Welcome to another StoryCenter Commons event! Today, we’re diving into the world of podcasting—not just as a medium for storytelling, but as a powerful tool for building community.

I had the pleasure of hosting two incredible voices in the podcasting space: Michelle Dahlenburg, an applied theater artist and audio producer based in Austin, Texas, and Bojan Fürst, a journalist and rural issues podcaster from Newfoundland, Canada. Though they come from different backgrounds, their shared passion for storytelling and deep listening made this conversation electric.

We explored:

How podcasting creates intimate connections between strangers.
The ethics of interviewing—especially when working with vulnerable communities.
Why the human voice is uniquely powerful in storytelling.
How their StoryCenter workshop fosters creativity and camaraderie.

Below are highlights from our discussion, edited for clarity.

Introductions: Two Storytellers, Two Paths

Rennie’s River | © 2020–2021 Bojan Fürst

Bojan Fürst (he/him) grew up in Croatia, moved to Canada at 18, and fell into journalism. His podcast, Rural Roots, amplifies voices from rural Canada—a space he felt was overlooked in media.

"When we started Rural Roots, we interviewed four women returning to family farms. After hearing each other’s stories, they asked to connect. That’s the magic of podcasting—it builds bridges."

Michelle Dahlenburg (she/her) is a theater artist and audio producer whose work spans mental health advocacy, documentary, and even live storytelling shows like Mortified Austin.

"I’ve been recording people since I was a kid. My first ‘podcast’ was me interviewing my baby brother on a pink tape recorder—capturing his cries and my commentary, ‘Brett is such a brat!’ (Sorry, Brett.)"

Michelle’s Most Recent Effort
On Apple Podcast

The Power of Audio: Why Podcasting Builds Community

Joe: Both of you work with voices often left out of mainstream narratives. How does podcasting create community, even when people listen alone?

Bojan:

"There’s something primal about hearing a human voice tell a story. It’s not woo-woo—we’re hardwired for this. When we did Rural Roots, we’d interview someone in Ontario and someone in Prince Edward Island who’d never met, but their struggles mirrored each other. After hearing an episode, they’d ask to connect. That’s when I realized: the microphone isn’t just a recorder—it’s a matchmaker. These weren’t just ‘listeners’—they were people who heard their own lives reflected back and thought: I need to talk to this stranger who gets it."

Michelle:

"During the Texas freeze, I asked neighbors: What object will always remind you of that week? One woman talked about a rice cooker she used to melt snow for water. Another described the bucket his kid used to flush the toilet. These weren’t trauma interviews—they were about resilience. Later, at a listening party, people pointed at each other saying, You’re the bucket guy! That’s when the neighborhood became a community. Podcasting does that: it turns you into us."

The Sacred Space of an Interview

Joe: What makes a good interview? How do you create trust?

Michelle:

"It’s a sacred space. Even if the topic is lighthearted, you’re saying, Your story matters. I prepare questions but stay open—where does this person want to go? It’s like stepping onto a stage together. There’s this unspoken contract: I will hold your truth with care. When I interviewed Brandi about her mental health recovery, she compared herself to her rescue dog—both survivors learning to trust love again. That metaphor came because we had 20 minutes of quiet first, just letting her pet the dog while she found the words. The best moments happen when you stop performing and start being—when the mic disappears and it’s just two humans in a room."

Bojan:

"My journalism professor once said, If your question is longer than 30 seconds, you’re lecturing, not listening. I’ve never forgotten that. When I documented reconciliation in Croatia, survivors would start with rehearsed answers. But when I asked tiny questions—What did the train station smell like that day?—their voices changed. That’s the alchemy: helping someone tell a story they’ve told a hundred times like it’s the first time. And afterward? You carry their story like a sacred debt. Editing isn’t just cutting tape—it’s stewardship."

Ethics & Vulnerability: Handling Sensitive Stories

Joe: How do you ethically share stories about trauma or marginalized experiences?

Michelle:

"With our mental health project, we made a rule: no gratuitous trauma. One participant living with schizophrenia said, If I hear one more story about ‘the day I hit rock bottom,’ I’ll scream. So we focused on his morning routine—how he checks the weather to predict if his symptoms will flare. Mundane? Maybe. But that’s the point. Dignity lives in the ordinary. Our job isn’t to mine pain; it’s to say: Your whole life is worth recording."

Bojan:

"In journalism school, they teach you to never show sources their stories before airing. We broke that rule. For our opioid crisis episode, a man in recovery helped pick the music and even suggested edits. Was it ‘objective’? No. But it was right. These aren’t ‘sources’—they’re people handing you pieces of their lives. The least you can do is let them hold the scissors too."

Podcasting as a Tool for Change

Michelle shared an example from The Proximity Process, a podcast critiquing the foster care system:

"The Proximity Process podcast started as one social worker’s crisis of conscience. Every Monday, listeners would gather on Zoom to discuss episodes—not as fans, but as co-conspirators. Now those conversations have become The Imagination Factory, where they’re redesigning child welfare systems. That’s the secret: podcasts aren’t endpoints. They’re campfires where movements gather."

Joe:

Let’s talk about the heart of your workshop. When you bring people together for this class, what kind of community are you trying to build? Michelle, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Michelle:
"You know, Joe, it’s magical to watch what happens in these sessions. We gather this group of strangers—some seasoned storytellers, some terrified first-timers—and within hours, they become this tight-knit creative family. It’s the StoryCenter alchemy at work: we listen deeply, we share vulnerably, and suddenly we’re not just classmates—we’re co-conspirators in each other’s creative journeys.

There’s this beautiful rhythm to our classes. We always start with check-ins—not just ‘what are you working on?’ but ‘how are you really?’ Especially last session, when the world felt particularly chaotic with breaking news alerts constantly pinging on our phones, those opening circles became sacred. For two hours, we created this space where people could set down their burdens and just be present with stories. Not as activists or professionals, but as human beings remembering our shared humanity.

What’s extraordinary is watching students light up when they hear someone else’s project—the environmental journalist getting excited about the grandmother documenting family recipes, the therapist nodding along to the immigrant’s coming-of-age story. We cheer each other through technical hiccups and creative blocks. By the end, people aren’t just walking away with podcasting skills—they’re leaving with creative kin who’ll keep supporting them long after the class ends. That’s the real magic."

Bojan:
"Michelle’s absolutely right about that transformation. I always laugh remembering our first sessions—you can practically taste the nervous energy in the Zoom room. You’ve got this eclectic mix: a professor from California, a nurse from Newfoundland, an artist from Germany, all staring at their screens thinking ‘What have I signed up for?’ And then there’s me, this Croatian guy in the middle of the Atlantic, usually with a snowstorm raging outside my window while everyone else enjoys sunshine!

But here’s the beautiful part—by week three, something shifts. The woman who was too shy to unmute her mic is now leading breakout room discussions. The engineer who insisted ‘I’m not creative’ is editing tape with the flair of a radio dramatist. We become this temporary village where everyone brings their unique gifts. I’ll get emails months later: ‘Bojan, remember that episode I workshopped? It just went live—want to be my first listener?’

That’s why I teach this way. Sure, we cover microphone techniques and narrative structures, but what really matters is showing people they’re not alone in wanting to tell stories that matter. Whether it’s a professional podcaster or someone documenting their family history for the first time, they leave knowing there’s a whole community cheering them on. That’s the gift that keeps giving."

Final Thought: Why Stories Matter

Joe:

Final one liners for folks.

Bojan:

"The point isn’t the ‘point’—it’s the connection. A story doesn’t need a moral to be meaningful."

Michelle:

"When we listen deeply, we say: You’re not alone. That’s community."

Want to learn more? Join Michelle and Bojan’s StoryCenter Podcasting Workshop this July!

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity. If you are a alumi, you can listen to the full video recording on the StoryCenter Alumni Commons

Podcast as Community: A Conversation with Michelle Dahlenburg and Bojan Fürst

Introductions: Two Storytellers, Two Paths