I have spent my career protecting spaces. Not because someone assigned me the role. Not because it was convenient or rewarded. But because I could see what was needed—and once you see, you can’t look away.

I have protected structures built to outlast me. I have protected conditions I knew I would never personally benefit from. I have protected spaces where I was not fully welcome—and never would be.

I have been protected by the wise and reverent.

And I have kept my mouth shut or listened to bias or excluded...even with the best of intentions. Keep working at it. 

And I have come to understand something that most people do not say out loud: Inclusion is not a gesture of generosity. It is a labor of reverence. It is the work of holding, tending, and protecting the ground where thriving becomes possible.

But here’s what no one tells you—sometimes, you will labor for spaces you will never inhabit. And if you are doing it right, you will labor without needing to. Because the labor itself is the love.

I used to believe inclusion was about belonging. I don’t anymore.

Because who am I to tell you whether you belong? Who am I to grant or withhold something that isn’t mine to give?

Belonging isn’t something I can offer you—it’s something you become, and something only you can name.

But here is what I can do: I can protect the conditions where your belonging becomes possible. I can guard the ground, tend the ecosystem, and ensure that what should grow can grow—without my interference, without my control.

Because inclusion is not about the guardian of the space, but about the thriving meant to happen in the space. 

I hold race forward as the experience of Black, Brown, and Indigenous folk call for us to listen and hear as truth. In my own body, inclusion looks like the spaces where queerness can or cannot thrive. Where women can or cannot thrive. Where neurodivergence can or cannot thrive. 

It’s not hard to see that many of us—especially those whose experiences are shaped by layered marginalizations, led by the lived realities of Black, Brown, and Indigenous communities—are the mycelium. We are the vast, unseen network that holds the possibility of thriving. Fluid, expansive, and deeply connected, we are an unstoppable force—if we commit to the labor of reverence, if we protect the conditions where life, growth, and justice can take root and flourish.

But let’s speak plainly. Not everyone cares about protecting the ground. Some people perform inclusion but poison the soil.

• They love the aesthetics of inclusion but not the impact.
• They love the appearance of belonging but not the redistribution of power it requires.
• They host the panels, publish the statements, and pray that the conditions for real thriving never fully take hold.

Why? Because real thriving would force a reckoning. Real thriving would mean some structures crack, some powers shift, and some thrones fall. And there are people who would rather the forest burn than grow beyond their control.

That is the part we’re not supposed to say out loud. But here it is.

And here is another truth: You may labor to protect a space you are not invited into. And that is not failure. It is service. It is reverence.

But some people stumble here. I have watched it happen. They build something and then, when they are not welcomed inside it, they protest—But I built it! I deserve to be here!

That isn’t inclusion. That is offended saviorism. It is the belief that labor entitles you to ownership. It is the falsehood that protecting something should guarantee you a seat inside it.

But inclusion isn’t a transaction. It’s a relationship. It says: I hold this space because it deserves to be protected. Not because I belong here. Not because you owe me. But because the labor itself is the point.

And let me be clear: This labor comes at a cost. I know, because I have paid it.

• I have been told I was “too direct” about inclusion.
• Too direct about the fact that “bare minimum” isn’t safety—it’s negligence.
• Too direct about the difference between compliance and care.
• Had my own needs of inclusion ignored, erased, marginalized.

But when I was told I was “too direct,” I knew what they really meant: I was too unwilling to make inclusion comfortable. Too unwilling to turn it into a performance. Too unwilling to let it live in the shallow waters of "belonging" instead of the deep work of protection.

And the longer I do this work, the more I know: Inclusion without protection is not just an ethical failure. It is a spiritual one. 

Because inclusion is not a thing we grant. It is a practice we uphold.

You cannot separate inclusion from protection. And protection requires structure.

You don’t tell a plant it belongs. You nurture the soil.
You don’t tell people they are safe. You build conditions that make safety inevitable.

This is what people science—and nature—has taught us again and again:

• Psychological Safety: It’s not the invitation to speak that matters; it’s the absence of punishment when you do.
• Self-Determination Theory: People thrive when they have autonomy, competence, and connection—which only happens when structures enable it.
• Ecological Systems Theory: You don’t grow a forest by announcing its belonging. You grow it by caring for the conditions that sustain life.

Inclusion without protection is nothing. Inclusion without structure is set dressing. Inclusion without care is a lie.

So, let me leave you with this:

You will not be thanked for protecting the ground. Most of the time, no one will see you doing it. And sometimes, you will guard a space that was never meant for you.

Do it anyway.

If you are waiting for recognition, it isn’t inclusion you are practicing.
If you are waiting for permission, it isn’t inclusion you are protecting.

Because this work—the real work—is about what you hold, not what you gain.

Inclusion, as I have come to know it, is a labor of love.
And love does not demand entry.
Love holds the ground sacred—because holding it is the whole point.