Protectors or Gatekeepers

When I hear people talk about our towns, I play a little mental swap. I take the word “Sumner” (or “Wellington,” or “Mulvane,” or any of our communities) out of the sentence and replace it with the name of a place I love to visit. If the comment suddenly sounds harsh or absurd, I know something’s off. I hear things like, “There’s nothing to do here,” “This place is dying,” or “Why would anyone move back?” and I have to stop and ask myself: if I wouldn’t say that about my favorite vacation spot or the town where my grandkids live, why am I saying it about home?

I also know our kids are always listening when we think they aren’t. They’re listening from the back seat, from the next room, from the stands at ball games, from the church fellowship hall. When they hear, over and over, “This place is going downhill,” “We tried that once; it didn’t work,” “Nothing ever changes here,” and “If you’re smart, you’ll get out and never come back,” they start to believe that narrative long before they can drive, vote, or own property. Our words are writing a script for them, and that script often says: there is no future for you here. Then we’re surprised—and hurt—when they graduate, leave, and don’t come back.

Over time, I’ve noticed that every community, including ours, has NIMBYs and CAVE people, and if I’m honest, most of us have probably taken a turn being one. NIMBY stands for “Not In My Back Yard.” These are the folks (and sometimes I hear this voice in my own head) who say, “Sure, we need more housing… but not near my street,” or “We need child care… but not that center near my house,” or “We need business growth… but not that building, not that traffic, not that noise.” They agree in theory that we need progress—just somewhere else, preferably out of sight. Then there are the CAVE people: “Citizens Against Virtually Everything.” They’re experts at spotting the downside of any idea. A park upgrade? That’ll just bring vandalism. A new event? No one will come. A new business? It’ll fail like the last one. I honestly believe most NIMBYs and CAVE people are trying to protect what they love about their town. But the message our young people hear is, “You can’t try anything new here. We’ll shut it down before it starts.” You don’t build a future by telling the next generation, “We’re against virtually everything you might want to do.”

At the same time, I have to be honest about the quiet math of rural decline, because I see it in our numbers and in our neighborhoods. Rural population loss isn’t usually a dramatic collapse; it’s a slow drip. It’s a few more funerals than baby showers each year. It’s a graduating class where half leave for college or work and only a handful return. It’s a couple of businesses that close when their owners retire and no one’s ready to take their place. That’s attrition—no big scandal, no sudden disaster, just fewer people this year than last year. And when we layer a negative narrative on top of that, when our kids hear that staying is “settling” and coming back is “failing,” we’re basically packing their bags for them.

I sometimes stop and ask myself, “What are our kids actually hearing?” When we say, “Property taxes are too high; nothing ever gets better,” they hear, “Investing here is a bad idea.” When we say, “This town’s done. I’m just waiting to retire and get out,” they hear, “If I stay, I’ve done something wrong.” When we grumble, “These kids don’t want to work; they all just want to leave,” they hear, “They don’t want us here anyway.” We can’t complain that young people are “checked out” if we’ve already told them—through our words and attitudes—that this place is not worth checking into.

I’m not interested in putting a fake smile on any of this. Our kids can spot a fake a mile away. What I believe they need from us is honest hope. That sounds like, “Yes, we’ve lost some businesses—but here’s what’s starting.” Or, “Yes, we need more housing—here’s what’s being worked on.” Or, “Yes, things have changed—here’s how you could help shape what’s next.” We can talk about problems without rehearsing a funeral. We can admit what’s hard while still saying, “There is a future here, and you are part of it.”

When I think about how we get our young people to stay or come back, I don’t think they’re expecting perfection. They’re looking for a sense of belonging (“These are my people”), a path to build a life (jobs, careers, or a chance to start a business), and a voice in what happens next. If we really want them here, we have to invite them into real conversations, not just pose them for student-of-the-month pictures. That means giving them seats at tables where decisions are made—youth councils, advisory boards, internships that come with an actual voice. It also means backing their first attempts. When a young person starts a side hustle, opens a food truck, or launches a community event, we can either be their first customers or their first critics. They will remember which one we chose. We need to show them real career paths here—through job shadowing, tours of local businesses, internships at hospitals, schools, manufacturers, banks, and small businesses—so they can say, “I didn’t know I could do that here,” and mean it. And when they do choose to stay or come back, we need to celebrate those wins as loudly as we celebrate scholarships and send-offs.

There’s another group on my mind too: retirees who grew up here, left, and are now deciding where to spend their later years. They’re wondering where they want their grandkids to visit, where they feel known and safe, and where their retirement dollars will stretch while they stay connected. We can attract them back by making sure our communities are truly livable for all ages: walkable main streets, safe neighborhoods, convenient access to health care and groceries, and things to do that don’t all shut down at 5 p.m. We also have to invite them to plug in, not just sit on the porch. Retirees bring experience, mentoring, and often some financial resources. They can serve on boards, support scholarships, volunteer in schools, and invest in local projects—if we remember to ask.

As I look around, I keep coming back to a question: are we being protectors or gatekeepers? There’s a fine line between loving a place and guarding it so tightly that no new ideas can breathe. NIMBYs and CAVE people often see themselves as protectors—of peace, of safety, of tradition. But if we block new housing, new childcare, new businesses, and new community projects, we aren’t protecting the future—we’re preserving the past in a way that leaves nothing for our kids but memories and empty buildings. Protectors say, “Let’s grow carefully.” Gatekeepers say, “Let’s not grow at all.” Our kids can feel the difference.

So, here’s the test I’d like to invite you to take. The next time you’re sitting on a front porch, at the ball field, on the bleachers, or around a coffee table talking about our community, ask yourself: Would I want my child or grandchild to build a life in the place I’m describing? Do my words make them proud to be from here—or eager to escape? If a young person overheard this conversation, would they feel invited into the future or pushed out of it? We can’t control every economic trend or demographic chart. But we can control the story we tell about this place we call home. The story you tell today becomes the decision they make tomorrow: to leave, to stay, or—just maybe—to come back, sit on the front porch, and start telling a better story of their own.