By Mónica Roa, Puentes
In the first part of this blog, I explored how the narrative of interconnection can serve as an antidote to authoritarianism by challenging fear-based stories that fragment society and erode solidarity. But if we want this narrative to transform not just how we understand the world but also how we inhabit and change it, we need to go a step further. It’s not enough to recognize that everything is connected. As agents of change, we must go beyond that realization by expanding the circles of identity, care, and solidarity. Only then can we build narratives that shape a ”larger we”: stories capable of activating and aligning those who already share our values and worldview, attracting flexible audiences, and countering antagonistic hate and division-based narratives.
In this second part, I share a set of narrative practices designed to surface the existing and potential connections between movements, territories, approaches, and new audiences—connections that can help shape that “larger we.”
How do we narrate a “larger we”?
For agents of change, building the narrative of a “larger we” requires changing the way we tell our own stories: Who are we? What kind of society do we want to build? What stories do we want others to tell about our efforts to transform the world? We need new narrative frameworks that help us grow our networks—frameworks that cultivate empathy, point toward a shared horizon, and make room for new forms of organization.
It’s about generating new perspectives that widen the lens, weaving together the “I” and the “we,” my social identity and our collective potential, my home and our public spaces, my organization and our movements, my cause and our future, the land I live on and the world we want to build.
Every act of recognition and care for someone or something we previously saw as separate, grounded in shared values, has the power to inspire others to join in and expand those connections. In this way, step by step, we begin weaving a broader, more inclusive, and mobilizing “us.” To help advance this path, I offer five narrative practices as concrete tools for building that ”larger we.”
1. Creating Connection Through Shared Values
Human rights defenders have traditionally grounded their identity in denouncing injustices. However, creating “a larger we” requires going further—it’s not enough to point out what’s wrong with the world; we must imagine and build, collectively, a different future. Co-creating narratives based on shared values is the tool that enables us to articulate those visions. Within these new narratives, differences are integrated into a broader story, where the diversity of experiences, and perspectives is seen as a source of richness, not fragmentation. These are stories in which everyone can see themselves reflected and also find a shared horizon.
Anat Shenker-Osorio shows how narrative strategies can expand the boundaries of collective identity, creating a “larger us” that includes those directly affected by injustice and also attracts wider audiences. Instead of portraying marginalized groups as “others” in need of control or protection, she connects their well-being to broadly shared aspirations, repositioning their struggles as integral to other causes and to the common good. For example, in her campaign for trans children’s rights, she doesn’t just defend trans kids directly but offers a narrative grounded in broadly shared values. One message says: “Whether we’re black, white or brown, native or newcomer, transgender or not, we all want our kids to have the freedom to be themselves and follow their dreams without being boxed in.” Another states: “Across race, background, and gender, most of us want our children to be free to learn, be themselves, and grow up healthy and safe.”
These messages build an inclusive vision of the desired future, inviting people of all races, genders, and classes to see their own hopes reflected and to recognize themselves as co-creators of a more just society. By placing marginalized identities within shared aspirations—like freedom, dignity, and safety—these narratives shift perceptions, foster empathy, and mobilize broader coalitions for change.
One of the most powerful lessons we’ve learned at Puentes is that when agents of change reflect on what their dreamed world would look like, their visions tend to be surprisingly similar—regardless of their cause or original location. As Brett Davidson proposes in one of his blogs, we need to reorganize our work away from thematic or geographic divisions toward new conceptual containers—structures that are, by nature, integrative and cross-cutting. One way to do this is to build our strategies, programs, and budgets not around the injustices we want to eradicate, but around the visions of the world we want to bring into being.
Our experience at Puentes through the Narrative Exploration Awards illustrates this well. We identify and make explicit the values shared among movements and regions and use them as narrative containers—to be filled with stories coming from diverse voices, causes, styles, and formats that converge on a common value.
In 2023, through the Inspiratorio—our training platform for narrative work—we used dignity as a container. We brought together abortion rights activists in Brazil, families of the disappeared in Mexico, afro-descendant women in Uruguay, trans Nicaraguan migrants in El Salvador, domestic workers from Chile and Argentina, and indigenous water guardians in Ecuador, among others, to share stories about what dignity means to each of them and to listen to what it means to others.
We’ve done something similar with “Families: Now”—our platform aimed at reclaiming the narrative around families—by working around the value of care, and with CREO—our platform focused on building a new narrative around faith—using shared humanity as the narrative anchor.
This year, as I shared in a previous blog, we’ll be exploring interconnection as the cross-cutting value-container across all our platforms, and we invite other networks and change agents to join the effort to position it as a narrative pillar on which we can build an alternative imaginary—one capable of becoming an antidote to authoritarianism. If you’re reading this blog, the invitation is also for you.
2. Deconstruct the Isolated “I”
Many of the stories we tell about ourselves revolve around the idea of the self-made individual—as if our achievements were the result of purely personal merit. This practice challenges that narrow framing, making visible how our identities are deeply interwoven with those of other people, generations, places, and systems. It calls us to move beyond neoliberal narratives of personal or institutional heroism toward stories where goals are achieved collectively, highlighting the interdependence that truly sustains progress and learning.
Even the most “successful” person—the kind we often imagine as having “made it on their own”—has always been held up by a web of support. As a child, they were likely cared for, fed, cleaned, and clothed—often by women—until they could care for themselves. They were educated by relatives, teachers, friends, and mentors who passed on the values, knowledge, and skills that shaped them. Their survival has depended on the natural environment—on air, food, water, and warmth—without which they could not have lived. They’ve benefited from collectively built social systems—education, healthcare, transportation, public infrastructure—that gave them opportunities and security. Their journey has been shaped by artistic and cultural expressions that inspired, entertained, or challenged them. They were loved, rejected, accompanied, and confronted by those who shared their path. What looks like a tale of individual heroism is, in truth, filled with footnotes pointing to the web of life that made it possible.
Likewise, no individual changemaker, organization, or strategy can, on its own, bring about the deep social transformation we seek. Just as no one is formed in isolation, real change doesn’t happen in separation either. It’s woven collectively—through the articulation of multiple actors, approaches, territories, and capacities that may have different priorities, but share underlying values and visions. The injustices we face aren’t isolated either: the precaritization of life, political exclusion, racial, gender, and territorial violence, and the socio-ecological crisis are all deeply intertwined. As Audre Lorde taught us, we do not live single-issue lives.
Berta Cáceres, the Indigenous Lenca leader from Honduras, embodied this deeply collective vision of the world and social change. Through COPINH (Civic Council of Popular and Indígenous Organizations of Honduras), the organization she co-founded, she linked indigenous demands with peasant struggles for territorial sovereignty, the defense of water as a sacred common good, and a feminist critique of patriarchy, racism, and extractivism. Her leadership wasn’t built on individual heroism, but on community weaving and collective political action. That’s why, when she was assassinated in 2016 for defending her territory against corporate and state interests, the rallying cry “Berta didn’t die, she multiplied” captured that vision: Berta was never just one person—she was many, and her struggle lives on in every body and territory that resists.
3. Make Common Stories Visible
Often, connections between communities or movements already exist, but they remain invisible or fragmented in dominant narratives. A key narrative practice for building a “larger we” is to surface and share stories of cooperation—stories in which people, causes, or collectives that seemed distant end up sharing values, emotions, or goals. The film Pride, in which UK-based LGBT activists support striking miners during the 1984 National Union of Mineworkers strike, illustrates this perfectly.
Another powerful example is Argentina’s legalization of abortion in 2020, which showed how social movements can broaden the “we” by organizing around shared values. In this case, the trans movement actively supported the feminist struggle, not only by joining the fight for bodily autonomy, but also by transforming the scope of the demand. Argentina became the first country in the world to pass an abortion law that explicitly includes trans men and non-binary people with the capacity to get pregnant. This expansion of the legal subject wasn’t symbolic—it was the direct result of a collective effort that dared to imagine a policy where rights are granted to those who need them.
The Green Tide movement offers another example of expansive connection. By adopting the green bandana as a symbol—reclaiming the white scarves of the Mothers and Grandmothers of Plaza de Mayo—the movement for legal abortion in Argentina created a powerful, shared symbol that quickly transcended borders. By 2020, the green bandana had become a visible, everyday symbol across the country, allowing supporters to recognize themselves as part of a shared “green we.” After the legislative victory, the Green Tide spread across Latin America, linking struggles for decriminalization in different territories. Even in some places of the U.S., the bandana has been adopted as a symbol of resistance after Roe v. Wade was overturned—consolidating a shared visual and political language that connects geographies, generations, and efforts around a common cause.
A more recent and surprising example from Argentina unfolded just weeks ago during a protest by retirees against President Javier Milei’s “chainsaw plan” of sweeping social cutbacks. In the midst of police repression, a retired man wearing the jersey of his soccer team, Chacarita Juniors, was brutally beaten. The image and his story went viral, sparking a wave of solidarity among fans from rival teams and social movements alike. What began as shared outrage over police brutality turned into a broader mobilization in defense of retirees’ rights, with unexpected alliances between soccer fans, unions, and retirees. It showed how solidarity can grow from shared pain into a collective vision of the role of the State in shaping people’s lives.
4. Separating Problems from People’s Essence
A key practice for expanding the “us” is to avoid defining people either by the problematic behaviors they display or by the unjust conditions they face. It’s not the same to say “you are sexist” as to say “that behavior is sexist.” The former pins a person’s identity to the problem, putting them on the defensive and shutting down reflection; the latter opens the door to a conversation where transformation is possible.
The same applies to generalizations about social groups. Saying that young people are apathetic traps an entire generation in a disempowering category. But if we recognize that they are victims of algorithms optimized to maximize, monopolize, and monetize their attention, we understand the problem better and can address it without blaming those affected. This distinction is not just a courtesy —it is a strategic tool for expanding connections, opening dialogue, and offering people the opportunity to change and help transform the world around them.
This same tactic helps us neutralize many dehumanizing narratives. For example, trans people are often portrayed as inherently problematic. But if we tell stories about how many of them have faced unjust expulsion from their families, exclusion from health and education systems, and the need to survive in extremely precarious and violent conditions, we can shift our understanding of the issue. In doing so, we can also change the narrative by highlighting how, despite it all, trans people have demonstrated an astonishing capacity to build networks of solidarity, care, and resilience. In this way, trans people are no longer a problematic “them” and begin to be part of the “us” that longs for a life with dignity, rights, and love.
5. Fostering Active Hope and Collective Agency
A powerful ingredient in creating a continuously expanding “us” is active hope. It’s not just about imagining a better future—it’s about tangibly feeling that we can achieve it if we organize and work together. Active hope is not mobilized by fear or resignation, but by the joy of being part of something larger than oneself. From this perspective, the narrative task is to tell stories that remind us that change is not only necessary but possible—and to invite us to savor the joy of collectively building the world we want. That way, people don’t just choose to join the “us,” they actively expand and strengthen it, driven by the certainty that it’s worth the effort.
I recently watched a documentary series about wildlife in Asia. The final episode told a story that struck me as the perfect example of what it means to build “a larger we.”
The protagonist is a dentist in a small village in Bhutan, near a forest inhabited by orangutans. Although the people in her community wanted to protect the forest and its inhabitants, poverty forced them to cut down trees to sell for a few coins to survive and meet basic needs. She saw this contradiction and had a brilliant idea: she offered her patients the option to pay part of their dental treatments with seedlings they had sprouted at home. She also accepted chainsaws as payment.
With the small trees grown by the community, they reforested the orangutan’s habitat. But most importantly, the community stopped feeling like part of the problem and became protagonists of the solution. The project not only regenerated the forest but also renewed the sense of pride and belonging among its inhabitants. It was so successful that the dentist opened a new health center on a nearby island. She started with fewer than ten people, and now more than ninety are involved. Their “we” keeps expanding. I’m sure it will grow even more as others, like me, watch that story and feel the spark of active hope that sustains it.
The “larger we” emerges precisely from alliances that transcend divisions and enable collective action in the face of shared challenges. This construction is only possible with hope-driven narratives that, while honestly acknowledging painful and unjust realities, are also capable of presenting a horizon that inspires and mobilizes. These narratives don’t deny pain or anger—they transform them into fuel for action, showing that another future is possible if we work together to build it.
Thomas Coombes has developed a proposal for creating hope-based communications, turning hope into a strategic resource that emphasizes what’s already working—without ignoring or ceasing to fight against injustices. It is a political tool that combats resignation and mobilizes communities by turning them from passive bystanders into architects of change.
Coombes’ manual suggests five narrative shifts: (1) prioritize solutions over problems; (2) replace fear paralysis with the energy of hope; (3) state explicitly what we aspire to build, not just what we oppose, (4) see each threat as also an opportunity to mobilize and strengthen alliances; and (5) portray people not only as victims, but as full subjects with agency, capable of resisting, caring, imagining, and building futures.
In conclusion, expanding the “we” is an exercise in radical imagination. It means moving beyond thematic or identity labels to situate ourselves in shared ground, where common values help us recognize each other across our differences. This ethical and political commitment requires deconstruction, recognition, creation, and collective action. It’s not enough to name the connections—we need to activate them, nurture them, and deepen them. Narrative work invites us to create stories that not only reflect the world as it is, but open up the possibility for it to be different. In a world shaped by individualism and competition—where survival depends on being stronger than others—we bet on another kind of world: one where connection among people, causes, and territories strengthens us all. A vision that makes possible what would be unthinkable in isolation. A narrative that activates bonds, summons alliances, and restores our ability to dream a different world—and to make it real.
Originally posted on LinkedIn where it is available in Spanish and Portuguese.