Over time, I have learned that equity is not built through statements or slogans. Instead, it is built through the small decisions we make every day when no one is paying attention. Equity results from the choices that do not often get credit, do not get posted, and do not feel particularly brave in the moment.

I see this kind of equity in who gets invited into conversations and decision-making. When I am part of a project or program, or when I am organizing a meeting, I try to ask myself: who feels obvious to include, and who does not? Who am I centering by default? Who is missing, and why? Am I creating spaces that reflect the same familiar voices, or am I willing to make room for people who may disrupt the comfort of the space but deepen its honesty and wisdom?

Equity also shows up in who I recommend, nominate, and promote. When someone asks me for a name for an opportunity, I pay attention to my instincts. Am I thinking of the most qualified person, or the most visible one? Am I recommending the person whose work I know well, or the person who feels safe to recommend because they fit what people expect leadership to look like? Who is doing powerful work without recognition, without access, without the informal sponsorship that moves careers forward long before opportunities are posted publicly?

I have come to learn that these decisions are rarely neutral. Our networks, familiarity, and comfort shape them. If I am not careful, I can reproduce the very exclusionary practices that I claim to oppose. As a result, I have begun to slow myself down and ask more questions, such as: Who deserves to be seen? Who needs access, not affirmation? Who has been overlooked not because of ability, but because of their proximity to power?

I also think about when to intervene or speak up. I am not talking about big, dramatic actions, but instead, the quiet ways we can support equity. For example, when a policy excludes certain people, when a timeline or plan assumes everyone has the same resources and flexibility, or when a practice consistently harms the same communities while continuing to benefit others. I ask myself: do I treat this as “just how it is,” or do I see it as my responsibility to question it? Do I stay silent because speaking up feels inconvenient, or do I risk discomfort to interrupt something that isn’t right?

These moments of supporting equity do not always feel significant. They might include: a comment I make in a meeting, a question I ask during a brief hallway interaction with a colleague, a name I add to a nomination list, or a policy I challenge. Over time, these actions shape who advances, who feels safe, who feels valued, and who believes they belong. They also shape the way our institutions look and who our communities empower.

What I am trying to practice, imperfectly, is a form of equity that happens in my everyday life. I am doing this work as a matter of discipline, not as a performance. It is a weekly practice and a daily choice. For me, it is a way of moving through the world that says other people’s dignity, safety, and humanity are obligations and not optional.

Because the truth is, equity does not survive on good intentions. It survives on repeated actions. People must be willing to speak up, make space, and intervene even when it would be easier not to.