The Weight of Words
David had always been considered a thoughtful and capable leader. With over a decade in the industry, he prided himself on mentoring his team, pushing for the best creative work, and fostering an open environment for ideas. But lately, David had found himself retreating—choosing silence over engagement.
It started subtly. Over the past four years, the agency had doubled down on its DEI efforts. There were panels, workshops, and new initiatives highlighting the voices of underrepresented groups. David wholeheartedly supported the goals of the movement. He saw the importance of creating space for others to thrive and for the industry to become more inclusive. Yet, somewhere along the way, he began to feel like he didn’t quite fit into the conversation.
The narratives in the trainings often framed people like him—a straight, White man—as the problem. Though he understood the historical context, it still stung. He didn’t think of himself as a villain, but he began to worry that others saw him that way.
David also couldn’t ignore the growing anxiety he felt about speaking up. He had seen others—well-meaning colleagues—misstep in conversations about race, gender, or identity, only to be criticized or ostracized for their mistakes. The fear of being labeled ignorant or worse—“cancelled”—paralyzed him.
One day, his fear hit closer to home. Maya, a junior creative on his team, had submitted a campaign concept that he knew wasn’t strong. It was her first big project, and while her enthusiasm was clear, the work wasn’t meeting the mark. Normally, David would have taken her aside, offered constructive feedback, and worked with her to elevate the idea. But this time, he hesitated.
What if I say something wrong? he thought. What if my feedback comes off as dismissive or discouraging?
So he stayed quiet. He signed off on the project, knowing it wasn’t her best work, and told himself it wasn’t a big deal. But later, when the campaign didn’t resonate with the client, Maya looked crushed.
“I wish you’d told me,” she said during a follow-up meeting. Her voice was quiet, her disappointment palpable. “I could’ve fixed it.”
David left the conversation feeling awful. He had let Maya down, not because he didn’t care, but because he was afraid.
That fear spilled over into other areas. In brainstorming sessions, he rarely pushed back on ideas he disagreed with. In team discussions about DEI, he nodded along but never shared his own perspective. The truth was, he didn’t feel like his voice mattered anymore. He worried that if he expressed his frustrations, he’d be seen as resistant to progress.
One afternoon, during a one-on-one with his manager, Sarah, he finally opened up.
“I feel like I’m walking on eggshells,” David admitted. “I want to be supportive of everything we’re doing with DEI, but I also feel like I don’t have a place in the conversation. I’m afraid to say the wrong thing, so I end up saying nothing at all. And I know that’s not helping anyone.”
Sarah listened thoughtfully. “David, I hear you,” she said. “But part of allyship is leaning into discomfort. No one is expecting you to have all the answers or to be perfect. What people want is for you to engage honestly and show that you care. Avoiding the conversation doesn’t help anyone—least of all your team.”
She encouraged him to attend a workshop specifically for allies, where he could ask questions and share his perspective in a safe space. “It’s okay to be vulnerable,” Sarah added. “That’s how we grow.”