I almost walked right past her.
In the New York State Capitol on one of the final chaotic days of legislative session, that would have been easy to do.
Albany was buzzing with the familiar end-of-session frenzy. Lawmakers rushed between meetings and floor votes. Staffers darted through hallways carrying folders and talking points. Lobbyists crowded the corridors, trying to grab a few precious seconds with Assembly members before another bill moved, another amendment was offered, another political opportunity disappeared.
Outside the Assembly chamber, lobbyists were literally standing behind ropes like cattle at a livestock auction, waiting for lawmakers to emerge.
Some would hand security guards their business cards, in the hopes they could get a lawmaker's attention that way.
They leaned forward, checking phones, scanning faces, hoping to make contact. Their clients had priorities. Their organizations had agendas. Their causes had money behind them.
I was there to interview Assembly members Jodi Giglio and Joe DeStefano of Suffolk County.
Then everything got delayed.
The members I needed were stuck on the floor debating budget amendments. So I waited.
And because I waited, I finally noticed Sheila Blasch.
She stood alone at the bottom of a small flight of stairs. Hundreds of people streamed past her. Most never looked. I nearly didn't.
First, I noticed Sheila's burns.
Then I noticed her signs.
Then I noticed the rosary beads hanging from a badly scarred hand.
Most of all, I noticed what she wasn't doing.
Sheila wasn't chasing lawmakers. She wasn't cornering staffers. She wasn't demanding attention.
She wasn't saying a word. Not one word.
"Mostly I let the posters that I bring speak for themselves," she told me. Sheila surrounds herself with pro-life posters with messages meant to touch hearts and minds: that life is a precious gift to be protected, saved, and fought for.
While professional advocates worked every angle of the Capitol, Sheila's lobbying consisted entirely of the power of her presence.
More than four decades ago, in 1975, Sheila was traveling with her family in Cheektowaga, New York, the first suburb east of Buffalo. Her sister was about to be married, and the family was returning from the wedding rehearsal.
Along the way, her father made a small decision.
He loved airplanes. A new aircraft had recently arrived at the airport, and by taking a different route home, Sheila's brother would be able to get a look at it.
So they changed course.
A different road.
A different turn.
A different stoplight.
As the family sat at that red light, a drunk driver slammed into the back of their station wagon.
He never stopped.
The vehicle burst into flames.
Her mother was killed.
Sheila survived but suffered devastating burns that would alter the course of her life forever.
Standing there in the Capitol in Albany, rosary beads wrapped around a scarred hand, it struck me that if there is anyone standing in that building who understands how fragile life can be, it is Sheila Blasch.
What struck me wasn't simply her position on abortion and advocating for the unborn.
It was her conviction.
"I'm here because abortion is wrong. It's wrong," she told me.
Then she explained why she keeps coming back.
"When they passed the RHA (Reproductive Health Act), I realized that it's just such a horrible thing and that you can't just walk away."
She isn't trying to outspend anyone. She isn't trying to outmaneuver anyone.
She is trying to reach hearts.
"I actually pray for them," she told me, referring to legislators. "That's why I come down here also, is pray for conversions, to pray that people change their hearts and their minds."
Most activists spend their time trying to change votes.
Sheila talks about changing hearts.
"See that it's a life," she said. "Because if you understand that it's a human life and that it's expendable, then our society has gone so far down the wrong path."
What struck me was that Sheila wasn't there because she was being paid.
She wasn't representing a client.
She wasn't advancing a corporate interest.
Sheila was there because she believed she had a moral obligation to be there.
"There are thousands of people who come down here," she told me. "So I actually decided that it was a good place to come and witness for life."
And unlike the army of advocates standing behind velvet ropes, she wasn't looking for a few seconds of access to a lawmaker.
Again and again, she returned to something deeper.
"I don't talk to that many people," she told me. "On occasion, I do. Mostly I let the posters that I bring speak for themselves."
Witness.
That's the word that stayed with me.
Not protest.
Not lobbying.
Witness.
As lawmakers hurried by and lobbyists jockeyed for position, one woman stood alone with her scars, her rosary beads, and her belief that every human life has value.
Most people never stopped.
I almost didn't either. As a matter of fact, we made eye contact for a few seconds, I stopped to read her signs, then hurried towards the Assembly floor.
But there are no accidents.
A father decides to take a different road so his son can see an airplane.
A reporter gets delayed because lawmakers are stuck debating amendments.
A woman stands silently while hundreds of people pass by.
And sometimes, if you're paying attention, you find exactly the person you were supposed to meet.
Sometimes the most powerful voice in a room is the one that never says a word.