
I’ve been in rooms where the air feels thick with promises of “diversity” and “inclusion,” only to leave knowing those words are as empty as the room itself. The intention to uplift us sounds loud at first, but in execution, it falls silent. The real weight of this silence doesn’t land until you realize that the people who were supposed to stand with you are the same ones rearranging the space so that your truth fits their comfort.
Recently, I was invited to share my story—my work, my mission—at a conference that prides itself on accessibility and inclusion. But let's be clear: “accessibility” doesn’t mean a few ramps and captions on the screen. It’s about making room for narratives that are often marginalized, distorted, or erased altogether. So when I was asked to shift my message, to lighten my truth, to offer something more “palatable” for an audience that would’ve had a few drinks by then, it was clear what was really happening.
I was expected to dilute my pain, to gloss over the hard truths I’d lived through and the work I do to help others heal. Why? Because it wasn’t fun enough. Because it didn’t fit into the neat little box of what a “performative” presentation should look like. Let me tell you something: not everything is meant to make people laugh or feel good. Sometimes, the point is to make them uncomfortable enough to listen, to care, to take action.
We were supposed to be talking about sisterhood, about standing together, about how we—Black women—navigate spaces that were never built for us. But how can you talk about sisterhood when you’re constantly being told that your pain, your experiences, are “too heavy” for this space? We’re asked to “lighten up,” to share something easier to digest, because God forbid we make anyone confront their complicity in our struggle. And when we don’t fit that mold, the blame is shifted to us. We’re told we’re the problem. Our stories are too much. We’re too much.

The injustice here is subtle, like a knife slipped between your ribs while someone smiles in your face. It’s the way support becomes conditional—only extended if you’re willing to bend, to shift, to make them comfortable. But let’s be honest: support that demands we contort ourselves isn’t support at all. It’s a trap. It’s the same old exclusion dressed up in new, shiny words.
In that moment, I understood that I wasn’t just being asked to change my presentation; I was being asked to minimize myself. To shrink, so I wouldn’t cast a shadow over the carefully constructed image of inclusivity that this event wanted to project. I was being used to check a box. They needed a story like mine, but they didn’t want the full weight of it. They wanted the aesthetics of support without the responsibility of actually holding that support.
This is the reality of navigating spaces that claim to uplift us. They want the shine, the glow of diversity, but only on their terms. They want to pat themselves on the back for “giving us a platform” without ever really listening to what we have to say. And when things don’t go according to their plan, when we refuse to play along, they quickly pivot to blame us—labeling our truths as too harsh, too real for their curated audience.
This is when allyship falls short. This is the kind of quiet exclusion that we're done tolerating. We are sick of being part of it. Expect us to stand up or walk out. When Allyship Falls Short: The Quiet Exclusion We’re Done Tolerating

It’s exhausting. It’s painful. It’s systemic. And it’s the exact barrier I’ve spent my entire career fighting against.
Here’s the thing, though: I’m not here for your convenience. My story, my work, my mission—it’s not here to entertain you or make you feel comfortable. I’m not going to water down the truth for the sake of keeping things light. This work—what I do, what we do—was never meant to fit into the box of what you think “acceptable” looks like. It was meant to break that box apart.
This experience taught me something important, though. Not every opportunity is meant to be taken. Just because the invitation is there doesn’t mean you need to accept it. Especially if it means compromising who you are or the message you carry. Every platform is not a launching pad, and we need to be mindful of where we invest our energy. Some spaces will never be ready for what we’re bringing. And that’s okay. We keep moving. We keep building.
For those reading this, who’ve been in similar rooms, I see you. We see each other. We stand for ourselves, for our stories, for our work. We don’t bend for anyone’s comfort. If you’re not ready to make space for us as we are, we’ll find a way to carve out our own.
This isn’t about blame—it’s about truth. The truth that our stories matter just as they are. That we don’t need to make them smaller or easier to digest. And that real support, real sisterhood, doesn’t ask you to change to fit in. It embraces you as you are, and it holds space for your fullness.
So, to those who think that they can mute our voices or minimize our impact: I say no. We’re not your entertainment. We’re not here to make you comfortable. We’re here to speak truth, even when it’s uncomfortable—especially when it’s uncomfortable. And if you can’t handle that, maybe it’s not us who need to change.
With love and defiance,
Minista Jazz
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