I’m acutely aware that when I enter a room, there’s often an unspoken tension, a silent recalibration of what people feel they can safely say or reveal, especially when their thoughts stray beyond the bounds of polite or politically correct conversation. I don’t have the luxury of stepping out of the body I inhabit as I am a two-metre-tall, heterosexual Black man, a presence that arrives before I say a word and lingers long after I leave.

There’s a cost to carrying this visible identity, a weight that’s both shield and target. It demands discernment: which battles deserve my voice, which silences preserve my peace, and which moments I must surrender for the sake of my own survival. So, I walk carefully, fully aware of what I embody, and even more conscious of the unseen negotiations happening in every interaction.