I attended Skoll 2025 in Oxford earlier this year. A vibrant convergence of social entrepreneurs, researchers, activists and change agents from all over the world. I went to listen, to learn and to reconnect with the energy that drew me into this work in the first place.
As I often do, I gravitated toward sessions focused on gender equity. I joined talks that tackled the structural inequalities women face in healthcare and beyond. I met passionate people working within NGOs that support women and girls globally. These spaces felt familiar. Empowering. Energising.
Then, something happened that unsettled me in the most useful way.
At one panel, the audience was predominantly women. The organisers encouraged discussion at our tables and I found myself seated with a few men all engaged and thoughtful. One of them shared how he mentors boys through team sports, helping them develop confidence, belonging and emotional support. His story was sincere and grounded.
Another man at the table spoke about the school he runs for marginalised girls in India. He wasn’t looking for praise. He was looking for partners, funders who might help expand the school and give his students more opportunities, more pathways out of structural inequality. His commitment was clear: he believed deeply in the power of education to transform lives.
Both men were living examples of allyship in action but what struck me most was how few other men were in the room to say anything at all.
The next morning, over breakfast, I ran into a gentleman I’d seen at a few sessions. He asked how my day had gone and I mentioned the panel. He told me he had attended a feminist session as part of his personal goal to step out of his comfort zone. He looked thoughtful as he shared the experience with me.
“It felt really angry,” he said. “A bit like some of the women were just venting. I heard a lot of talk about men being the problem. I remember thinking, “That’s not me. I’m not the problem and I left feeling like my voice wasn’t needed.”
He wasn’t trying to invalidate what he heard. He was telling me how it made him feel.
And I’ve been reflecting on that ever since.
I often speak — sometimes with intensity — about gendered gaps in health data. I highlight how women are excluded from clinical trials, how this leads to misdiagnosis, poor treatment and unnecessary harm. I cite the studies: less than 20% of participants in key HIV trials are women. I call out the systems that fail half the population. I get angry.
But anger is a double-edged tool. It can be a catalyst for justice or a wall that blocks collaboration.
When I say “not all men but enough men,” I believe it. Now I’m wondering: am I pushing allies out?
Feminism Is Not a Monolith
Feminism isn’t one thing. It’s layered, evolving and deeply personal. Some approach it through advocacy, others through quiet parenting, policy work or direct service. We each carry our stories, our pain, our urgency.
I’m learning that my version of feminism must also make room for those who are trying to meet me halfway especially the men who are showing up in good faith, even if tentatively. I still believe deeply in equity and justice, but I know I can’t carry this burden alone. I don’t want to alienate those willing to help make things better.
In the backdrop of this conversation is a growing online culture — the manosphere — where some boys and men are seeking validation in these spaces that promise belonging, control and agency. If even well-intentioned men start to feel unwelcome in feminist spaces, who are we losing to other narratives?
There’s an image I keep coming back to: a circle of people in deep conversation, with one empty chair left open. That chair is a quiet invitation, a space, a symbol of welcome.
That’s what I want my feminism to look like now with data and drive but also space.
Because gender equity isn’t a women’s issue. It’s a societal one and the only way we make real progress is if everyone who wants to be part of the solution sees that there’s a place for them at the table.
How can I speak truthfully without speaking in absolutes?
Can anger and inclusion share the same space?
What would feminist advocacy look like if we led with invitation as well as intensity?
I’m not sure I have the answers yet but I know that I want to try differently and that starts with the conversations I have with the boys and men in my life.