designed for veterans, active-duty service members, first responders and their families, the VRP is a community development initiative that harnesses the power of literature, storytelling and civic dialogue. It helps participants process their experiences, rediscover meaning and rebuild connections with communities they once served. Stories in the VRP are more than mere expressions of memory; they become survival tools, moral maps and emotional bridges.

Our motto, “Stories are strongholds and strategies for the mind’s frontlines,” is more than a simple slogan—it’s a creed. Stories protect us and propel us forward in ways we never fully grasp until their work is done. To quickly understand this, consider how emotionally charged and mentally different you felt walking out of a theater after watching a beloved movie. The VRP seeks to harness that same transformative energy embedded in story. When it works, participants don’t reclaim agency by being told what to do or how to heal, they do so by being heard and by hearing others. The results spark catharsis and a renewed sense of belonging, one that arises simply from shared narratives and civic participation.

It didn’t take me long to realize that the transformative energy embedded in story (fictional or otherwise) isn’t just for story-addicted English majors like me or for veterans in the VRP; it’s for everyone seeking change in their work, relationships, or everyday views on life. Story affects us through a variety of mechanisms, but three in particular have a profound and lasting effect. In the sections that follow, I’ll explore these three mechanisms and demonstrate how they operate within the Veteran R.E.A.D.S. Program and/or my broader work at MU Extension and in my community.

Mechanism No. 1: Story as Infrastructure for Society & The Self

Stories provide the invisible, evolutionary infrastructure of human society. They make belief systems, identity formation and collective action possible through the shared narratives by which we understand ourselves and others. Like public infrastructure (e.g., roads, bridges and broadband) narratives influence how people move through the world, what they believe is possible and who they believe belongs to a group. Storytelling, then, is one of the oldest tools for human cooperation. It allows us to construct imagined realities that bind people together across time and space. Yuval Noah Harari writes about this in Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind when he says, “The truly unique feature of our language is not its ability to transmit information about men and lions. Rather, it’s the ability to transmit information about things that do not exist at all.” Civilizations, laws, religions and economies are all built on the shared vision about things “that do not exist at all” but very well should, and a good story helps us build them. In this way, storytelling serves not just as escape, entertainment or remembrance, but as the cognitive infrastructure of an ever-evolving social world. As such, those seeking to shape civic life will find the most powerful starting point is not another policy or prescription but a well-articulated alternative story.

In extension work, narrative infrastructure manifests in how communities define leadership, develop trust in institutions and navigate change. A well-told story offers ethos (to borrow language from Aristotle’s treatise Rhetoric); it builds credibility for the storyteller and resonance for the community they speak from and to. In the VRP, participants often arrive believing their stories are too painful to share or too peripheral to matter.

A common refrain among veterans and first-responders is, “Someone else has (or had) it worse than me.” It’s a quiet dismissal that can bury trauma, silence meaning and forego help. But when shared in a structured environment, grounded in safety, sincerity and dialogue, those same stories become vessels of belonging and shared purpose. This narrative framework helps individuals and communities rebuild identity, meaning and momentum from the inside out.

Mechanism No. 2: Story as a Moral Map

While story-as-infrastructure brings us and binds us together, story-as-moral-map shows us where to go and why. Stories, at their core, are meaning-making maps. They translate abstract values like justice, courage and sacrifice into lived experience. They help individuals and communities navigate moral dilemmas and define what “good” looks like in both personal and public life, and they help us envision and embody any necessary ethical action once the good has been discovered.

This moral function of story aligns with Aristotle’s notion of logos, or reason as a persuasive force. Story deepens the persuasive force of logos through imaginative empathy. C.S. Lewis knew this. It’s one of the reasons he wrote The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, for he knew we don’t learn courage by studying its definition; we learn it in J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings when Frodo carries the Ring into Mordor (Tolkien was a close friend of Lewis) or when Lucy steps into the wardrobe despite her fear. As Lewis knew, stories orient the heart through experience, not abstraction.

For extension professionals or professionals in another civic arena, stories can help stakeholders navigate ethical tensions, such as how to balance competing needs, or how to uphold dignity in systems stretched thin. For example, a default narrative such as, “This neighborhood is too angry or fractured to address or organize,” can be transformed through the lens of story-as-map. It’s not a “difficult community”; it’s a community wrestling with fairness, longing for reconciliation and negotiating moral truths. That reframing isn’t spin; it’s strategy, grounded in empathy and imagination. That new narrative recontextualizes the approach by individuals on any side of a given civic dilemma. In the VRP, story-as-moral-map also helps speak to common line of reasoning from veterans I mentioned earlier: “Someone else has (or had) it worse.”

The logic that upholds that line looks something like this: “Health benefits and assistance programs should go to those that really need it, and since a service member out there somewhere inevitably has or had it worse, they should get the help, not me.” It’s a minimization of personal pain for the sake of saving one’s battle buddies. It is noble, but it’s also a narrow view of what’s good. Stories, especially those shared by fellow veterans, expand the definition of what’s good to include help for oneself. Because every veteran or first responder was once someone else’s battle buddy, and no one would want their comrade to suffer in silence, self-care is not an act of weakness but one of courage and strength.

In fact, the spirit of care is woven throughout the various military creeds: “Never leave a fallen comrade” (U.S. Army), “Never falter” (U.S. Air Force), “Represent the fighting spirit” (U.S. Navy), be “The saviors of my life” (U.S. Marines) and “I will protect them” (U.S. Coast Guard). Readiness and resilience, the hallmarks of every branch of the military, begin with the individual. It’s a narrative framework that helps inform and transform individuals and communities.

Mechanism No. 3: Story as an Emotional Simulator

If story-as-infrastructure binds us and story-as-moral-map guides us, then story-as-emotional-simulator trains us, rehearsing the feelings, fears and hopes that shape how we move through the world. Neuroscience affirms what oral traditions have long shown: stories activate powerful neurochemicals such as dopamine and oxytocin, creating feelings of connection, reward and emotional safety. This is pathos—the persuasive force of emotional resonance. Literary scholar Jonathan Gottschall writes about this in The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human. He says, “We are, as it turns out, hardwired for story. Our brains are built for narrative, and the chemicals coursing through our bodies…are part of the neural machinery that makes storytelling so deeply satisfying.” Stories trigger dopamine in moments of progress or suspense, oxytocin in moments of trust or tenderness, and endorphins when we laugh or feel joy. Even stress hormones such as cortisol and adrenaline rise in gripping tales of survival or danger. In short, stories simulate real-life emotional experiences, and those emotional simulations can rewire how we respond to life’s emotional moments.

This mechanism is especially potent in programs, extension and otherwise, that support mental health, identity work and social healing. In the VRP, stories become social-emotional bridges, connecting people and places across time, distance and difference. Veterans who once felt invisible begin to trust again, not because they’re lectured, but because they’re listened to. Their minds, bodies and beliefs all begin to relax in a place where story in all its forms (e.g., harrowing, heart-wrenching or hilariously dark) are not only accepted but essential. This kind of emotional engagement isn’t ancillary to civic work, it’s foundational. It’s what builds coalitions that outlast press releases. It’s what transforms a room full of strangers into a circle of shared belonging. And it’s what reminds us that resilience isn’t just about muscle or willpower; it’s about meaning included in and extracted from story.

Final Thoughts

In extension work, social work, community organizing or anywhere people come together to do the hard, hopeful work of making communities better, storytelling isn’t just a way to communicate. It’s stronghold and strategy. It’s psychology. It’s persuasion. It’s cultural glue. A story is the invisible infrastructure that helps people make sense of what’s happened and why it matters. It’s how we shape norms and build trust. When used well, it builds credibility (ethos), not just for the storyteller, but for the institutions and efforts they represent. As a moral map, story helps people navigate tough choices by turning abstract values into lived, felt experiences. That’s how we move hearts and minds, through lived logic (logos), not just information. And as an emotional simulator, story taps into something deeper: imagery, imagination and perspective that unlock empathy and connection (pathos), releasing the neurochemical cocktail (e.g., dopamine, oxytocin, endorphins) that reminds us we’re in this together.

Since stories are so powerful, then we also have to ask: What stories are we carrying that no longer serve us? What narratives are quietly shaping our work, our relationships and/or our sense of purpose? When we reflect on the stories we tell ourselves and others, and when we commit to reshaping those stories to align with our values and goals, we open the door to real, actionable change. When we utilize the mechanisms that make story work and understand them as ancient reflections of classical persuasion, we don’t just teach; we transform. That’s what deepens engagement, builds lasting coalitions and empowers people to act across Missouri, the country and beyond.

If you don’t want to take my word for it, consider then the wisdom of one of America’s most trusted and beloved civic voices: Mr. Rogers. For years, he carried a quote in his wallet, one originally from a social worker, that read, “Frankly, there isn’t anyone you couldn’t love once you’ve heard their story.” That isn’t just sentiment; it’s strategy. Rogers knew that listening, truly listening, to someone’s story had the power to dissolve judgment, build connection and unlock compassion. Shared story is what makes love and understanding possible. Shared story is also what makes us all more capable of saying what Mr. Rogers used to say so sincerely often: “You’ve made this day a special day, just by your being you. There’s no person in the whole world like you, and I like you just the way you are.” And that’s a story I’ll tell all day.

Joshua Shinn, an extension and engagement/community development specialist for University of Missouri Extension in Kansas City, leads the Veteran R.E.A.D.S. Program.