Introductions are an access issue

Every structure carries weight. And when you ask us to begin with a name and a smile, but offer no container for safety, you are asking us to choose between authenticity and self-preservation.

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What seems simple is often a site of harm

For people whose presence in institutional space is routine and unremarkable—those whose titles are printed on the agenda, whose authority is assumed, whose belonging has never been in question—the moment of introductions is a fleeting formality, an unexamined ritual meant to humanise the meeting without slowing its pace. It is a chance to name a role, share a credential, perhaps toss in a hobby, express appreciation for the work ahead, and move briskly on. But for those entering the space from the margins—those who have been harmed, gaslit, tokenised, retraumatised, or disbelieved—this moment is not brief, and it is not benign.

Introductions for us are a moment of survival calculation, a high-stakes internal triage, a swirl of contradictory impulses—Do I speak plainly and risk being seen as unstable? Do I stay neutral and disappear? Do I tell the truth and mark myself for retaliation? Do I break the silence so others might recognise themselves in it? Do I soften my words to be heard, or sharpen them to be remembered? The question is never just What do I want to say? It is always also How much of myself am I willing to risk here?

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The choice to disclose is never just personal

When I was called to speak—second in the lineup, camera on, name visible—I chose vulnerability, not because I felt safe, but because I knew what it cost to stay silent. I said that I was here not from trust but from necessity, that I had been harmed by this institution, that my presence did not equal belief, and that I would try, against my own instincts, to offer what I could anyway. I said I was tired. I said I was trying to believe. I said I wanted to contribute. And by the time I finished, I was shaking.

Because I have learned—through years of advisory tables, engagement sessions, working groups, and board meetings—that disclosure does not stay in the room. It travels in how people follow up. It shapes who is quoted and who is erased. It determines whether you are interpreted as credible or “too emotional,” whether you are seen as courageous or as a liability. It leaves marks that cannot be undone. And still, I disclosed. Because someone had to. Because others in the room were weighing the same risk and choosing silence. Because silence, for me, had become heavier than truth.

But make no mistake: this was not freedom. It was desperation. It was strategy under duress. It was the only move I had left that did not involve walking away.

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Institutional silence creates individual burden

No one told us what to expect. No one described what would be asked. No one modelled multiple ways to show up. No one said disclosure was optional or offered examples of what that could look like. No one named the power dynamics in the room—that half the participants were employed by the institution and the other half had been harmed by it. No one acknowledged that some of us were here because we had no other place to bring the grief. No one clarified whether our words would be quoted, summarised, stored, or attributed. And no one from the institution modelled radical honesty first.

In the absence of structure, we default to fear. Especially if you are from a marginalised population who has been penalised and surveilled, or you’re a newcomer to this country and understanding expectations is like walking a tightrope.

When you don’t set the expectation people default to try to sound calm, but not cold. Personal, but not unstable. Qualified, but not threatening. Every word is a performance, and the energy required to sustain that performance—the masking, the dissociation, the rehearsal of tone—consumes what little capacity we had left to participate. When you do not hold the container with intention, you place the weight of safety on those least equipped to carry it.

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There are better ways, and they are not difficult

You could prepare people in advance—with a written overview of the introduction process, the purpose it serves, and the options available for those who need time, privacy, or clarity. You could provide two examples: one neutral and professional, one more personal and vulnerable, both equally valid. You could state clearly that disclosure is never expected, never required, and will not be treated as currency for credibility. You could name the institutional dynamics at play—who is here in a learning role, who is here as an expert by experience, and what commitments are in place to protect those who speak from harm. You could name the harm itself.

You could say, plainly and without euphemism: This is a space where people have been harmed. Some of you may be masking. Some of you may be speaking from grief. Some of you may not speak at all. Silence may be a survival strategy, not a refusal to engage. Disclosure should never come at the cost of safety. And no one should ever feel that they must wound themselves in public to be heard.

These are not radical ideas. They are the baseline requirements of trauma-informed practice. They are the conditions under which consent becomes possible. They are the scaffolding that makes genuine participation achievable for people who do not arrive to this process intact.

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Vulnerability without structure is exploitation

Institutions love the performance of pain. They love the parent who chokes on tears while naming their child’s despair. They love the frontline worker who discloses burnout. They love the poignant quote they can slip into the report. They love the moment that can be captured, branded, memorialised. But too often, when the moment ends, so does the inclusion. The person who spoke from their wounds is not invited to policy review. The contributor who showed emotion is deemed “too close to it.” The truth-teller is thanked and discarded, their words flattened into a bullet point.

You cannot invite people to be vulnerable and then punish them for it. You cannot praise someone for honesty and then silence them when their next truth is harder to manage. You cannot build a process that runs on the extraction of personal trauma and call it inclusion. If you want vulnerability, you must earn it with structure. You must hold it with care. You must be changed by it, not simply moved.

Otherwise, what you are doing is extraction.

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Start differently, or don’t start at all

The way you open shapes everything that follows. If your introductions reify hierarchy, ignore trauma, and privilege polish over truth, then every conversation will carry the residue of that imbalance. But if you begin with humility, with clarity, with consent, and with acknowledgment of harm—if you say out loud what so many of us are whispering internally—then even the hardest truths become possible to speak.

You do not need to be perfect. But you do need to be intentional.

Because introductions are never neutral. They are the test.

And whether you pass depends on whether you understood that by asking people to speak first, you are asking them to show you who they are—before you have shown them that it is safe to do so.

Luckily for you, I had been made so unhinged, so shredded by institutional betrayal, so repeatedly humiliated by the performance of inclusion while harm continued unchecked, that I decided to tell the truth no matter the personal cost. I remember introducing myself at one of those sessions and concluding, not with a platitude, but with a sentence that still rings in my chest: “I wasn’t such a cantankerous bitch before I encountered your fucked up institution.” And the thing is—you could’ve created a space where I didn’t have to start a war just to tell the truth.

But you didn’t. So I did.