There’s a common misconception that identity is something simple. That you can tick a box and be understood. But for many of us, especially those of us who are gay and come from other marginalised backgrounds—whether that’s race, gender, disability, or class—our experience of the workplace is shaped by far more than one label. And when we talk about inclusion, we can’t afford to talk about it in isolation. We have to talk about intersectionality.
There’s a common misconception that identity is something simple. That you can tick a box and be understood. But for many of us, especially those of us who are gay and come from other marginalised backgrounds—whether that’s race, gender, disability, or class—our experience of the workplace is shaped by far more than one label. And when we talk about inclusion, we can’t afford to talk about it in isolation. We have to talk about intersectionality.
The term might sound academic, but the reality is lived every day. Intersectionality is the idea that different aspects of our identity don’t exist separately from one another. They overlap, interact, and influence how we move through the world. At work, that means the challenges I face as a gay man might be different from someone else’s—especially if I’m also Black, disabled, working class, or not cisgender.
I remember a job where I was the only openly gay person in the room and the only one from a working-class background. On paper, I had a seat at the table. But in reality, I spent more time managing how I was perceived than contributing to the conversation. I worried about sounding too “other,” too outspoken, too informal. When you carry multiple marginalised identities, you don’t just fight one kind of bias—you navigate many at once.
For employers, that means inclusion can’t be one-dimensional. You can’t celebrate Pride Month without thinking about racism. You can’t run a gender equality campaign and leave out trans and non-binary voices. You can’t say your organisation is inclusive if your culture only recognises the experiences of white, cis, middle-class gay men. If you want to create a workplace where people truly belong, you have to embrace the full spectrum of identity—not just the bits that feel easy to manage.
That starts with asking better questions. Not “Do we have diverse employees?” but “Whose voices are missing?” Not “Do we celebrate Pride?” but “Do our policies and practices work for all LGBTQI employees, especially those at the intersections of race, gender, and ability?”
It also means listening—really listening—to the people in your organisation who live these overlapping realities. Too often, those of us with intersectional identities are invited to speak but not heard. Or worse, we’re expected to represent an entire community. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked to speak on a panel or share my “lived experience” without being paid, supported, or followed up with any real action.
Performative inclusion is exhausting. Real inclusion means resourcing marginalised employees, investing in their progression, and acknowledging the emotional labour that often comes with being visible in a space not built for you.
There’s also the matter of how intersectionality affects career development. Studies have shown that LGBTQI professionals of colour, for example, face more barriers to promotion than their white counterparts. Add disability or neurodivergence into the mix, and the picture becomes even more complex. It’s not that we aren’t talented. It’s that we’re often overlooked, misread, or held to higher standards just to be seen as equal.
As a gay professional, I’ve had to unlearn the idea that my success depended on being as “normal” or “neutral” as possible. I spent years trying to downplay the parts of myself that didn’t fit the mould—my accent, my background, even the way I dressed. I thought professionalism meant erasure. But what I’ve come to understand is that real strength lies in bringing all of who you are to the table—and knowing that you’ll be valued for it.
That’s what intersectionality teaches us: that inclusion can’t be tick-box diversity. It has to be holistic, nuanced, and ongoing. It means recognising that people experience barriers differently and that those differences deserve attention, not avoidance.
It also means being willing to sit with discomfort. Conversations about race, gender, sexuality, and disability aren’t always neat. They challenge assumptions, unsettle norms, and require honesty. But that discomfort is where growth begins. If you’re serious about inclusion, you won’t avoid those conversations—you’ll invite them. You’ll listen. You’ll adapt. And you’ll keep going even when it’s hard.
There’s no “perfect” workplace. But there are better ones. And those are the organisations where intersectionality isn’t just a buzzword—it’s embedded into how decisions are made, how teams are built, and how success is measured.
So here’s my message to leaders and employers during Pride Month and beyond: look around your organisation. Who feels empowered to speak? Who’s expected to stay silent? Who gets the benefit of the doubt, and who gets questioned?
If the same voices are always leading, while others are always fighting to be heard, that’s not inclusion. That’s hierarchy dressed up as diversity.
True inclusion embraces complexity. It values experience. And it builds spaces where all of who we are is welcomed—not just tolerated, but celebrated.
Because when we feel seen in every part of ourselves, we don’t just survive at work—we thrive. And when we thrive, so do our teams, our organisations, and our industries.