I didn’t wake up today expecting to feel like this. I should know better by now, but every time I try to have a real conversation, I find myself running into the same brick wall. It’s exhausting. I don’t know why I still let it get to me. Maybe because deep down, I still want to believe that people are capable of hearing each other. That we can still talk, challenge ideas, share perspectives without it turning into a fight. But I was reminded today, once again, that’s not the world we live in anymore.
I thought inclusivity meant everyone. I really did. That’s what we were told, wasn’t it? That we were working toward a world where all voices mattered, where we could understand each other better, where we could learn from different perspectives. But that isn’t what inclusivity means at all—not in the way it’s being practiced now. Inclusivity means you are welcome, as long as you say the right things, think the right way, and don’t question anything. Step outside of that, and suddenly, you’re the enemy.
It happened so fast. I shared my experience, my thoughts on how it feels to be constantly dismissed and labeled for simply questioning things. I didn’t tell anyone what to think. I didn’t say my experience was more valid than theirs. I just asked them to tell me their own. I said, “How have you personally been hurt?” I wasn’t interested in headlines or social media outrage—I wanted real, human stories. I wanted to understand, the same way I was asking them to understand me.
Instead, they called me racist. They said I had lost my voice, that I wasn’t worth listening to, that I was just seeking attention. They accused me of spreading hate. And what did I actually say? That inclusivity should mean everyone. That questioning systems isn’t the same as attacking people. That people have a right to challenge things that aren’t working without being automatically accused of having bad intentions. That’s what I said. That’s what they called hateful.
I sat there staring at the screen, trying to make sense of it, trying to figure out if I had said something wrong. But no, I hadn’t. And that’s what makes this so exhausting. No matter how carefully I phrase things, no matter how much I open the door for discussion, it doesn’t matter. It’s not about what I say. It’s about the fact that I said anything at all.
What frustrates me the most is that they refuse to engage. Not one person actually addressed my points. Not one person tried to have a real conversation. They didn’t counter my arguments, they didn’t offer their own perspectives, they didn’t even attempt to meet me halfway. They just shut me down. Because that’s what we do now. We don’t debate, we don’t discuss—we just erase.
And they truly believe they’re the good ones. The ones fighting for justice, for progress, for a better world. But how is the world getting better when people aren’t even allowed to ask questions? How are we supposed to heal as a society if we can’t talk? If we can’t acknowledge that different people experience the world in different ways?
I don’t think they even realize what they’re doing. Or maybe they do, and they don’t care. Maybe it’s easier to silence people than to sit in discomfort. Maybe it’s easier to demonize than to discuss. Maybe, deep down, they don’t actually believe in inclusivity at all—they just believe in control.
I hate that I let this get to me today. I hate that I keep hoping for something different when I should know better. But I also hate that I even have to feel this way at all. That I even have to fight to have a basic conversation. That I have to defend my right to question things without being labeled something I’m not.
I don’t know where this leaves me. I don’t know if I should keep trying, keep pushing, keep hoping that there’s still a place for people like me—people who just want to talk, to think, to understand. Or if I should just stop. Not because they’ve won, not because I’ve given up, but because I’m so damn tired of fighting a fight that shouldn’t even have to be fought.
I don’t want to live in a world where people are too afraid to speak. But I also don’t know how much more of this I can take.
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