The scene at the state capitol is familiar. A bill with homeschooling anywhere near it is under debate, and the hearing room fills with children – 3, 4, 5 per family, all under voting age – waiting for their 3 minutes to speak. 

 In those minutes, children carefully praise their parents’ sacrifice, describe homeschooling as the only life they have ever dreamed of, and urge legislators not to interfere. Some go on to list accomplishments, awards, and academic prowess, but they close with the same refrain – leave my parents alone. 

I believe in free speech. I believe government participation is for all constituents, regardless of age. I believe in participatory democracy, and that includes a voice before a vote. But I also believe in children’s rights, adult responsibility, and meaningful consent. 

So the question is unavoidable: where is the ethical line when children are brought into policy testimony by adults who hold nearly all of the authority in that child’s daily life?

A “voice before a vote” is not new in the advocacy world – it’s a tactic lots of nonprofits flex. I’ve done it myself, and am extraordinarily proud of the youth forward advocacy work I’ve done. I’ve walked through the Russell Senate building with teens from Benton Harbor to lobby Senator Slotkin for gun reform; I’ve sat on the capitol lawn in Lansing with middle schoolers for hours so we could catch Lieutenant Governor Gilchrist. 

How is this any different?  

There is a genuine difference between young people opting into an opportunity with a clear exit, without emotional, physical or financial consequence, versus an expectation set by children’s only authority figures. Young people can absolutely choose to be a part of projects that involve advocacy and their own stories in the contexts of clubs and projects and larger systems – but how is it actually a choice when there is no release valve?  This is the uncomfortable reality at the heart of the “voice before vote” concept: a child can have a voice and still not have meaningful agency. The power imbalance is inarguable (in fact, it’s one of the central dynamics emphasized by the parental right’s movement). If someone is a parent AND teacher AND coach, how does a child truly say no? Calling their participation voluntary requires us to ignore the very power dynamics that are praised by advocates of parental rights. 

In testimony, two parents presented a 7 year old to speak, telling legislators he was compelled to act independently of them. Whether or not the testimony reflected his own words – he could barely read the script in front of him – this raises the question of not whether a child can have an opinion, but whether a child of that age can independently evaluate a complex policy proposal, understand the long-term implications of public testimony, and make a true choice when the adults around him are so vested in the outcome. 

In another testimony, a tween-aged child sobbed through a deeply personal story about her anxiety surrounding attending school, stumbling over private anecdotes while her mother coached her to keep talking- while repeatedly looking toward legislators. 

Effective advocacy does demand personal connection, and emotional stories are compelling. We’re all hardwired to be especially compassionate when it comes to children’s words. But do we know that these children are actually opting in? What information, through what filter, have they received that would help them make the choice to support or oppose a bill? 

That tween’s testimony may have moved the audience, but I truly question the ethics of the entire circumstance. I would not ask my child to describe their anxiety issues in excruciating detail for a public audience – and on record forever – against a registration system that would simply require me to fill out a form. 

These children are testifying against more than registration systems, though. These children are testifying against the requirement for their parents to maintain records, against simple educational progression checkpoints, and against accessing sports and resources.. They’re even testifying against basic safety measures for public school children, their voices being used by authority figures to argue for policies that extend beyond them. 

In the most chilling testimony I heard this season, one child explained they didn’t want to go into public schools once every few years to take a state-required educational assessment because teachers would see the bruises on her arms (she had a lot from sports, she explained) and take her away from her homeschooling family. What was most troubling was not simply the claim itself, but that a child had been placed in the position of publicly arguing against safeguards designed to identify abuse and neglect in the most vulnerable constituents. 

Yes, children’s voices matter, but so does their agency. Children have a right to share their stories, and it is our responsibility as adults to provide that option – not require it. An ask without a clear, uncompromised exit is not an “ask”, it is a demand because of the power dynamic that will always exist when someone is parent, teacher, and connection all wrapped into one. 

I do not envy the legislators who sit through these hearings. They are weighing complex questions about child welfare and educational responsibility while facing an advocacy machine that knows exactly how to command attention: put children at the microphone. 

The answer is not to silence children. The answer is to shift whose voices are centered, and that is why the testimony of homeschool alumni is critical in these policy discussions. As adults who were once those homeschooled children, we can reflect on the experience of being homeschooled, and advocate for, against, or in a neutral stance without the influence that is undeniable in these common capitol scenes. We can look back with distance, complexity, and independence. We can affirm what worked, challenge what failed, and contribute to policy conversations without needing permission from the people who raised us. At the most basic level – we can freely discuss homeschooling without worrying about our parents driving us home. 

Some children may genuinely want to share their experiences, and those voices deserve respect. The ethical question is not whether children can have convictions; it is whether adults have created the conditions for those convictions to be expressed freely.

I know what the next state capitol scene will look like when homeschooling is on the docket. I also know we can name what is happening, uplift alumni perspectives, and ask elected decision makers to consider a fundamental ethical question: are we creating space for children to participate in democracy, or are we asking children to carry the weight of adult political battles? The measure of a child-centered movement is not how effectively it can put children behind a microphone. It is whether it protects their ability to speak freely – or to choose not to speak at all.