What Does It Really Mean to Be Inclusive?

Yesterday I spoke with an aspiring doula who’s been exploring different training paths and following a lot of doula accounts online. She said something that really made me think. She described the birth world as feeling a bit like an arena. Not a circle of support, but an arena where people watch each other closely, sometimes cheer, sometimes stay silent, sometimes judge. I knew what she meant. The word inclusive is everywhere these days, yet when the air feels heavy or competitive, it’s worth asking what it actually means to be inclusive.

It’s a word that looks lovely on paper. It gives comfort. It suggests safety. When you strip it back, inclusion isn’t about words on a website or who we publicly stand beside. It’s about how we behave in moments when someone’s worldview brushes against our own. It’s about the times we feel uncomfortable, uncertain, or defensive, and what we choose to do with that feeling.

Real inclusion doesn’t begin with agreement; it begins with curiosity. It’s the quiet willingness to pause before reacting. It’s the act of staying open to someone’s story, even when it challenges yours. It’s the ability to say, “I see that differently, and I’m still here.”

In the birth world, most of us came into this work because we care deeply about people. We want to make a difference. Sometimes, that same passion can make us certain. We can become so focused on doing good that we stop hearing anyone who doesn’t use the same language or frame their values the same way. That’s when inclusion can start to slip, not through cruelty, but through conviction.

I’ve noticed how easily inclusion gets tangled with approval. We include the people who feel easy to like, the ones who sound like us, think like us, and post like us. We might even say we’re open to all, yet deep down, we often mean “all, as long as they’re not difficult, awkward, or different in ways that stretch me.” That’s where we quietly lose what we’re trying to protect.

Freedom of speech sits gently inside this, too. Everyone deserves the right to express opinions, ideas, and beliefs, even when they’re uncomfortable to hear. Honest dialogue can’t exist without that freedom. It also carries responsibility, and it stops where harm begins. There’s no place for hate, bullying, or language that discriminates against anyone’s identity or beliefs. Inclusion lives in that careful balance, keeping space open for conversation while drawing a clear line against harm. It’s not about silencing difference, it’s about listening with awareness and responding with care.

When we forget that balance, we start to silence voices we could learn from. We shut down opportunities for growth and understanding. We begin to fear speaking at all, worried that one clumsy sentence might cost us belonging. Real inclusion doesn’t come from fear; it comes from trust. It invites us to talk, to listen, to learn, and to disagree without punishment.

I’ve seen this in groups, online and in person. Someone speaks with good intent but poor phrasing, and the mood changes. People step back or look away. No one asks what they meant. No one gives them room to try again. It’s not that anyone means harm; it’s that we’ve forgotten how to hold tension without rushing to fix it. True inclusion isn’t about perfect harmony; it’s about staying in the room long enough to understand why someone feels as they do.

Humility is at the heart of inclusion. It’s the ability to admit we don’t always have the full picture. Every person’s story is shaped by layers of experience we can’t see. The doula who seems blunt might come from a place where directness was survival. The one who avoids certain conversations might be protecting an old wound. When we assume bad intent, we miss the depth of what’s really happening.

Over time, I’ve learned that inclusion isn’t something you declare, it’s something you practise. It lives in tone, in silence, in the moments we choose not to join in when others are being judged. It’s not the posts we make, it’s the quiet thoughts we nurture about those who see things differently. Inclusion starts where no one is watching.

I think about this often when training doulas. Each group brings a mix of voices, experiences, and worldviews. My role isn’t to smooth everyone into the same shape but to create a space where difference feels safe. The learning always deepens when we stop competing and start listening. You can feel the energy change when someone realises they don’t have to perform, they can just show up as themselves. That’s inclusion, steady, unforced, and real.

The world around us rewards certainty and performance, yet inclusivity asks for patience, nuance, and a willingness to live in the grey. It means letting people express their truth without rushing to correct them. It means speaking honestly but kindly when harm does occur. It means staying open even when you’re unsure.

Inclusion isn’t the absence of conflict; it’s the presence of grace.

Sometimes that grace looks like stepping back from gossip. Sometimes it’s offering someone the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes it’s holding a mirror up to yourself and asking, “Who have I quietly excluded?” Those small acts do more for inclusion than any statement ever could.

The arena feeling the aspiring doula described often grows from fear, fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of being judged, fear of not belonging. When we replace that fear with curiosity, the arena becomes a circle again. A circle has no corners, no sides, no hierarchy. It has room for difference. That’s the kind of energy that builds connection.

Inclusion doesn’t mean tolerating harm; it means approaching boundaries with care. There’s a difference between disagreement and disrespect, between having strong views and expecting others to share them. When we feel judgement rising, it helps to pause and remember that everyone’s understanding of the world is shaped by what they’ve lived through.

We can’t talk about inclusion without mentioning repair. We’ll all get it wrong sometimes. We’ll miss something, say something clumsy, or misunderstand someone’s meaning. What matters is how we respond. Inclusion isn’t about being flawless, it’s about being willing to learn, to apologise, and to keep growing. There’s such quiet strength in saying, “I didn’t realise that could hurt you. Thank you for telling me.” Those moments build trust, the kind that helps a community breathe again.

What I love most about doulas is that our work already mirrors what inclusion looks like. We sit beside people through huge transitions, often without sharing their beliefs or backgrounds. We don’t judge their decisions; we support their process. We hold the space steady, trusting that each person knows themselves best. If we can do that for clients, we can do it for one another, too.

Being inclusive as a doula means holding neutrality while respecting truth. Supporting someone doesn’t mean abandoning your values; it means responding with compassion, even when you feel strongly. It’s about finding language that connects rather than divides. When we practise that kind of inclusion within our own circles, we strengthen our ability to offer it to families.

There’s something deeply freeing about remembering that we don’t have to be the same to belong together. Inclusion isn’t sameness, it’s acceptance. It’s knowing that every person brings something of value, even when their presence challenges us to stretch. Growth often hides inside discomfort.

I often wonder how much lighter the birth world would feel if we all softened a little. If we could allow space for difference without losing respect. If we could celebrate diversity in thought as much as in background. We don’t have to agree to be kind. We don’t have to share experiences to offer understanding. We just have to care enough to keep showing up.

When I imagine the kind of community I hope for, it’s one where conversations can breathe. Where someone can speak freely, knowing they’ll be met with curiosity, not criticism. Where boundaries are held with compassion, and disagreement doesn’t mean disconnection.

That kind of space feels possible when we remember that freedom of speech and kindness can live side by side. One gives voice, the other gives safety.

In the end, inclusion isn’t about politics or posture. It’s about presence. It’s about sitting in that arena, or better yet, stepping outside it, and choosing not to throw stones. It’s about keeping the circle wide enough for everyone who’s trying to do good work, even in their own imperfect way.

If we can do that, we’ll create a birth world that feels less like an arena and more like a home, a place where people feel safe enough to be human, to speak honestly, to make mistakes, and to grow. That’s what being inclusive really means: staying open-hearted, even when it’s hard, and trusting that kindness will carry us further than certainty ever could.