I want to tell you a story. But I don’t know how to start it.

Because it doesn’t really have a beginning. Only this aching middle.

A few weeks ago, I was asked in a job interview what I thought about DEIB.

And I said what I meant:

That I will only work in places where people can be real.

That queerness is not a flavour. That trans rights are not a slide in a PowerPoint. That no one should have to contort themselves to feel safe at work.

I said it with a steady voice. I was proud. But here’s what I didn’t say:

That I am tired of my survival being something I have to argue for.

That I still shape myself around palatability.

That I’ve spent years learning how to say radical things in careful ways.

That I leave things out. That I still shrink sometimes. Even now.

And that guilt is a quiet thing.

Not loud or sharp; but low and constant, like a hum in the walls.

Because the truth is, I do know how systems work.

I do know where the violence is.

And yet I also look away. Scroll past. Take the contract.

Say “next time I’ll speak up more.”

Say “it’s not the right fight here.”

Say “I need to survive this too.”

And maybe you do that, too.

Maybe you sit in meetings where someone says something dehumanising and you don’t say a word.

Maybe you post about justice while working for companies that quietly erase it.

Maybe you feel something breaking, but pretend your hands aren’t on it.

Maybe you tell yourself that it’s not the right moment. That you’ll be braver later.

But I don’t know if later comes.

Because my trans friends are fighting for their lives.

Because people are being legislated out of existence.

Because the world is full of names we’ll never know, lives lost without witness or justice.

We are watching genocides unfold in real time.

We are not planning for mass displacement, not listening to those who know the land, not naming the grief we swim in.

We are taught to keep things tidy.

To make things strategic.

To avoid being “too political.”

But everything is political.

The water, the wages, the silence, the design brief.

The algorithms. The pauses in conversations.

The visa rules. The aid cuts. The death tolls.

Everything.

And we know it.

We feel the script bending under us, and still we play our roles.

Even the well-meaning ones. Especially them.

We call it governance. We call it innovation.

We fund projects while the sea swallows homes.

We write statements of solidarity while our taxes buy bullets.

James Baldwin wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

So I am facing this:

I am implicated.

I am compromised.

And I still believe something else is possible.

Not just better policy. Not just inclusion.

But a total reordering of what we think power is for.

A new social contract.

One not written in the language of permission or tolerance.

But in relation. In reciprocity. In refusal.

Refusal to be silent.

Refusal to be professional when the world is bleeding.

Refusal to wait until it’s safe to be honest.

Audre Lorde said, “Your silence will not protect you.”

I believe that. And still; I have been silent when it suited me.

But the fire is already here.

And I want to stop pretending I’m not standing in it.

If this makes you uncomfortable, good.

If it makes you cry, even better.

Not because we want pain; but because we need movement.

One different conversation.

One truth you don’t walk back.

One moment of courage when the room goes quiet.

We don’t need more frameworks.

We need grief.

We need rage.

We need imagination powerful enough to shatter the world we were told to accept.

Everything is political.

Even when you pretend it’s not.

Especially then.

I want to tell you a story. But I don’t know how to start it.

Because it doesn’t really have a beginning. Only this aching middle.

A few weeks ago, I was asked in a job interview what I thought about DEIB.

And I said what I meant:

That I will only work in places where people can be real.

That queerness is not a flavour. That trans rights are not a slide in a PowerPoint. That no one should have to contort themselves to feel safe at work.

I said it with a steady voice. I was proud. But here’s what I didn’t say:

That I am tired of my survival being something I have to argue for.

That I still shape myself around palatability.

That I’ve spent years learning how to say radical things in careful ways.

That I leave things out. That I still shrink sometimes. Even now.

And that guilt is a quiet thing.

Not loud or sharp; but low and constant, like a hum in the walls.

Because the truth is, I do know how systems work.

I do know where the violence is.

And yet I also look away. Scroll past. Take the contract.

Say “next time I’ll speak up more.”

Say “it’s not the right fight here.”

Say “I need to survive this too.”

And maybe you do that, too.

Maybe you sit in meetings where someone says something dehumanising and you don’t say a word.

Maybe you post about justice while working for companies that quietly erase it.

Maybe you feel something breaking, but pretend your hands aren’t on it.

Maybe you tell yourself that it’s not the right moment. That you’ll be braver later.

But I don’t know if later comes.

Because my trans friends are fighting for their lives.

Because people are being legislated out of existence.

Because the world is full of names we’ll never know, lives lost without witness or justice.

We are watching genocides unfold in real time.

We are not planning for mass displacement, not listening to those who know the land, not naming the grief we swim in.

We are taught to keep things tidy.

To make things strategic.

To avoid being “too political.”

But everything is political.

The water, the wages, the silence, the design brief.

The algorithms. The pauses in conversations.

The visa rules. The aid cuts. The death tolls.

Everything.

And we know it.

We feel the script bending under us, and still we play our roles.

Even the well-meaning ones. Especially them.

We call it governance. We call it innovation.

We fund projects while the sea swallows homes.

We write statements of solidarity while our taxes buy bullets.

James Baldwin wrote, “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

So I am facing this:

I am implicated.

I am compromised.

And I still believe something else is possible.

Not just better policy. Not just inclusion.

But a total reordering of what we think power is for.

A new social contract.

One not written in the language of permission or tolerance.

But in relation. In reciprocity. In refusal.

Refusal to be silent.

Refusal to be professional when the world is bleeding.

Refusal to wait until it’s safe to be honest.

Audre Lorde said, “Your silence will not protect you.”

I believe that. And still; I have been silent when it suited me.

But the fire is already here.

And I want to stop pretending I’m not standing in it.

If this makes you uncomfortable, good.

If it makes you cry, even better.

Not because we want pain; but because we need movement.

One different conversation.

One truth you don’t walk back.

One moment of courage when the room goes quiet.

We don’t need more frameworks.

We need grief.

We need rage.

We need imagination powerful enough to shatter the world we were told to accept.

Everything is political.

Even when you pretend it’s not.

Especially then.