To show:

Add sensory details to make the story more vivid—this is how you allow readers to experience your
story.

Slow down to describe action in more detail—this is how you increase the drama in your writing.

When you show rather than tell, your reader becomes an active participant in your story.

So, race through the less important parts of your story.

And dramatize the key parts, with detailed and vivid descriptions.

Tell
Michael was terribly afraid of the dark.
She was my best friend. I could tell her
almost anything.
Harold and his brother Raymond didn’t
know what to say to Maggie
He’s nervous about his job interview
She was angry
She feels trapped in her hometown
Robin loves plants
Show
As his mother switched off the light and left the room, Michael tensed. He
huddled under the covers, gripped the sheets, and held his breath as the
wind brushed past the curtain.
I met her at the town square, running in for our usual hug that carried on for
far too long as we gushed about our lives with smiles lighting our faces.
They were dumbfounded. They looked at her, regarding her as if she might
be dangerous. Then they peered into the palms of their thick callused hands
spread out before them on the kitchen table and lastly, they looked out the
window toward the leafless and stunted elm trees.
Try as he might, he could do nothing but think about the questions he might
be asked, the answers he would need to give, the way he would have to walk
and talk and sit, the times he would need to speak or listen and nod, the
things he would have to say or not say, the response he would need to give if
asked about his legal status in the country.
His throat went dry. His palms moistened. Unable to reach for his
handkerchief in the packed downtown subway, he wiped both palms on his
pants.
She slammed her glass down so hard that it slopped over on an ivory
cushion. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up with her eyes sparking
fire and her nostrils wide. Her mouth was open and her bright teeth glared
at me. Her knuckles were white.
She’d trampled the same dirt roads her entire life; she’d carved her initials
on the bottom of school desks that her mother had once used, and that her
children would someday, feeling her jagged scratching with their fingers.
(…) how could I tell him that I was born a botanist, that I had shoeboxes of
seeds and piles of pressed leaves under my bed, that I’d stop my bike along
the road to identify a new species, that plants colored my dreams, that the
plants had chosen me?