What it means to be one voice among many

Speaking from where you are

I’ve been thinking about what it means to be asked to add your voice to shared work. Not to speak for others or tidy everything into one neat story, but simply to speak from your own place.

Recently, I was one of the contributors to Unison Cymru's 25 Voices, a collection of perspectives from across Wales on local government and services. What struck me wasn’t the number of people involved, but the way we all genuinely mattered. Each voice stood on its own, nothing smoothed out to fit a single narrative. We were welcomed warmly and safely and invited to offer what we wanted in the way that felt right to us, it felt fair and inclusive.

There’s a responsibility that comes with being invited into spaces like this though, with a platform for perspectives to sit and be seen by many. It’s easy, especially in inclusion work, to slip from “this is my experience” into “this is the experience”. I’ve seen how quickly good intentions can harden into an unofficial narrative that others feel they can’t challenge, or know no different. That’s why, as advocates and practitioners of inclusion, passing the mic matters.

When one story starts to repeatedly stand in for many, quieter voices fall away. Nuance disappears. Context gets lost. The picture narrows instead of widening. One person’s version can quietly become the norm, and before we realise it, we’ve drifted into a new, unintended inclusion elite, with policy, projects and academic work subtly reinforcing a single view without meaning to.

In the Unison Cymru report, I was speaking from my rural life and the perspective that brings, not from a local government role. No one was asked to contribute more than they could, which widened the scope for involvement. Even on a low‑energy day, people might still be able to share something and be heard. No single voice became the authority. The strength of the report comes from the mix, with different angles and experiences held side by side to create a fuller picture.

I’ve long been noticing this across inclusion and advocacy spaces. In the rush to be helpful or to get it right, we can end up flattening difference without meaning to, when we speak for ‘all’. And that matters, because when we collapse difference, we lose the very thing inclusion is meant to protect.

So, what can we do about it?
For me, it comes back to a few simple practices:

*Speak from where you are, not for everyone.

*Name your contribution as your perspective, creating space for others to name theirs.

*Leave space, real space, for voices that aren’t yours.

*Resist the urge to tidy complexity away. Mess makes for clarity…. eventually!

*Notice when your version starts to become the version - and pass the mic.

Fair inclusion isn’t about finding the most polished or confident voice. It’s about making room for many voices, from many places, and letting each one speak in its own way. Inclusion works best when each person speaks from their own place, no one voice becomes the authority, and difference is allowed to stay visible, even when it feels a bit messy. Losing the polish is often what makes room for real progress.

Fairness often looks like this - not collapsing difference, not tidying complexity away, but letting it stay visible.

I’m still sitting with what it means to contribute without overreaching, to speak without speaking over, and to listen as carefully as I write, because I’m sometimes wise, never finished, and always learning.
Sarah