Sometimes, you travel to a town to scope the activation of a youth hub, and instead, you arrive in a community still in shock.
When I arrived in Deniliquin for the first visit to explore the activation of a youth hub, the town was responding to the devastating fire that had severely damaged the local high school. Two young people had been arrested. Students were displaced across different locations. Daily routines had been broken overnight.
School trophies, photographs, and decades of memories had turned to ashes.
Grief, anger, confusion, and uncertainty were present everywhere.
In moments like this, youth work can not be abstract or rushed. It can not be disconnected from what people are actually carrying.
Very quickly, it became clear that the youth hub was not simply a nice-to-have community project. It was part of the town’s recovery infrastructure – a place where safety, connection, and youth participation could slowly begin to rebuild.
Wearing two hats on purpose
In Deniliquin, I was intentionally working through two lenses at the same time.
The first was a community development lens – mapping strengths, building relationships, respecting cultural leadership, and identifying the possibilities already alive within the town. The aim was to move beyond service delivery and towards shared ownership and community momentum.
The second was a critical incident and recovery lens – paying attention to the emotional climate, supporting people to stay human during a destabilising moment, and helping create a relational space where collaboration could still happen while the community was processing grief and disruption.
These roles do not compete with each other. They strengthen each other.
In post-incident contexts, separating recovery from development often slows communities down. People do not need to be fixed first before they can contribute.
Healing and agency grow together.
Moving at the speed of trust
The work in Deniliquin was never about opening a building as quickly as possible. It was about asking better questions.
What history already lives in this space?
Who has been holding the weight in the community?
What youth spaces already exist in town? Who are they designed for, and when are they accessible to young people?
How can this hub become genuinely youth-led and community-owned?
How do we avoid assuming what young people need and instead ask them properly?
Simple Methods, Real Participation
Throughout the visit, we used simple co-design approaches – butcher’s paper on the walls, image prompts on the floor, and informal conversations around tables.
These are not complicated methods. But they work because they create safety. They warm people up. They invite participation without pressure.
At one point, the conversation turned to food. Young people might come simply to grab something to eat. Then stay a little longer. Then help cook. Eventually, they begin contributing ideas, energy, and leadership.
Participation rarely starts with programs.
It starts with belonging.
A principle I kept returning to during the visit was simple: move at the speed of trust.
Not because urgency is unimportant, but because skipping the relational groundwork always costs more later. Sometimes, moving slowly at the beginning allows a community to move further and faster in the long run.
Holding grief without letting it harden
One of the most important moments during the visit came when school leadership openly named the exhaustion and grief staff were carrying.
Not only from the loss of buildings but from the loss of memories, milestones, and stability that the school represented.
Naming this mattered.
It allowed the room to remain human rather than rushing immediately into solutions. It also helped prevent pain from quietly hardening into blame or deficit narratives about young people.
In the days following the fire, public conversations about youth had already begun to sharpen. Part of my role was to gently interrupt narratives that collapse complexity and turn young people into problems.
From both a recovery and community development perspective, the work is always about locating the health that still exists within the system – the relationships, the care, the leadership, the willingness of people to keep showing up, even when things feel shaken.
A soft activation
Instead of waiting until everything was fully finished, we opted for a soft activation of the youth hub space.
The room was not polished. But it was open.
Music played. Creative materials were placed around the space. People wandered in and out. Conversations started naturally.
Young people arrived curious.
Curiosity is often the first doorway back into connection.
Food, creativity, and the simple permission to linger are often far more important than formal program schedules. They help regulate nervous systems and allow relationships to grow.
A youth hub is not built through furniture and timetables.
It is built through presence.
Collective agency, not hero projects
One of the strongest signals of progress came during a reflective practice circle with practitioners from across the community the next day.
Using images and strengths-based prompts, people began naming the strengths helping them stay steady during a difficult time, the gifts they could offer young people and the hub, and what it would take to genuinely centre youth voice and participation.
By the end of the conversation, something had shifted.
People were no longer simply discussing the project. They were offering their time, skills, presence, and ideas.
They felt touched, connected, and committed.
That matters.
Participation culture grows through contribution and shared meaning, not through recruitment alone. Youth hubs are strongest when they are not carried by one hero, one service, or one perfect plan, but by a network of good hosts who help others step in, contribute, and belong.
What youth hubs are really about
The experience in Deniliquin reinforced something I have seen in many communities.
Youth hubs do not succeed because of buildings and funding alone, even though those things matter. They succeed when:
young people are treated as leaders and contributors, not just clients or passive recipients
community narratives shift from deficit to dignity
leadership, responsibility, and governance are shared
reflective practice is embedded to keep the work human, grounded, and responsive
creativity, food, and relationships are allowed to lead the way
In this sense, a youth hub is more than a building.
It becomes a third space. A relational oasis. A participation practice.
A place where young people are recognised as capable, creative, and worth investing in – especially after difficult moments.
We are the village
During the visit, an Elder shared a simple reflection:
It takes a village to raise a child. And it takes a village to activate and run a youth centre.
That stayed with me.
Perhaps that is the deeper invitation behind any youth hub project. Not just: what are we building? But: who are we becoming?
How do we work together so that no single agency carries the work alone? How do we share leadership, responsibility, and governance? How do we widen the circle – inviting community members, youth leaders, and local organisations to help guide the direction of the hub?
Who is joining us?
And how are we creating the conditions for young people to feel that this place truly belongs to them – not just as participants, but as stewards of the space?
Perhaps the clearest signal of hope came from a young person during a circle who simply said:
“I feel hopeful when I see you adults care.”
That is where participation begins.
That is where collaboration grows.
And sometimes, that is where hope returns.
Soulgen 
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