This piece resonated deeply with me because it names the quiet violence of conditional belonging in a way I’ve often struggled to put into words. The first time I was invited to speak as a guest, I told my story without shame, and I understood what it meant to be recognised rather than permitted. From then on, I committed to building my own rooms. Just two years later, I’ve finished a book that does not conform to the market, because belonging should never be conditional. Presence is not a favour granted. It is enough.
Gaby, I’m deeply grateful for this reflection. The moment you spoke without shame and realized recognition matters more than permission is exactly the heartbeat of this piece. Congratulations on finishing your book! I’m currently finishing up Section VI of Kinfolk of my book and your words remind me why I keep going. The rooms you’re building will hold what conditional belonging never could.
Thank you for your generous response. I’m beginning to learn it’s easier to build rooms for yourself rather than trying to knock on the doors of rooms that were never meant to open or welcome me. I’ve always felt that so much of life/relationships/acceptance is based on conditions. In the rooms in which I work I ensure that conditions are minimal In my classroom, there are no conditions I place on the teenagers I work with except, tolerance, understanding and embracing what makes us unique and celebrating difference.
Taylor, your piece moves like a storm gathering, patient, deliberate, and then undeniable. You give language to the wound of being “permitted” while exiled from wholeness, and in that naming you strip away the mask that tolerance wears.
Elham, thank you for this. A storm is exactly how it felt to write: slow pressure building, then breaking open. I am grateful you saw the wound beneath permission and the mask tolerance wears. Your reading carries the piece back to me in a way that feels whole.
This is powerful , you capture how “inclusion” can wound when it demands erasure. The same is true at the population level, where labels like “food desert” or “red zone” may illuminate inequities but also brand whole communities as broken. Your words remind us that language must not just describe harm but disrupt it, making space for dignity and wholeness.
Stephen, thank you for naming this so clearly. You are right that words like ‘food desert’ or ‘red zone’ both illuminate and wound. They give language to inequity but also brand communities as broken. I appreciate the way you read this piece as not only describing harm but also disrupting it.
This piece resonated deeply with me because it names the quiet violence of conditional belonging in a way I’ve often struggled to put into words. The first time I was invited to speak as a guest, I told my story without shame, and I understood what it meant to be recognised rather than permitted. From then on, I committed to building my own rooms. Just two years later, I’ve finished a book that does not conform to the market, because belonging should never be conditional. Presence is not a favour granted. It is enough.
Gaby, I’m deeply grateful for this reflection. The moment you spoke without shame and realized recognition matters more than permission is exactly the heartbeat of this piece. Congratulations on finishing your book! I’m currently finishing up Section VI of Kinfolk of my book and your words remind me why I keep going. The rooms you’re building will hold what conditional belonging never could.
Thank you for your generous response. I’m beginning to learn it’s easier to build rooms for yourself rather than trying to knock on the doors of rooms that were never meant to open or welcome me. I’ve always felt that so much of life/relationships/acceptance is based on conditions. In the rooms in which I work I ensure that conditions are minimal In my classroom, there are no conditions I place on the teenagers I work with except, tolerance, understanding and embracing what makes us unique and celebrating difference.
Taylor, your piece moves like a storm gathering, patient, deliberate, and then undeniable. You give language to the wound of being “permitted” while exiled from wholeness, and in that naming you strip away the mask that tolerance wears.
Elham, thank you for this. A storm is exactly how it felt to write: slow pressure building, then breaking open. I am grateful you saw the wound beneath permission and the mask tolerance wears. Your reading carries the piece back to me in a way that feels whole.
Thank you for letting me witness the storm with you. 🙏
Inclusion wounds deep,
maps name deserts, red zones, harm—
language must disrupt.
This is powerful , you capture how “inclusion” can wound when it demands erasure. The same is true at the population level, where labels like “food desert” or “red zone” may illuminate inequities but also brand whole communities as broken. Your words remind us that language must not just describe harm but disrupt it, making space for dignity and wholeness.
Stephen, thank you for naming this so clearly. You are right that words like ‘food desert’ or ‘red zone’ both illuminate and wound. They give language to inequity but also brand communities as broken. I appreciate the way you read this piece as not only describing harm but also disrupting it.