My Love-Hate Relationship with Lobbying

I have long been uneasy with the idea of lobbying. In its broadest sense, lobbying refers to the practice of individuals or organizations meeting with elected officials or their staff to advocate for specific legislation, policies, or budget priorities — an attempt by people hired by industries or corporations to influence how government decisions are made. For me, the term evokes images of powerful industries, private meetings, and influence that is purchased rather than actually earned. It is not how I have imagined meaningful political change taking place, nor how I ever expected to engage with the political process myself. 

Nevertheless, recently, I found myself walking the halls of the Massachusetts State House doing precisely that.

I Went Lobbying

On April 24, I participated in a youth lobbying day dedicated to gun violence prevention, alongside Team Enough, the Brady Campaign, and the Massachusetts Coalition to Prevent Gun Violence. The people I met from these organizations are incredible and obviously deeply committed to protecting young people. To be honest, I was worried that we — the youth — would be used primarily as a symbol to advance predetermined policy goals. In some ways, that concern wasn’t unfounded; our presence did help underscore the urgency of these issues. But that was not how the experience felt from the inside. Rather than leaving as a prop, I left with relationships and points of contact — people I could follow up with, ask questions of, and continue engaging with beyond a single day at the State House. This experience felt different.

We arrived at the state house with two specific policy requests for our representatives: support for two pieces of legislation and a set of Fiscal Year 2027 (FY27) budget line items designed to prevent violence before it occurs, particularly among youth and young adults. The policies we advocated for rest on the same fundamental premise: Effective gun violence prevention begins long before a crime is committed. Rather than relying solely on punishment after harm has occurred, these measures prioritize early intervention through community-based programs, stable employment opportunities, youth services, reentry support, and sustained care for those most directly affected by violence. At their core, they reflect a commitment to investment over incarceration and prevention over reaction. 

I didn’t expect lobbying itself to change my thinking — but I didn’t expect to be changed by the experience either. I did not expect to be persuaded by the experience itself, nor did I expect to feel any sense of belonging within those corridors of power in the State House. Yet there I was, moving from office to office, advocating for specific policies with tangible consequences, because the stakes felt too high to remain on the sidelines. And I understand critiquing political processes from a distance can feel principled. I critique the political process constantly, and more often than not, I feel deeply disillusioned by it. But I am not sure that change could happen any other way.

When we were there, staff told us that the budgets would be essentially finalized next week, so it was good that we came when we did, while the staff was still raising priorities with the representatives. The urgency of the day was shaped by Massachusetts’s position in the FY27 budget process. For those who don’t know (like me until very recently), the state budget unfolds in stages, and those stages largely determine which proposals are viable. Based on conversations with State House staffers during my visit, the process begins with Governor Maura Healey, who files her budget early in the year, typically in January or February. By the time this proposal is released, it will have already established the boundaries of what legislators are encouraged to consider feasible. Several staffers described this initial budget as necessarily fiscally conservative, meaning that programs not prioritized early on often face significant obstacles to expansion later.

Following the governor’s proposal, the budget moves to the House, where deliberations intensify in the spring, before proceeding to the Senate in the summer. By the time competing versions of the budget are reconciled much of the substantive decision-making has already occurred — weeks or months before any final votes. That reality was made unmistakably clear during our time at the State House. So for us, if the gun violence prevention initiatives are to be taken seriously, advocacy must happen early, while priorities are still being shaped, rather than after they have solidified.

Raising these concerns now — while staff offices are still tracking priorities for the upcoming budget, gauging constituent interest, and deciding what to push for internally — felt like one of the few moments when advocacy could meaningfully shape the outcome. Even if my understanding of the process is imperfect, the message we heard repeatedly was clear: This was the moment when speaking up mattered most.

Do I Hate Lobbying?

My skepticism toward lobbying stems from the image most of us carry of what the practice represents. I think of powerful, evil, corporate interests — Big Oil, Big Pharma — deploying teams of highly paid professionals to safeguard their profits, often in direct opposition to public health and the well-being of the communities most affected by their actions. I also tend to associate lobbying primarily with federal politics, which only heightens my discomfort due to the current state of the American polity.

At that scale, the process feels incredibly remote and deeply transactional. When I think about lobbyists, they are portrayed as individuals earning staggering salaries, moving seamlessly between government offices and private firms, or leveraging connections that remain inaccessible to most citizens. It is a political ecosystem that appears designed to insulate power rather than invite participation of the people. 

Going into the experience, I genuinely did not know what to expect. I had little sense of what lobbying might look like for someone without institutional backing, financial resources, or a political title — someone present simply because they cared about an issue. I assumed it would feel artificial, staged, or even cynical. At best, I anticipated feeling peripheral and out of place.

That expectation, as it turned out, was only partly accurate.

Yes, I Hate Lobbying

The experience of lobbying at the State House differed markedly from what I had anticipated. We went on a Friday, when the building was relatively quiet, and most of our meetings were with legislative staffers rather than the elected officials themselves — a distinction that quickly felt less important than I had assumed. At first, I was frustrated that we didn’t meet directly with elected representatives. But I quickly realized that legislative staffers are often the ones who do the day‑to‑day work of shaping policy, and meeting with them is frequently how advocacy actually moves forward. By the end of the day, I left with an even greater respect for the central role they play in the political process. 

The group itself reflected a wide cross-section of students from across Massachusetts, including students from Smith College; the University of Massachusetts, Amherst; Harvard University; and Amherst College. Despite our different campuses and backgrounds, we arrived with a shared purpose and a shared set of policy goals. That common focus gave the day a collaborative, earnest tone.

What stood out most was the seriousness with which staffers engaged with us, particularly after learning that we had traveled from Western Massachusetts. Several offices noted that it can be difficult for constituents from outside the Boston area to make the trip to the State House, and because of that, they underscored how much they valued hearing from us in person. It was affirming to realize that showing up was important especially when advocating on behalf of an issue I care deeply about.

Before I continue, it is important to acknowledge the limits of this experience. What I encountered at the State House was my first exposure to lobbying, and it took place in a very specific context: as an unpaid student, advocating for policies I personally believe in, and largely sharing why these measures matter to me and to the communities they are meant to serve. That experience should not be mistaken for lobbying in its more powerful and entrenched forms. Much of what dominates public concern about lobbying — well-funded industry actors exerting sustained pressure to advance private interests at the expense of the public good — remains ethically troubling and deeply influential. My experience does not negate those realities; it merely coexists alongside them. If anything, it shows how asymmetrical the system is.

In Amherst, our representatives are State Senator Jo Comerford and State Representative Mindy Domb. I had met both briefly in the past, but during this visit we worked closely with their staff, who were thoughtful, attentive, and clearly invested in the concerns of their constituents. Across offices, the conversations felt far removed from the caricature of lobbying I had internalized. Rather than pushing scripted messages, we were explaining why a particular issue mattered to us and why the policies we supported could have tangible effects. 

The meetings themselves were surprisingly brief — often no more than fifteen minutes. You introduce yourself, outline your ask, respond to a few questions, and then move quickly on to the next office. That pace was initially jarring, but it was also clarifying. There is little room for rambling or abstraction. Each conversation demands precision: clarity about what you are asking for, and why it matters.

But You Should Lobby

By the end of the day, what struck me most was how ordinary the experience felt — like I was just having a conversation. And, almost reluctantly, I began to recognize that this, too, might fall under the broad definition of lobbying: engagement driven by presence and conviction.

That difference in scale — between Washington and Beacon Hill — ended up mattering more than I had anticipated. Like many people of my generation, I have grown deeply disillusioned with federal politics, a sentiment sharpened by the Trump administration. At the national level, the system feels vast and largely immovable. Decisions are tangled in partisanship, media spectacle, and money, leaving individual voices — particularly those of young people — feeling marginal, if not entirely irrelevant.

State politics, by contrast, feels closer to everyday life. At the State House, I was not leaving a voicemail for a congressional office with no expectation of follow-up. I was seated across from someone whose responsibility it is to listen to constituents, take their concerns seriously, and bring those perspectives into active discussions about legislation and budgets. The distance between speaking and being heard felt noticeably shorter.

In Massachusetts, participation in this felt less like shouting into a void and more like applying pressure to something that could actually move. That realization has forced me to rethink my own habits of political engagement. Last fall, I wrote about the importance of showing up at the local level — calling town council members, attending municipal meetings, paying attention to decisions made close to home. That advice still stands. 

But it no longer stops there. State senators and representatives shape budgets and policies that directly affect people’s lives, and they are far more accessible than we often assume. Calling their offices, emailing their staff, and making concerns heard is not performative — it is part of how the system is meant to work. Right now, with so much at stake, choosing to participate matters more than choosing to stay comfortably cynical.