people celebrate and protest at a pride parade, there is a large rainbow flag being held up by attendees

Defying definition: why “biological sex” laws are all about enforcing gender roles 

by Dr Tof Eklund (Senior Lecturer – School of Social Sciences) and Dr Eunice Gaerlan (Senior Lecturer – School of Education), Auckland University of Technology.

Part of the run up to GEA Conference 2026 blog series.

Across a growing number of countries, governments, courts and political movements are asking a deceptively simple question: what is a woman? 

In the United Kingdom, a 2025 Supreme Court judgment held that the terms “woman” and “sex” in the Equality Act 2010 refer to biological sex, and declared that “biological sex” meant that trans women are really “biological men” and trans men are really “biological women.” In the United States, the Trump administration has directed federal agencies to recognise only two sexes, male and female, defined by the gender marked on one’s birth certificate and immutable thereafter. 

While intended to exclude trans people, this policy has already led to problems for cisgender Americans whose birth certificates are simply incorrect. This idea that biological sex is binary and “real,” and that gender is false or made-up are increasingly finding their way into debates about schools, sport, bathrooms, healthcare, identification documents and the language governments use to describe their citizens. 

Now, the Parliament of Aotearoa New Zealand, is considering the Legislation (Definitions of Woman and Man) Amendment Bill. The Bill proposes defining a woman as an “adult human biological female” and a man as an “adult human biological male”, and these definitions are to be applied to all existing and new law, precluding any consideration of gender identity. 

Developments in the US, UK, Aotearoa and elsewhere each have their own legal, political and cultural contexts and can’t be collapsed into a single story. Simultaneously, they are connected and interdependent, not merely inspired by one another, but following from chains of political power, social influence, and money, in both gross and subtle ways. Without dismissing the outsized impact of a handful of key players, there is also a certain zeitgeist at work, a a renewed political investment in defining and enforcing gender identities and norms by calling them biological realities based on binary sex. 

The question is not whether governments can produce legally workable definitions of “woman” and “man.” The real question is what happens when a government decides to enforce a rigid classification that denies the complexity of bodies, identities, cultures and lives, and why a government would reject both self-identification and modern medicine in order to do so. It’s hard to believe that this is actually about a tiny number of trans athletes or how people pee. We have to ask why government control of gender has become so politically desirable right now. 

The problem with “biological reality” 

x chromosomes

Arguments for legally defining women and men often appeal to “biological reality,” a phrase that suggests an underlying indisputable truth, something objective, observable, a trump card that renders all claims about gender moot. “Let them identify their genders,” it says “we will make law based on the binary of biological sex.”  

Biology, however, would beg to differ

Chromosomes, hormones, reproductive anatomy, secondary sex characteristics and other features associated with sex do not always align neatly. Intersex variations alone make it difficult to sustain the idea that all human bodies can straightforwardly be divided into two internally consistent biological categories, whether one counts wombs or testicles, testosterone or oestrogen, facial hair or cup size. The assumption of an obvious, objective binary necessitates that all these things align into two mutually-exclusive categories with no overlap in a way that not many people could identify with. 

Terms such as “biological woman” create the appearance of scientific precision where it does not exist. Even “biological female” fails to resolve the question of which biological characteristics determine membership of what category. 

Bodies, and biology, are real. They are also individual and mutable. Menopause is an obvious example, but as someone on feminising HRT, my risk of breast cancer is lower than that of an average cisgender woman, but 46 times that of a cis man. Even genitals are more varied and more affected by hormone levels than we’ve been led to believe. The problem is not biology, the problem is the assumption that biology produces two simple, universal and uncontested social categories called women and men. 

The “natural order” of things 

The response to evidence that human biology is complex is often an appeal to “all of nature.” The idea of a binary “natural order” has been used to police women and persecute queer and gender-nonconforming people for centuries. Once again, biology is not compliant: the natural world is fascinating and strange, often divisible into male and female, but profoundly not limited to two absolute categories. Variation in sex characteristics, reproductive strategies, sexual behaviour and social organisation exists throughout nature, both between and within species.

Even if we exclude the hermaphroditic snails, sex-changing clownfish, and self-fertilising lizards, there’s same-sex mating pairs in many avians, including waterfowl such as penguins, swans, ducks, and geese, peahens changing their plumage to look like peacocks, habitual homosexual behaviour in mammals from dolphins and sheep to primates, and female spotted hyenas, who are larger, stronger, and dominant relative to males, have an erectile “pseudophallus,” and engage in a lot of what we might call “straight and gay oral sex.”

Our closest primate relatives, chimpanzees, engage in a lot of the kind of behaviour the “manosphere” describes as “natural,” including polygyny (“harems”), violence, and rape, but our next-closest relatives, bonobos, are matriarchal, peaceful, pansexual, and exhibit cooperative behaviour more similar to humans than chimps. Deep anthropological study shows few signs of harem/polygynous behaviour and relatively little human-on-human violence among hunter-gatherer groups, but with considerable contextual variation.

In short, any political use of “nature” and the “natural” to support male dominance, heterosexuality, or normative gender roles and identities is rhetoric. The “natural man” is by no means straight, dominant, or any of the traits we presently associate with masculinity: likewise for the “natural woman” with femininity and the “natural none-of-the-above” with it all.

So, if neither human biology nor nature provide an inherent basis for a binary division into two exclusive sexes, what do “adult human biological man” and “adult human biological woman” refer to? They refer to gender norms. All this talk about “biological sex” is actually a pseudo-scientific rationalisation of the patriarchal politics of cisgender heterosexuality. It’s extremely dangerous as the lie it tells about trans people can easily be turned against other queer people and used to undermine women’s rights. The Bill before the NZ Parliament smuggles restrictive gender roles into the law in the guise of “obvious, natural” distinctions between two biological sexes. There’s a bitter irony inherent in the passing of  a law that could used to reinstate discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation (as “unnatural,” an old slur) on the 40th anniversary of homosexual law reform in Aotearoa.

A politics travelling across borders

A photograph of an all gender and disabled restroom

We see the patriarchal order of things in what “bathroom bills” say about cisgender women: the claim is that women are vulnerable, weak, and subject to predation any time they are less than fully dressed around “men,” even in spaces full of other women. Why isn’t there a panic about what trans men will do in men’s toilets? It’s because these bills don’t just define trans women as “really men,” they define men as powerful and dangerous, and women as weak and vulnerable in a way that suffragists, let alone feminists since, would have found offensive. 

The only way to ignore the statistically nominal incidence of allegations and complete absence of convictions (documented in much of the US) of trans women for offending in bathrooms or changing rooms is to start with the assumption that trans women as “really men” and that men are dangerous. This is what I mean when I say that the Bill seeks to smuggle gender roles into the law. 

We know this because Aotearoa is not encountering these arguments in isolation. 

Across different national contexts, we are seeing attempts to re-assert gender norms by defining sex as a fixed binary category, and setting it in law as the category that matters, dismissing gender identity as irrelevant. The legal mechanisms differ. In the United Kingdom, this has occurred through judicial interpretation of equality legislation. In the United States, it has been pursued through executive action and federal policy. In Aotearoa, the Definitions of Woman and Man Bill would revise all existing law to accomplish its ends. 

These events are not identical. Their histories and consequences are shaped by different political, legal and cultural contexts in different nations and regions, even as the tactics, motives, and key personalities overlap to variable degrees. Nowhere is the overlap stronger than in the language used. 

“Biological reality.” “Natural order.” “Common sense.” “Protecting women.” “Protecting children.” “Sex is binary.” 

Such phrases present themselves as neutral descriptions of a world that already exists, when they are political claims about how the world should be organised, which forms of knowledge should be authoritative and whose lives should be recognised within it. They serve to foreclose discussion and exclude evidence through a deluded or hypocritical gesture toward the “obvious.” 

This has significant impact on society. Once the state establishes a correct relationship between body, sex and gender, it must also determine who fits within those categories, who does not, and how the boundaries between them will be maintained. Compare that with the simplicity of self-identification and making law and policy based on behaviour, not a gender (“sex”) marker. 

Gender categories have histories 

There is a particular irony when colonial states present binary gender as timeless and universal. 

Colonialism did not simply seize land and resources. Everywhere European colonial powers went they brought their social hierarchies and systems of knowing with them. Indigenous cultures were a blight to be eradicated, whether that was through the conversion or extinction of indigenous peoples. “Progressive” colonial politics propagated variations on the slogan “kill the savage to save the man.” That salvation was explicitly Christian, and came with a strictly defined set of definitions: of gender, sexuality, marriage, family and social organisation. 

Indigenous cultures were and are diverse: some had more than two genders, some did not. Some accepted homosexuality to a greater or lesser degree, and some had egalitarian gender roles while other did not. What they all faced was immense pressure to adopt the coloniser’s definitions and to live by his rules, with violence or the threat of violence never far away. 

Here in Aotearoa, attempts to legislate supposedly universal definitions of womanhood and manhood take place on whenua (land) where Māori understandings of gender and sexuality, including takatāpui identities and histories, will never fully align with the English words “woman” and “man” and cannot be contained within European colonial binaries. Understanding of gender in different iwi (tribes) and hapu (family groups) varies, but Parliament imposing a definition of gender on tangata whenua (Māori) is unambiguously a violation of Te Tiriti o Waitangi (Aotearoa NZ’s founding document). 

Internationally, gender systems across Indigenous cultures remind us that contemporary Western understandings of sex and gender are anything but universal human truths. Instead, they are ways of organising bodies and social relationships that have acquired enormous institutional power. I’ve make the case that defining legal gender as biological sex is incoherent without a definition of biological sex, and that it is pseudoscience to claim that  “biological sex” is binary. So when a government attempts to set the meaning of woman and man through law, we have to look beyond claims to the natural and biological. 

We must ask whose definition is being universalised. 

Trans people are not the endpoint of gender essentialism 

Transgender, non-binary, intersex and gender-diverse people face the starkest and most immediate consequences when governments insist that gender must follow a state-defined “biological” binary. Gender non-conforming people, here defined as everyone impacted by such a law, do not have to justify their existence by demonstrating that restrictions placed upon them will eventually harm somebody else.

At the same time, it is naïve at best to assume that the politics of gender essentialism end with the exclusion of trans people. Far from it, there is every reason to see these laws as the tip of the spear in an assault on women’s rights and an attempt to re-inscribe the authority of a crumbling patriarchy.

It’s not merely possible that these laws will create social expectations for men and women, it’s inevitable. We’ve already seen cases of cisgender women being harassed for being in the “right” restroom, the police being called on trans men when they comply with the new law, and one notable instance where a trans woman and a nonbinary person were assaulted by a mob and then arrested by police in Bossier Parish, Louisiana.

It all makes sense for the “natural” and “obvious” definition of “biological sex” replacing gender in these laws. It seems to me that the definition is “women are weak and vulnerable by nature, so dangerous men must protect women from other dangerous men; biological sex is obvious, so we know who’s who, and if we’re wrong, it’s because someone is attempting to trick us. There’s no need to or even possibility of questioning this, it’s just nature.”

In the end, who suffers if we accept this definition? Women who appear too masculine. Men who appear too feminine. Intersex people (the moment they fail to meet binary expectations). People whose appearance, mannerisms, relationships, interests and/or ideas disrupt heterosexual norms (whether they’re “queer” or not). Children who in any way colour outside the lines of “obvious, natural” gender performance for girls and boys. Ultimately, everyone, but not at all equally.

We can already see this logic operating in debates about bathrooms, sport, healthcare and schools. When access to spaces, opportunities or rights depends upon establishing who is a “real” woman or man, what counts as proof of identity? Who establishes the functional criteria, who performs the tests, who decided which people pass and who fails? And what happens to people who “fail” to perform their gender (“biological sex”) correctly?

Trans, intersex, indigenous gender, and other gender-nonconforming people need and deserve all our support right now. The fight for trans lives, rights, and inclusion cannot be separated from wider feminist struggles for equality and freedom. We are the canaries in the coal mine, the easy targets, the “communists” the brownshirts came for first. If we fall, someone else will be next. If  we continue down this path, at some point we’ll see “household voting” (repeal of women’s suffrage) mainstreamed in the same way “protect girls’ sports” and “no men in women’s toilets” has been.

This is is an education issue

I’ve seen some trans people conclude that feminism has been successfully claimed by transphobes and that there’s no point in trying to convince cisgender people of our worth, or that our destruction would endanger them. I believe they’re wrong, but I also know their despair is the product of experience. The problem is political, systemic, and socioeconomic, but the solution is education.

Schools and universities are, after the home, some of the most important places where gender is taught, and often the only place where it is discussed. Gender is communicated through curricula, uniforms, toilets, sports teams, literature, classroom interactions, administrative systems, school balls, relationships education, policies and countless mundane moments through which young people learn who they are permitted to become.

Education can reproduce narrow gender norms or it can interrupt and question them. It can demand conformity or demonstrate acceptance. Schools set the boundaries on acceptable speech and behaviour in their halls in ways that reverberate throughout society.

The international resurgence of gender essentialism presents particular challenges for educators and researchers. Political arguments about sex and gender do not remain inside parliaments and courts. They enter classrooms, staffrooms, teacher education programmes and educational policy.

They influence whether a child can safely explore who they are. They affect what teachers believe they are permitted to say and teach. They shape institutional decisions about names, pronouns, uniforms, toilets, sport and relationships education. And they influence whether trans and gender-nonconforming students and educators experience educational spaces as places in which their lives are recognised as possible.

But something greater is also at stake.

Education should be about expanding the possibilities through which young people can understand themselves and the worlds they inhabit. Gender essentialism narrows those possibilities by and prescribes how bodies should be understood. It depends on a notion that  free thought is contagious, that accepting trans people undermines everyone who isn’t trans, and the twisted logic that teaching about gender diversity is “teaching kids to be trans.”

Defending gender diversity is consequently not a specialist concern belonging only to trans communities. It is about educational and personal freedom of thought and choice, allowing for diversity of experience, understanding, and values. Accepting the sleight of hand that mandates gender essentialism by calling it “biological sex” forces everyone through a cookie-cutter into a shape that inevitably won’t fit. It undermines the trust required for education, opens the door to other politically-mandated “truths” and requires that every teacher become a propagandist. If that sounds like what demagogues have claimed inclusive education does, you just have to look at what they were arguing for instead.

Gathering in Aotearoa 

A photo of AUT in Auckland

When the Gender and Education Association gathers in Aotearoa New Zealand for its 2026 conference, we will do so at a moment when the meanings of sex and gender are being fiercely contested across borders.

Having these conversations in Aotearoa invites us to consider global movements towards gender essentialism from a place shaped by Te Tiriti o Waitangi, mātauranga Māori (Māori knowledge) and takatāpui histories, presents and futures, rather than simply importing political debates produced elsewhere.

It also invites dialogue across borders. What can we learn from what is happening globally? How are anti-trans and gender-essentialist politics moving between national contexts? How are they being translated into education policy and practice? What forms of resistance, solidarity and possibility are emerging alongside them?

The freedom of trans, non-binary, intersex, takatāpui, and all other gender-nonconforming people is bound up with a larger feminist project: the freedom of everyone to live beyond prescribed gender norms.

Denying others that freedom is ultimately denying everyone that freedom.

Images:

Pride gathering flag photo from Pxhere
X chromosome Photo by Unknown Author is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND
Photo of And Tango Makes Three is author’s own
All gender restroom photo
School children with flag by Copyright ©University of Cambridge
This Photo by Unknown Author is licensed under CC BY-SA-NC

the letters ADHD spelled out in fridge magnet letters

Love, Actually?: What We Know (and Don’t Know) About ADHD Women’s Experiences in Romantic Relationships 

Emma NormanLearning and Pilots Manager. University of Exeter.  

Introduction: Understanding ‘romantic relationships’ and the diversity of lived experience 

The course of true love never does run smooth. Romantic relationships are deeply personal, with everyone who seeks them experiencing them differently.  

Where successful and healthy, romantic relationships can have strong positive personal impacts, contributing to mental and physical health and well-being (Gómez-López et al., 2019Apostolou et al., 2023).  

However, not all relationships are healthy: 

  • In the year ending March 2025, 3.8 million people aged 16 and over in England and Wales experienced domestic abuse, with over half that figure being women (ONS, 2025a).  
  • 1 in 4 women in England and Wales experience domestic abuse with some women disproportionately affected, including those with disabilities (Refuge, n.d.).  

Although all neurodivergent women face increased risks of relationship difficulties or abuse (Pearson et al., 2024), research to date focuses on autistic women’s romantic experiences (e.g. Sedgewick and Douglas, 2023), leaving those of ADHD women underexplored. We are therefore potentially depriving many individuals with ADHD – and their future partners – of the chance to understand what a healthy relationship looks like for them, particularly as Relationship and Sex Education (RSE) has yet to catch up with the growing numbers of children seeking a diagnosis (DfE. 2025a).  

graphic of a teach in a classroom and the students are engaged. A heart surrounds them.

This blog begins to examine – in a non-exhaustive way – what current research reveals. It also identifies potential gaps in this developing area of study that might help us in educating students about what healthy, inclusive romantic relationships look like. It is inspired and driven by my own personal experience navigating a late AuDHD diagnosis whilst in a long-term relationship.  

It does, I am afraid, include a lot of links in case you want to check out any of this research for yourself – or share with a loved one.  

Firstly, what is ADHD, and what do we currently understand about women and diagnosis? 

Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) is a neurobehavioral disorder characterised by symptoms of inattentiveness, distractibility, hyperactivity, and impulsivity which interfere with day-to-day functioning (Psychology Today, 2026ADHD UK, n.d.). Symptoms can present differently depending on age and gender but must have been present before the age of 12 for someone to receive a diagnosis, which will be based on one of 3 presentations (APA, 2022): 

  • Predominantly Inattentive 
  • Predominantly Hyperactive-Impulsive  
  • Combined Presentation: where symptoms of both the above criteria were present.  

Increased awareness and visibility have led to increased demand for ADHD support (Martin et al., 2025Glyn Jones and Hoskin, 2023).  

Much of this demand comes from women (Topping, 2023Wise, 2026), reflecting greater recognition of gender differences in ADHD presentation (Wilson, 2026NHS SLaM, 2025): 

  • Girls and women’s symptoms are more likely to involve inattentiveness and may be masked in response to social expectations; 
  • Boys and men are more likely to exhibit overt hyperactive and impulsive behaviours, which are aligned more closely with traditional diagnostic criteria. 

Because their symptoms present differently, women remain frequently diagnosed later than men (Baig and Kahya, 2025; Hinshaw et al., 2022). With most women over 16 in or having been in a relationship (ONS, 2025b), an adulthood diagnosis increases their likelihood of receiving a diagnosis after experiencing romantic relationships – as I did. The growing number of women receiving ADHD diagnoses highlights the importance of understanding how ADHD can shape women’s experiences of the world, including romantic relationships, which remain a significant life experience for many. 

So, what do (and don’t) we know about ADHD women’s romantic relationship experiences? 

Adults with ADHD can experience poor quality romantic relationships.  

This will obviously not be true of everyone who has ADHD. But relationship challenges often form part of the diagnostic process since criteria includes impairment in personal settings caused by ADHD symptoms (APA, 2022). Inattention, impulsivity, and mood instability can negatively impact mental, emotional and behavioural elements of sexuality and thereby sexual relationships. For example: 

  • Impulsivity symptoms can hinder use of protective methods against sexually transmitted infections and lead to unwanted pregnancies (Young and Cocallis, 2023).  
  • Some excessively prioritise their partner’s needs to try and maintain relational security – but their deep need for validation, driven by rejection sensitivity, often leads to relational overinvestment, a lack of boundaries, and emotional burnout (O’Brien et al., 2025). 
  • Individuals with ADHD have a greater risk of perpetrating and of suffering sexual or intimate partner violence, a risk potentially linked to struggles with emotional self-regulation (Arrondo et al., 2023).  

None of these examples have broken results down by the 3 ADHD symptom presentations, which may impact how and if individuals with ADHD experience difficulties in romantic relationships.  

While writing this blog, I largely encountered studies taking a ‘deficit model approach’ (see Lai et al, 2025), focusing on the impairments experienced by those with ADHD. Only one piece alluded to how some traits associated with ADHD – such as creativity and ‘hyperfocusing’ on romance – may strengthen relational bonds; but even then, the authors acknowledged that the small amount of literature on romantic relationships of adults with ADHD demonstrated clear negative comparisons against non-affected peers (Wymbs et al, 2021).  

One recent study (Desille and Alba, 2026) showed that through their dysregulation, some individuals with ADHD experienced increased over-compensatory response mechanisms to either withdraw and avoid or move more intensely toward their partners, impacting sexual satisfaction. What was noticeable here, but not discussed by the authors, was that most of their participants were female.  

And so, what of women’s experiences? 

Some studies suggest that women with ADHD experience greater interpersonal social and relational difficulties than men with ADHD, and speculate that ADHD symptoms may be more distressing for young women, as men may be less likely to perceive these difficulties as impairing (Wymbs et al, 2021). 

two hands holding each other, one has a tattoo of a heartbeat with a heart integrated into the design

However, other research found that women with ADHD were more impaired in their romantic relationships than women without ADHD – but that women with ADHD did not have more romantic relationship impairment than men with ADHD (Babinski et al., 2011a). Notably this study was about women diagnosed with ADHD in childhood (we’ll come back to late-diagnosed women).  

ADHD can be associated with riskier sexual behaviour in women (Hosain et al., 2012). Another study (Wallin et al., 2022) highlighted several themes from feelings expressed by young, diagnosed women: 

  • Wanting partners to understand their emotions and behaviours, and accept them for who they are 
  • Living with intense emotions, which could influence the type of relationship they entered (e.g. one-night stands) and the stigma they felt for engaging openly in sexual activities 
  • Self-acknowledgement of their symptoms made it easier to develop strategies to improve sexual encounters.   

What would be interesting to know – and is hinted at above – is whether the stereotypes that hinder in women receiving early ADHD diagnoses (e.g. stigma attached to being different) also impact women who are in relationships while receiving a diagnosis.  

In fact, it remains unclear what romantic relationship experiences can be like for late-diagnosed ADHD women.  

Most women receiving an ADHD diagnosis are aged 25-40 (European College of Neuropsychopharmacology, 2025Marsh and Aguilar, 2024) – ages where many are in a romantic relationship (Schaeffer, 2024), or seeking one (Tinder, 2024).  

The diagnosis itself is a deeply personal experience that is different for everyone. In one study, women diagnosed with ADHD during either adolescence or adulthood tended to evolve a more positive self-perception, as their diagnosis provided an explanation for their differences (Keys et al., 2025). For some, the diagnosis comes as a relief and allows them a language by which to foster improved relationships with loved ones; for others, it can be traumatic knowing their lives could be different had they received treatment earlier; and for some, it led to initial denial (Morgan, 2023).  

Emerging research shows late diagnosis can harm women’s romantic relationships. For example: 

  • Late-diagnosed ADHD women can feel like “the odd one out” in relationships. Many describe the confusion and pain of giving a lot of themselves in relationships but receiving little in return, alongside feeling misunderstood when they react strongly to their emotions without feeling in control of them and being therefore perceived as being angry. Heartbreakingly, all participants in this study believed that their lives could have been different if they had received their diagnosis earlier in life (Qvale and Piech, 2025).  
  • Some late-diagnosed ADHD women admitted to masking symptoms to meet social norms and gender-based expectations of behaviour in settings including romantic relationships – which in turn delayed them receiving a diagnosis and support (Holden and Kobayashi-Wood, 2025).  

But it remains unclear how couples experience one or both partners receiving an ADHD diagnosis, particularly for long-term relationships or families.  

lots of arrows coming out of a head (all drawn) with the text 'my adhd mind'

While everyone’s reactions are different, research shows that an ADHD diagnosis can change how individuals perceive themselves and how others perceive them. Given the tone of the research listed here is largely negative, it is perhaps unsurprising that adults with ADHD frequently experience stigma about their diagnoses, from ableist prejudices to assumptions that those with ADHD are violent and unreliable (Ginapp et al, 2023). So: 

  • How might this impact how a partner sees a loved one experiencing a diagnosis? Does their knowledge of that person change? Particularly if you through the assumptions that ADHD symptoms are inherently not feminine into the mix?  
  • How does being in a relationship with children impact the experience of diagnosis? After all, many women begin the process of getting a diagnosis after their child has been diagnosed with ADHD (Attoe and Climie, 2023).  
  • How might the menopause impact ADHD women’s relationships (Moseley et al., 2026), including if a diagnosis occurs in this period while in a relationship? 

A wealth of support exists for those diagnosed with ADHD – but much of it requires independent research and education, alongside knowing that you may have ADHD.  

One positive of increased awareness of ADHD is that it has become more prominent in popular culture, for example through ADHD Awareness Month, increased portrayal of characters with ADHD, and social media. As of May 2022, the hashtag #adhd had 11.4 billion views on TikTok (Abdelnour et al., 2022). Personal experience videos received the highest engagement (Yeung et al., 2022), reflecting desires for those undiagnosed to feel understood.   

What does this mean for education? 

As awareness of ADHD in women grows, efforts should focus on translating this knowledge into earlier support for younger generations, who also experience romantic relationships (Brar et al., 2023). Adolescents with ADHD experience many of the same issues highlighted in this blog (Rokeach and Weiner, 2014), with girls diagnosed with ADHD having fewer romantic relationships than neurotypical peers (Babinski et al., 2011b).  If the above illustrates nothing else, it is that earlier diagnosis and awareness may have helped many women with ADHD avoid some of the negative experiences they had.

However, current RSE guidance (DfE, 2025a) refers to neurodiversity only to emphasise accessibility and schools’ responsibility to tailor resources to students’ needs. Guidance ignores the increase in children receiving neurodiversity diagnoses (Sample, 2024), with RSE through a neurodivergent lens omitted from the DfE’s recent consultation (2025b). Moreover, girls with ADHD are disproportionately missed in schools (Shelford, 2025Lynch and Davison, 2022) contributing to delayed diagnosis in adulthood, with many teachers lacking confidence and training to adapt RSE effectively (Fox and Riley, 2025). RSE may therefore fail to equip students to navigate healthy relationships.  

hand holds a phone showing a social media page

The Instagram algorithm guessed that I had ADHD 2 years before I sought a diagnosis. Although I initially joked about it, it made me reflect on challenges I was experiencing that others didn’t seem to share. If that happens, you now only need type something akin to ‘ADHD support’ or ‘ADHD and relationships’ into Google to find more guidance on understanding and navigating life with ADHD than a person could ever hope to read. Those around you, including a partner, need only do the same, which can help curate a shared language for you both to explore life with ADHD together.  

However, 52% of ADHD-related TikTok videos have been found to be inaccurate (BBC, 2026). If online spaces continue to be the main avenue that we – and particularly young people – use to find out more about themselves, how do we know they are being accurately and adequately supported? Particularly if young people are to be removed from online spaces (DSIT, 2026), we need to ensure their education makes room for them to discuss these topics in a safe, informed way.   

It isn’t just about neurodivergent girls and women recognising what this means for them.  

Women’s Aid’s definition of a healthy relationship places support at the centre. While adults with ADHD struggle with interpersonal relationships, social support can increase functioning: for example, a supportive spouse has been described as helping adults with ADHD stay organized and keep up with life tasks (Ginapp et al., 2023).  

Wallin et al. (2022) show the importance both of partners understanding their ADHD partner’s emotions and behaviours, and accepting them for who they are, and of the individual knowing themselves to recognise the influence their symptoms may have over their romantic experiences. The role of RSE in schools is to help individuals understand what a healthy relationship looks like for them and how to perpetuate healthy relationships. If we aren’t discussing this in classrooms, how else do we address the issues of intolerance, misunderstanding, and exclusivity that contribute to some of the unhealthy experiences those with ADHD face, as outlined above?  

Much remains unknown, which could also inform neuro-affirmative RSE.  

For example:  

  • How might intersectionality of neurodiversity impact how you experience a diagnosis while in a romantic relationship? ADHD often co-occurs with other psychiatric diagnoses, particularly those with autism spectrum disorder, bipolar disorder and tic disorders (Johnson et al., 2026). 
  • How might this vary by age?  
  • How do impacts on other areas of life – career, success – affect relationships? Inattention, hyperactivity, and impulsivity associated with ADHD may impair completing school, securing employment, living independently, relationships with substances, as well as negotiating romantic relationships (Johnson et al., 2026Babinski et al., 2011b). 
  • Recent research on strength-based approaches showed that a greater use of personal strengths was more strongly associated with better wellbeing, higher physical, psychological, and social quality of life and lower levels of depression for those with ADHD (Hargitai et al., 2025). Does this transpire into romantic settings where partners and individuals acknowledge their strengths? 

We haven’t even yet begun to explore the impact of negative press on ‘overdiagnosis’ (e.g. O’Sullivan, 2025) in how seriously partners might take a disclosure. Some researchers have already warned medical providers that focusing on ‘overdiagnosis’ may cause harm, create additional barriers to care, and add to the stigma towards individuals’ requests for help (Cortese et al., 2026Abdelnour et al., 2022).  

Moreover, only around 1 in 9 of all adults with ADHD receive a formal diagnosis (O’Nions et al., 2025).  This has resulted in long waiting lists, varying across the UK from 12 weeks to 10 years for adults (ADHD UK, 2023). There will therefore be many women still struggling without being sure why, or without access to support.  

Reflections  

Some questions to ask ourselves might include: 

  • do we appropriately support neurodivergent women in domestic abuse support and RSE, knowing they may be more vulnerable? 
  • do we appropriately educate all age groups to recognise what a healthy relationship looks like for you, and how to foster this with a partner – including through diagnosis? 
  • do we yet appropriately challenge stereotypes of ADHD in the classroom, and how might this be woven into initiatives to address violence against women and girls (Phelan et al., 2025)? 

For my part, I never expected to receive a late AuDHD diagnosis (having assumed my struggles were normal) and was grateful to have my partner’s support throughout the process. However, I often wonder how different that experience might have been without it. As research advances, I hope we can ensure all women have access to the knowledge and support they need—not just those fortunate enough to find it. 

References: 

Abdelnour, E., Jansen, M.O., and Gold, J.A. (2022) ‘ADHD Diagnostic Trends: Increased Recognition or Overdiagnosis?’, The Journal of the Missouri State Medical Association, 119 (5), pp.467-473. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC9616454/  

ADHD UK (n.d.) What is ADHD. https://adhduk.co.uk/about-adhd/  

ADHD UK (2023) ADHD UK’S report into NHS ADHD assessment waiting lists October 2023https://adhduk.co.uk/nhs-adhd-assessments-waiting-lists-report/  

American Psychiatric Association (APA) (2022) Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders: DSM-5-TR. 5th edn. American Psychiatric Association. https://doi.org/10.1176/appi.books.9780890425787  

Apostolou M., Christoforou C., and Lajunen, TJ. (2023) ‘What are Romantic Relationships Good for? An Explorative Analysis of the Perceived Benefits of Being in a Relationship’, Evolutionary Psychology, 21 (4). https://doi.org/10.1177/14747049231210245  

Arrondo, G., Osorio, A., Magallón, S., Lopez-del-Burgo, C., and Cortese, S. (2023) ‘Attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder as a risk factor for being involved in intimate partner violence and sexual violence: a systematic review and meta-analysis’, Psychological Medicine, 53 (16), pp. 7883-7892. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10755239/  

Attoe, D. E., and Climie, E. A. (2023). ‘Miss. Diagnosis: A Systematic Review of ADHD in Adult Women’. Journal of Attention Disorders, 27 (7), pp.645-657. https://doi.org/10.1177/10870547231161533   

Baig, S. K., and Kahya, H. H. (2025) ‘‘I felt like a broken person’: the experiences of women navigating a late ADHD diagnosis in the UK’, Advances in Mental Health, pp. 1–25. https://doi.org/10.1080/18387357.2025.2524513  

Babinski, D.E., Pelham, W.E. Jr., Molina, B.S., Waschbusch, D.A., Gnagy, E.M., Yu, J., Sibley, M.H., and Biswas, A. (2011a) ‘Women with Childhood ADHD: Comparisons by Diagnostic Group and Gender’, Journal of Psychopathology and Behavioral Assessment, 33 (4), pp.420-429. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10862-011-9247-4  

Babinski, D.E., Pelham, W.E. Jr., Molina, B.S., Gnagy, E.M., Waschbusch, D.A., Yu, J., Maclean, M.G., Wymbs, B.T., Sibley, M.H., Biswas, A., Robb, J.A., Karch, K.M. (2011b) ‘Late adolescent and young adult outcomes of girls diagnosed with ADHD in childhood: an exploratory investigation’,  Journal of Attention Disorders, 15 (3), pp.204–214. doi:10.1177/1087054710361586

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Hosain, G.M.M., Berenson, A.B., Tennen, H., Bauer, L.O., and Wu, Z.H. (2012) ‘Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Symptoms and Risky Sexual Behavior in Young Adult Women’, Journal of Women’s Health, 21 (4), pp.463-468. doi:10.1089/jwh.2011.2825 

Johnson, S., Lim, E., Jacoby, P. (2026) ‘Prevalence of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder/hyperkinetic disorder of pediatric and adult populations in clinical settings: a systematic review, meta-analysis and meta-regression’, Molecular Psychiatry, 31, pp.576–586. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41380-025-03178-8 

Keys, Z., Kieran, A., and Burns, S. (2025) ‘“You are all on motorbikes and I’m on a bicycle”: exploring the retrospective school experiences of females with ADHD through a systemic lens’, Emotional and Behavioural Difficulties, pp. 1–19. https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/13632752.2025.2505829  

Klein, R. G., Mannuzza, S., Olazagasti, M. A. R., Roizen, E., Hutchison, J. A., Lashua, E. C., and Castellanos, F. X. (2012). ‘Clinical and functional outcome of childhood attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder 33 years later’, Archives of General Psychiatry, 69 (12), 1295. doi:10.1001/archgenpsychiatry.2012.271 

Lai, E.C.L., Aoki, A., Seera, G. (2025) ‘Embracing neurodiversity: shifting from deficit-based model to strength-based model’, East Asian Archives of Psychiatry, 35 (2), pp.123-127. https://doi.org/10.12809/eaap2518  

Lynch, A., and Davison, K. (2022). ‘Gendered expectations on the recognition of ADHD in young women and educational implications’. Irish Educational Studies, 43 (1), pp.61–81. Available at: https://doi.org/10.1080/03323315.2022.2032264  

Margherio, S.M., Capps, E. R., Monopoli, J. W., Evans, S. W., Hernandez-Rodriguez, M., Owens, J. S., and DuPaul, G. J. (2021). ‘Romantic relationships and sexual behavior among adolescents with ADHD’, Journal of Attention Disorders, 25 (10), pp.1466–1478. doi: 10.1177/1087054720914371 

Marsh, S., and Aguilar García., C. (2024) ‘Record numbers in England taking ADHD medication, NHS data shows’, The Guardian, 26 July. https://www.theguardian.com/society/article/2024/jul/26/record-numbers-in-england-taking-adhd-medication-nhs-data-shows  

Martin, A.F., Rubin, G.J., Rogers, M.B., Wessely, S., Greenberg, N., Hall, C.E., Pitt, A., Logan, P.E., Lucas, R., and Brooks, S.K. (2025) ‘The changing prevalence of ADHD? A systematic review’, Journal of Affective Disorders, 388, article no. 119427. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jad.2025.119427  

Molenaar, M., Santos Laanan, F., and Burrow-Sanchez, J. (2025) ‘The intersection of disabilities and the risk of sexual assault victimization among female college students’, Journal of American College Health, pp. 1–29. https://doi.org/10.1080/07448481.2025.2577661  

Morgan, J. (2023). Exploring women’s experiences of diagnosis of ADHD in adulthood: a qualitative study. Advances in Mental Health, 22 (3), pp.575–589. https://doi.org/10.1080/18387357.2023.2268756  

Moseley, R. L., Gamble-Turner, J. M., Kim, E., and Spencer, C. (2026). ‘Autism, ADHD and the menopause’, Post Reproductive Health, pp.1–11. https://doi.org/10.1080/20533691.2026.2631222 

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O’Brien, M., Kini-Seery. C., Kelly, C., Kilbride, K., Wrigley, M., Nearchou, F., Bramham, J. (2025) ‘”I Felt Like a Burden”: An Exploration Into the Experience of Romantic Relationships for People With ADHD’, Journal of Marital and Family Therapy, 52 (1). https://doi.org/10.1111/jmft.70097  

O’Nions, E., El Baou, C., John, A., Lewer, D., Mandy, W., McKechnie, D.G.J., Petersen, I., and Stott, J. (2025) ‘Life expectancy and years of life lost for adults with diagnosed ADHD in the UK: matched cohort study’, The British Journal of Psychiatry, 226 (5), pp.261-268. doi:10.1192/bjp.2024.199 

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Images

ADHD Letters: www.amenclinics.com https://www.flickr.com/photos/125892716@N05/14419482990
Sex Education: Nick Shepherd / Ikon Images / NTB
Holding hands: Tifeclicks
My ADHD Mind: Tara Winstead 
Classroom: Pavel Danilyuk 
Phone: by Swello on Unsplash

handwritten 'once upon a time' on paper with pen

How to Teach Fairy Tales as a Feminist 

By Sara Turnbull – Doctoral Researcher at Lancaster University 

“Fairy tales”. Scanning the curriculum for my first teaching job, those two words triggered immediate dread and despair. As a fierce feminist, my inner siren was screeching. Did I really abandon a career in economics to reinforce outdated, heteronormative gender roles? I did not want to teach stories where a woman’s sole talent is being beautiful, consent is non-existent, and young boys are taught that emotional suppression equals bravery. 

However, as I was contractually bound to the curriculum, I had to find a way forward. That was over a decade ago. Today, I’ve come to the realisation that fairy tales aren’t a feminist educator’s worst nightmare but rather a tool for encouraging early activism.  

When we give young learners permission to fully engage with these stories, they instinctively question what is fair and unfair. When I ask why the princess had no choice, twenty hands go up in the air.  If you want to use a problematic curriculum to your advantage, here are three practical steps to bring traditional tales up to date. 

1. Don’t ban the book, change the questions 

paper princess (white, blonde hair, femme) on a horse

Instead of banning traditional stories, we as educators can use them as a starting point for critical thinking. Young children love the magic behind fairy tales and that engagement serves as our hook. Once students are fully engaged  introduce targeted questions that challenge societal norms. You can ask questions such as “Why does the prince get to make all the decisions?”, “Is beauty a requirement for being a good person?” or “What if the princess saves herself, or does the prince need rescuing?”. You will find that children are just as outraged as you are, often instantly spotting  structural unfairness. 

2. Validate Students’ Concerns 

During a breakthrough moment in my classroom, I realised that children were naturally questioning these scenarios. We were reading Sleeping Beauty, and the moment the prince kissed her without asking, a little boy shouted out, “That’s a stranger! You’re not supposed to touch people when they are asleep!”. It completely stopped the reading. Whenever we read stories, they routinely asked questions such as “Why don’t they have jobs? Is she crazy marrying a man she doesn’t know?”. When students ask questions and voice concerns, don’t brush them off to finish the book or keep up with the timings of the curriculum. Instead, pause and let them lead the discussion. When we allow our students to steer the conversation, we show them that their instincts about justice are correct and they shift from passive listeners to agents of change. 

a classroom of engaged young learners

In my own classroom, I have introduced further activities whereby students have a bell and when we are reading a traditional tale, they ring the bell whenever they notice something unjust. We pause throughout the story to unpack our thoughts, feelings, and the wider systems that make these situations seem normal. Overall, we can use their scepticism  to initiate open discussions on real-world issues such as consent, racism and rigid gender conformity.

3. Introduce Counter-Narratives 

Pair traditional tales with unconventional, modern adaptations to show students that narratives can be rewritten. Use classic feminist texts such as Robert Munsch’s The Paper Bag Princess, where Princess Elizabeth rescues an ungrateful and judgmental prince and then promptly ditches him to flee with the dragon, to dismantle female submission. To support boys, introduce stories such as The Story of Ferdinand, the gentle bull who prefers to smell flowers rather than fighting, to explicitly validate that boys do not have to be aggressive or tough to be the hero.  

children in classroom share work

Students can take a traditional story and rewrite the ending, giving them a chance to go from passive listeners to agents of change.  

Thirteen years ago, I thought teaching fairy tales would be a professional life sentence. Today, I see them completely differently. They provide a safe space where young children can explore the vital skills of challenging societal norms. As feminist educators, we will always encounter lessons and materials that conflict with our personal morals, but this is where the real work begins. By being open and inviting our students to question, speak up, and flip the script, we can help ensure their own happily ever after is one of their own choice and making. 

Images:

Image by Fathromi Ramdlon from Pixabay
Picture by Chris F from Pexels
Photo by CDC on Unsplash
Photo by Yan Krukau on Pexels

Want to write for us? Find out more here!

Three women smile at a camera with the text Solidarity and Beyond Symposium

Solidarity, Sisterhood, and the Emotional Labour in Academia

by Reshmi Lahiri-Roy, Rachel Daniel & Kelly Hart

Some stories need sharing. And sometimes we must be our sisters’ keepers. As three women working in the same regional Australian university, our sisterhood and solidarity grew as we shared the vicissitudes of our lives, conversing in corridors, online, and occasionally, sharing meals. These interactions, interwoven with our passions, interests, and emotions offered an unusual academic freedom. We shared on parenting, life events, cultural responsibilities, and the emotional labour of being mothers in academia.

a person speaks at the front of a seminar room that is full of people looking at the speaker

Working as collaborative autoethnographers, our conversations became a journal paper. Encouraged by reviewer responses to our now accepted paper and a faculty conference grant, we hosted a symposium based on solidarity, sisterhood, and allyship around academic motherhood. It was gratifying to be joined by enthusiastic scholars, on-campus and online, who proactively queried “what happens when we stop pretending these experiences sit outside academia and instead recognise them as central to it”? Instead of a single narrative of “academic motherhood,” all voices asserted that gender, care, and education are deeply entangled. And to be meaningful, solidarity must extend beyond tokenistic celebrations of diversity, perfunctory policy changes, or advocacy of endurance.

From the symposium’s presentations and collaborative discussions, strong themes emerged:

Stories beyond “work–life balance”

a classroom of people interacting with each other, some are seated at tables, others are standing

Women academics are conditioned that balancing academic work and care responsibilities is a personal responsibility. Our presenters (of all genders) resisted this idea, contending that the issue is not women, mothers, carers, or marginalised academics failing to manage competing demands. It stems from neoliberal academia’s fossilised academic stereotype of the heterosexual male, preferably single, or supported by the ubiquitous wife, ready to meet academic demands (Anderson et al., 2020). Overlooked narratives ranged from academics based in regional universities, struggling with travel, to the penalties paid by others who cannot relocate or attend conferences; illuminating that care responsibilities are not incidental. Given the institutional preference for rewarding staff visibility, research productivity, and traditionally linear careers, those encumbered with care responsibilities remain behind.

Whose motherhood counts?

Running like a silken ripple through the symposium was the refusal to treat academic motherhood as a single, universal experience. Indigenous, migrant, working class, adoptive motherhood, and first in family academics convivially intertwined different realities.

For Australian First Nations scholars, caregiving is interwoven with kinship, community, and Country (Minthorn et. al 2018). Motherhood is imbricated in their lives as a knowledge source rooted in accountability, not viewed as a distraction from intellectual life. Institutional systems mostly devalue these ways of being and knowing, designating care as an individual rather than a collective responsibility.

For migrant academics, motherhood comes layered with stresses of visa insecurity, fractured professional networks, and the task of caring across borders based on cultural expectations. Some navigate “third space” roles, straddling academic and professional spaces, as a flexible compromise, which raises questions around academic legitimacy, recognition, and authenticity. We heard from those struggling to achieve parenthood, for whom conversations centred on motherhood become exclusionary. Reflections on topics usually avoided in academia, including infertility and miscarriage were shared, highlighting the profound impact on wellbeing, identity, and participation. Solidarity based on preconceptions that everyone’s reproductive journey is similar risks silencing many.

Invisible labour and audible bias

A person speaks in front of a lecture room of people seated and watching. On a screen we see an online speaker and community also joining.

With a smattering of international scholars, an emergent global theme was the lack of recognition and reward for that which academics deem as essential work (Reid 2021), encompassing emotional and individual labour including mentoring students, fostering collegiality, organising workloads, defusing conflicts, and professional and domestic care work, essentially ‘women’s work’, often racialised and ignored. Workplace microaggressions (Blithe & Elliott, 2020) were mentioned: being interrupted, spoken over, dubbed unproductive and excluded from decision-making spaces post motherhood.

The exhaustion from this marginalisation through motherhood was a palpable presence. The need to constantly prove credibility, mask grief, fatigue, or vulnerability to be perceived as professional, and the painful knowledge that stepping back, even briefly, has long-term consequences remains omnipresent.

We learned that:

Solidarity needs expanding beyond support in stressful times to be designated as genuine sisterhood; capturing elements of resistance, advocacy, and collective action. Several contributors argued for solidarity as a clearly developed collective practice. This includes challenging visible bias, advancing transparent workload models, planning meetings and events acknowledging care responsibilities, refuting longstanding narratives of inevitable, and recognising diverse allyship outside gender groups. A core feature of solidarity is listening, especially to those traditionally suppressed in universities, the ‘invisibles’, ranging from BIPOC scholars to those with disabilities.

Why gender and education matter right now!

We rethought Epictetus’s assertion that only the educated are truly free. Positioned as a pathway to equality, education systems can reproduce inequality if we don’t interrogate embedded intersectional inequalities and question whose knowledge counts. Universities are under pressure, leading to normalising burnout and stress. But gendered and intersecting inequalities are exacerbated by austerity. As redundancies become commonplace, losing experienced women, carers, and marginalised scholars narrows knowledge production, students support, and ultimately, creative futures.

Progressing Together

While no perfect solutions crystallised at the symposium, hope emerged that naming these realities together is a form of change (Sum et al. 2025). Connecting across institutions, disciplines, and borders transforms isolation into collective understanding. The presenters asserted that gender equity is intertwined with access, participation, knowledge, and care. These conversations reiterated that academia needs more institutional responsibility not individual resilience. We recognised that solidarity is not about struggling alone but about imagining, insisting upon, and progressing to something better, together.

References

Anderson, L., Gatwiri, K., & Townsend-Cross, M. (2020). Battling the “headwinds”: the experiences of minoritised academics in the neoliberal Australian university. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education33(9), 939–953. https://doi.org/10.1080/09518398.2019.1693068  

Blithe, S. J., & Elliott, M. (2020). Gender inequality in the academy: microaggressions, work-life conflict, and academic rank. Journal of Gender Studies29(7), 751–764. https://doi.org/10.1080/09589236.2019.1657004

Minthorn, R. Z., Nelson, C. A., Shotton, H. J., Lee, T. S., Tsinnajinnie-Paquin, L., Faircloth, S., Reyes, N., Chow-Garcia, N., Johnson-Jennings, M., & Johnson-Jennings, A. (2022). Indigenous Motherhood in the Academy. Rutgers University Press. https://books.google.com.au/books?id=fLx9EQAAQBAJ  

Reid, R. A. (2021). Retaining Women Faculty: The Problem of Invisible Labor. PS: Political Science & Politics54(3), 504–506. doi:10.1017/S1049096521000056

Lahiri-Roy, R., Daniel, R., & Hart, K. (2026, accepted, in press). Arduously reconciling the ‘good mother’ with the ‘academic worker’: A collaborative autoethnography on academic motherhood and sisterhood in Australian higher education. Journal of Women and Gender in Higher Education.

Sum, N., Lahiri-Roy, R., & Belford, N. (2025). Hope theory as resistance: narratives of South Asian scholars in Australian academia. Equality, Diversity and Inclusion: An International Journal, 44(1), 26–40. https://doi.org/10.1108/EDI-03-2023-0085  

All images are author’s own

progress pride with two spirit feather logo

Pride Month is Indigenous Peoples’ History Month: Why Queer and Trans liberation must be tethered to decolonization and Two-Spirit sovereignty 

A digital event reflection on Two-Spirit Reconciliation with the National Centre for Truth & Reconciliation
Brent Saccucci, Faculty of Education, University of Lethbridge

This Indigenous-led event was a Two-Spirit Reconciliation dialogue held in June 2020, which is Indigenous People’s History month and Pride month. The dialogue was facilitated by Candy Palmater, an oratist and writer from Eel River Bar Mi’kmaw Nation in collaboration with the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation at the University of Manitoba. Palmater facilitated the conversation with two Two-Spirit leaders: Intergenerational Survivor and Knowledge Keeper Dr. Albert McLeod from Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation and the Metis community of Norway House in northern Manitoba, and Intergenerational Survivor Harlen Pruden who is First Nations Cree Nation/nēhiyo, whose mother is from the Beaver Lake Reservation and father from the Whitefish Lake Reservation, both located in Treaty 6 Territory (now known as northeastern “Alberta”). In Canada, June is not only Pride Month, it is Indigenous Peoples’ Month – and for me, that isn’t coincidence: Queer and trans liberation must be tethered to decolonization and Two-Spirit sovereignty. In fact, colonization brought homo/transphobia as a white Christian nationalist project that we still see pervading our schools today.  

Admittedly, a lot of ground was covered in this discussion, so this reflection will focus on the panel’s themes between Indigenous Peoples and religion/spirituality in the context of Two-Spirit reconciliation. Below, I reflect on this relationship in two sections that overlap: “truth” and “reconciliation”. Truth outlines how residential schools operated a Christian imperial project enforcing Euro-Christian gender and sexual norms. This religious colonialism continues today where Two-Spirit Peoples continue to resist systemic erasure and ongoing homophobia/transphobia, notably in education and church institutions. Like Mcleod, I believe the church has not been held accountable for its role in perpetuating these harms, especially in curriculum when teaching Canada’s history (31:58). 

fair skinned hand with light refracting to make rainbow

Then, the reconciliation section will focus on how supporting Two-Spirit sovereignty and solidarity means anti-homophobia/transphobia education must adopt a decolonial approach. The section ends with the understanding Two-Spirit identity not only as “Indigenous + Queer” but as a spiritual re-orientation challenging colonial Christian binaries, fostering healing and relationality. As a settler myself, the aim of this reflection is to take seriously Pruden’s call to action: “For non-Native people, their charge is to learn our real history [truth], and then reconcile that history with today so they do not become today’s colonizer [reconciliation]” (21:57).  

Residential schools were operated as a Christian-colonial projects (Truth) 

The first point of critical analysis is the history (truth): The role of the church was fundamental in bringing not only colonial, but EuroChristian norms of gender and sexuality as central teachings into the residential schools. Like many Queer and Trans folks, I was aware that gendered and sexual norms were part of colonial/British culture which influenced how the residential schools forcibly taught colonial gender and sexuality norms. But because Christian nationalism is often baked into culture as normalcy, I didn’t see the underlying (and yet central) Christianity within this colonial project.  When host Palmater stated that “the very mention of sexuality, thanks to colonization, is seen as something dirty” (43:04, emphasis added),  it became clear there was a religious element in this dialogue around truth. As a queer kid who grew up Catholic, the word “dirty” admittedly triggered me in a small way – it reminded me of the language a pastor used to describe gay people once in Catholic mass. This language of “dirty” comes from Christian purity culture and the idea of gender betrayal and homosexuality as a sin. After re-watching the video a second time, the messafe was becoming clearer that I had always known (and yet not explicitly named)  – colonization was, and continues to be, an explicitly Christian project. Mcleod directly names that the colonizers used religiosity to justify the vilification and subjugation of Two-Spirit Peoples, explaining “we were not seen as spiritual people, we were seen as corrupt, we were seen as a work of the devil” (13:58, emphasis added). I wondered: Because Alberta has normalized white Christian nationalism – both historically and contemporarily – could I have normalized colonialism as secular, instead of an (obviously) Christian imperial project? With this lens, I rewatched the event a second time, now more attuned to Mcleod’s suggestion at the onset of the panel where he explicitly names the aim of “early contact” as directly aimed at “imposing a Euro-Christian ideal about binary gender” (10:05). And don’t we now see that imperial project still alive today in white Christian nationalism – not only in the US – but in Alberta as we face the prospect of separation from Canada?  

Teaching truth must fracture the white Christian nationalist colonial project (Truth) 

people hold a sign that reads (in pride colours) 'There's nothing wrong with you. There's a lot wrong with the world you live in!'

This truth matters to me as a teacher-educator in Alberta committed to decolonization, preparing our province’s future teachers in curricula such as our new Social Studies curriculum that states Alberta students must know the history of residential schools and their effects on Indigenous Peoples (Alberta Education, 2025). However, it’s important to note that in the new curriculum, the role of the church is barely mentioned once in describing the residential schools, and Two-Spirit Peoples are not mentioned once, keeping the white Christian nationalist image intact, void of any real responsibility for homo/transphobia or empire, while attempting to erase Two-Spirit sovereignty. We see similar erasure in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) – another document that our new Social Studies curriculum is supposed to cover – but a document that does not name Two-Spirit Peoples at all. Speaking to this absence, Mcleod states offence the TRC didn’t acknowledge the residential schools as “a gendered structure and mechanism that still influences our communities today” (30:56). This ‘contemporary influence today’ is the modern white Christian nationalist church still at work attempting Two-Spirit erasure in our curriculum. Whether in curricula or in public discourse, Mcleod notes the church has absolved itself of responsibility, naming “we still haven’t even had these conversations about the inculcation of homophobia and transphobia against Indigenous and Two-Spirit Peoples for generations – they [the church] haven’t been held to account” (31:58). While this dialogue was in 2020, and the Pope ‘formally apologized’ to Indigenous Peoples in 2022, I would still argue the church has not been held to account when churches are only mentioned once, and Two-Spirit Peoples mentioned zero, in all of the Grade 7-9 curriculum that covers “Canadian history and human rights” (Alberta Education, 2025).  

Any anti-homo/transphobia education must be decolonial education (Reconciliation)  

Mcleod states urgently “we must have this dialogue with churches” noting that homo/transphobia brought by the church to Indigenous communities is still felt as ongoing colonization “through suicidality, poverty, and homelessness” (32:32).  Palmeter adds that as an queer Indigenous youth raised Catholic, when she came out it was the church’s homo/transphobia that removed her from her kinship structure, further isolating her from her culture: “As a person who was raised Catholic, that was a really difficult time for me – that they saw me as a sinner, causing me to leave a religion I was raised in with all my family and extended relatives” (33:18).  

Through telling the truth of the church in residential schools, we see that white Christian nationalism is the common denominator in our oppression both as 2SQT+ and Indigenous Peoples. This makes it clear that any pedagogical effort I make in resisting 2SQT+ erasure in curriculum must take a decolonial approach and be in solidarity with Two-Spirit and Indigenous Peoples.  

Two-Spirit sovereignty is not only a reclamation of cultural and sexual orientation, but of spiritual re-orientation to relationality (Reconciliation)  

It became clear throughout the dialogue that while some speakers also conceptualized Two-Spirit as noun ‘Indigenous + Queer/Trans’ (particularly Pruden), Two-Spirit was also understood a spiritual as a verb – one that undertakes an epistemic and ontological re-orienting outside the Cartesian mind/body dualism that pervades Christian colonial logics. Mcleod maintains that “the early colonizers saw and understood the power [of spirit] but because they were Christian, they couldn’t convert to that belief system – even though they understood its power – they would have rather destroyed it than collaborate and honour it” (1:12:32). Here, Two-Spirit sovereignty takes on a new understanding beyond just sexual liberation, but as Pruden says, “as a decolonizing and freeing of our minds, our soul, and our spirit” (52:57). This re-orientation reminded me of what Palmater rejoiced earlier in the dialogue, stating that “I love that Two-Spirit has the word spirit in it. Because so many of us LGBTQ+ people had to leave religion in order to be who we are … they can’t exist in both of those worlds” (15:04). In this way, Two-Spirit actually queers the dualistic binary of being either ‘religious/spiritual or queer’ — and instead demonstrates a new constellation of being that isn’t only an identity marker, but also an epistemic and ontological reorientation in the world that transcend Christian colonial logics and reignite spiritual ways of relating.  

someone holds a sign that says 'pray the gay to stay'

This relational way of being became clear at the end of the dialogue, where during the live Q&A a Trans Mohawk Inuk listener voiced that people in their community continue to be discriminating against them and they are lost at what to do next. Mcleod listens with deep care and replies by offering that every being is a “divine gift from Creator” and to “let spirit guide you” (1:12:10), even though that may feel hard to do. Pruden adds “I have to pray for them – because if I respond with hatred, I am no better than they are, and then colonization has won – because it has changed who I am ” (1:18:24). As a person who has confidently knocked faith down as purely harmful, I left this not only in deep reverence to the wisdom of the panelists, but also with more hope and faith than I’ve had in a long time.  

References 

Alberta Education. (2025). Social Studies curriculum (Grades 7–9)https://curriculum.learnalberta.ca/curriculum/en/c/sss7?s=SSS_7-9  

National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation. (2020, June 23). NCTR Dialogues – Two-Spirit Reconciliation [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plZZahy-37k  

Images

image by Zachary Harden, 13 September 2023 New Progress Pride flag used in June 2022 by Cambrian College in SudburyONhttps://cambriancollege.ca/news/2022/06/cambrian-college-opens-new-pride-centre-unveils-new-pride-flag/
Photo by Ruan Richard Rodrigues on Unsplash
Photo by Nk Ni on Unsplash
Photo by Kristel Hayes on Unsplash

The image shows a sketch 'addressing the lack of diversity in STEM: Academics, policy makers and change makers' which was created by a colleague, Dr Nic Dickson, to visually capture discussions from a STEM roundtable

Are We Moving the Needle? Women Academics of Colour and the Politics of Representation in STEM 

Dr Abimbola Abodunrin, Post-doc Researcher in Education. University of Glasgow.

Walk into many STEM faculties across the UK, and you might notice something right away: the posters/decor speak of diversity, the strategies promise inclusion, and the websites proudly showcase progress or perhaps more accurately, incremental progress. Yet, look a little closer at who is leading labs, shaping research agendas, and influencing decision-making, and a different story often emerges. As a male academic of colour researching within STEM education spaces, I often find myself asking a simple but ‘uncomfortable’ question: Are we really moving the needle? And perhaps more importantly, who is still being left behind? The experiences of women academics of colour continue to reveal a persistent gap between representational gains and promising agendas to pursue equ(al)ity. Their stories speak not just about numbers, but about belonging, voice, and power. They also echo wider concerns raised in Danny Clegg’s WonkHE blog, where he suggests that universities are often better at documenting inequalities than preventing or addressing them. These reflections challenge all of us, including men and men of colour such as myself, to think more introspectively about what it means to actively contribute to decolonising STEM and academia more broadly. 

Vibrant test tubes filled with liquids in a modern lab setting, showcasing scientific exploration.

For many institutions, progress is measured through the politics of enumeration, even when agendas are well-intentioned: how many women are recruited, how many minoritised academics are appointed, how many diversity initiatives are launched. These numbers matter, of course. But numbers alone do not tell the whole story. Being the only one in the room or, worse still, being present to ‘authenticate’ spaces and projects without necessarily shaping them remains a familiar trope of experience for many women academics of colour. Alongside this is the invisible and often unremunerated labour of mentoring students seeking role models, sitting on diversity committees, and balancing expectations both at home and in the workplace that weighs on her body and career. Do I also speak of the tensions of performing particular forms of scientific legitimacy – marked by her ability to speak science, do science, and embody science in ways that mirror dominant cultural practices?  

A Black woman scientist in a lab coat using a microscope in a modern laboratory setting

I have witnessed, and through my research, had the privilege to listen to, brilliant women academics of colour whose ideas (re)shape conversations, yet whose contributions are sometimes framed as “niche” rather than central to STEM innovation. These experiences speak to representational politics, signalling symbolic inclusion and progress without disrupting the epistemic centre. As  Kalwant Bhopal’s article discusses, even equ(al)ity and diversity staff within universities often find themselves constrained; able to “talk the talk” but not always permitted to “walk the walk” when it comes to implementing equitable changes. Representation, in this sense, becomes visible but precarious; present, yet positioned at the margins of institutional power, even when occupying a leadership position. 

As a male academic of colour, I am also conscious of the spaces I occupy and the privileges I may hold, even within marginalised identities. Decolonising STEM is not simply about increasing diversity; it is more about questioning whose knowledge counts, whose voices are heard, and whose experiences shape institutional change. This means listening more carefully to women academics of colour, amplifying their contributions, and reflecting on how we, as colleagues, mentors, and collaborators, can challenge systems that continue to (re)produce inequ(al)ities. It also means recognising that decolonisation is neither a metaphor, as Tuck and Yang, put it, nor a destination but an ongoing practice. Sometimes this work involves small but subversive everyday actions: citing their work, recommending them for leadership roles, or challenging assumptions about their credibility and expertise in meetings. These may seem like small steps, but they contribute to shifting cultures and redistributing voice and influence. 

Three colleagues working together on a project, focusing on a laptop screen.

Encouragingly, there are growing conversations and initiatives seeking to address these issues. From mentorship networks and collaborative research communities to institutional commitments around equity and inclusion, there are signs of movement in the right direction. Yet, the question remains: are these efforts reshaping structures, or simply reshaping appearances? The stories of women academics of colour offer a powerful reminder that equitable and lasting changes require more than good intentions. It requires sustained commitment, uncomfortable conversations, and shared responsibility. As we continue to trouble the question of whether we are moving the needle, perhaps the most important step is to keep listening, keep reflecting, and keep working together toward a STEM academy where representation is not only visible but fundamentally equitable. 

Dr Abimbola Abodunrin 
Post-doc Researcher in Education 
University of Glasgow 
a.abodunrin.1@research.gla.ac.uk 

https://www.linkedin.com/in/abimbola-abodunrin

Images:
Featured image: Photo of a live sketch by Dr Nic Dickson, Visual  Inquiry (2023)
Photo by Artem Podrez: https://www.pexels.com/photo/vials-with-liquids-in-holder-8533087/
Photo by nappy: https://www.pexels.com/photo/people-looking-at-laptop-3514805/
Photo by Gustavo Fring: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-wearing-a-white-lab-coat-looking-through-a-microscope-8770727/

A white woman looks stressed with a cash note on the table in front of her

Working-class women’s transitions to doctoral education: The enduring role of economic capital  

By Dr Carli-Ria Rowell, University of Sussex and current GEA Co-Chair.

In this short blog post based upon my recently published article in British Journal Sociology of Education (Rowell 2026) I cast light on the enduring role of economic capital and access to knowledge in shaping educational pathways and decision making. I reflect on the economic insecurity that class inequality casts over educational opportunities, even in the lives of those considered to have succeed in education. In doing so I argue for greater systematic support pertaining to inclusion of working-class students at the doctoral level if we are to diversify higher education knowledge production and to take seriously historical epistemological injustices with regards to the classed politics of knowledge production and inequalities of representation. 

Reproduction in education thrives off of one’s (in)ability to access knowledge. Knowing what counts as valid and worthy, having a feel for the unwritten rules that open doors for some and lock out others. At the highest level of educational attainment then, one would be shocked and surprised perhaps then to learn that access to doctoral funding (and subsequent doctoral study per se, for working-class students) is seldom based on one’s academic accolades but rather who they happened to be taught by. Afterall, education is a meritocracy, right? It’s not who you know but what you know? Wrong, as my research illustrates.  In the case of being working-class and accessing doctoral funding then, having access to a ‘significant academic other’ (Rowell 2026) opens the possibility and probability of doctoral study as I discuss below.  

Within the UK, and elsewhere higher education has moved from an elite to mass system of enrolment, it nonetheless remains a deeply classed sphere. As Walkerdine reminds us, higher education continues to operate as a classed pathway and bastion of classed knowledge (Walkerdine 2021) especially so given academia’s classed ceiling (Friedman and Laurison 2019). Whilst there exists a plethora of research illuminating the experiences of working-class students at the undergraduate level and to a lesser extent the postgraduate researcher level, working-class access to, experiences of and outcomes pertaining to doctoral education remain largely absent. This was thus the imperative and motivating factor shaping my research exploring working-class women’s experience of navigating access to and through (and out of) doctoral study. Funded by the Society for Research in Higher Education (Rowell 2026) the research sought to explore the way(s) in which a working-class background shaped experiences of doctoral study, in doing so the research revealed the enduring nature of economic inequality upon access to higher education at the doctoral level.  

woman holding cash looking serious and writing

Whilst unpacking the experiences of thirteen working-class cis women’s journeys to doctoral education within the discipline of Sociology it became apparent that access (or not) to economic and social capital deeply structured their progression to and entry into doctoral study. All of the working-class women I interviewed had received funding – and – without exception would not have been able to afford to pursue doctoral study otherwise. The working-class women’s arrival at securing funding was by no means seamless nor linear, but often the outcomes of starts, stops and circling back round as they attempted to navigate the unfamiliar journey of navigating doctoral fundings.  

For many of the participants, the inability to pay straight up for doctoral study was exactly what precluded them from embarking on a seamless academic trajectory and not having access to economic capital resulted in fractured academic journeys. More profoundly however, access to economic capital through securing research funding (what I refer to as ‘accrued economic capital’) was foundational in equipping participants with the necessary economic capital allowing them to embark on doctoral study possible. 

people using digital device while meeting

A common theme and thread throughout participants narratives was the role that academics, who were also from working-class background played in supporting students accessing doctoral funding. Such academics, I refer to as ‘significant academic others’, a conceptual tool to theorise a specific form of academic social capital that, within the field of UKHE, provides access to hot knowledge (Ball and Vincent 1998), in this case: doctoral funding opportunities. ‘Significant academic others’ were drawn upon as a source of capital facilitating working-class students’ entry to doctoral study; it is through their ‘significant academic others’ that the working-class women were equipped with the right knowledge (cultural capital) of how to navigate the postgraduate doctoral fundings landscape. Most of the working-class women (all but one) were made aware of doctoral funding opportunities through their ‘significant academic other’ as opposed to more systematic practices, such as university or funder information dissemination outlets. It demonstrates how, for the working-class participants of this research acquiring the economic capital required for doctoral study was not a straightforward process or the results of structural widening participation initiatives but the result of lucky encounters with their ‘significant academic others’ (often too from working-class backgrounds).  

I call on universities and funders to deliver targeted and systematic support aimed at making known, to working-class student communities the opportunities for doctoral funding and to make clear the unwritten rules of game that enable some to secure such funding over others. If we are serious about the inclusion of working-class students at the doctoral level, then we must take seriously inequalities in access.  

References: 

Ball, S.J. and Vincent, C., 1998. ’I Heard It on the Grapevine’: ‘hot’ knowledge and school choice. British journal of Sociology of Education, 19(3), pp.377-400. 

Friedman, S. and Laurison, D., 2019. The class ceiling: Why it pays to be privileged. Policy Press.  

Rowell, C.R., 2025. Fighting for funding, working-class women’s transitions to sociology doctoral education: ‘Significant academic others’, economic and social capital. British Journal of Sociology of Education, pp.1-22. 

Walkerdine, V., 2021. What’s class got to do with it? Discourse: Studies in the cultural politics of education, 42(1), pp.60-74. 

Images:
Photo by www.kaboompics.com: https://www.pexels.com/photo/woman-in-blue-long-sleeve-blouse-near-the-money-on-table-7680366/
Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-sitting-on-the-couch-while-counting-money-6694900/
Freepik: https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/people-using-digital-device-while-meeting_17873494.htm#fromView=search&page=1&position=4&uuid=f923630c-bc57-4c66-a5ee-b1585ddb5090&query=mentor

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two smiling young Black girls smiling at each other

Black Girlhood in Europe Symposium 2026 – Are you Down? 

By Dr Silhouette Bushay

A young Black girl in a red top

It is astonishing that a conference on Black British Girlhood Studies was convened for the first time in Britain in 2025, and we support and applaud this shift and look forward to many more – nonetheless, this truth is telling of the intellectual and political space that we are in. It also reflects a wider issue of epistemic whiteness and neocolonial violence which permeates and bolsters academic and wider institutional practices and agendas. For Black girls, their communities/families, and Black girlhood orientated scholars, researchers, practitioners, and professionals, the field is unsupported and requires research, funding, and more coordination and movement to build momentum, and consequently, drive progress. 

a young Black girl typing on a laptop

In recognition of the work that is required to contribute towards building the field of Black Girlhood Studies in Britain and other countries in Europe, Black Girl Streams C.I.C. is launching the Black European Girlhood Studies Association (BEGSA) which is also convening/co-hosting Black Girlhood in Europe Symposium 2026 – Black Girlhood at the Intersections: Health, Disability and Neurodivergence, and it’s first Special Interest Stream (SIS), the Black British Girlhood – Health, Disability and Neurodivergence SIS.   

Co-hosted by the Centre for Social Change and Justice (CSCJ), and funded by the School of Childhood and Social Care, CSCJ, and Student Life at the University of East London, the main objective of the symposium is to delve into some of the complexities involved in Black British Girlhood as a site for understanding a range of ideas around race, ethnicity, culture, gender, health, community, dis/ability and neurodivergence.  It will grapple with Black girl experiences with consideration community, embodiment, and institutions such as school, social care, and technology – to name a few. 

This is an interdisciplinary discussion where Black girls (18 and over) and women, academic, practitioner, students, policy and other professionals and stakeholders are welcome to contribute and collaborate in moving the agenda forward. 

The symposium takes place on the 11th March 2026 at the University of East London, UK. 

Come join us – see our online platform for more information and to reserve your free spothttps://blackgirlstreams.com/symposium  


Follow us on social media: 
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/black-girl-streams/  
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/blackgirlstreams/  
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCY_e9pIyMXYC_EGNZziZ3QA (launches on the 2nd March 2026)

 

If you have any enquiries regarding Black Girl Streams or more specifically BEGSA including the Special Interest Stream, email: info@blackgirlstreams.com  

I am Dr Silhouette Bushay, Senior Lecturer and Course Leader at the University of East London, and Founder, Executive Director and Lead Scholar at Black Girl Streams C.I.C.  

https://uk.linkedin.com/in/dr-silhouette-bushay-81419838  

Image credits:
@eyeforebony https://src.nappy.co/photo/oWGwCNU7llU-MQ4x_SjG4 
Photographer: 5DMedia https://picnoi.com/people/6566/ 
Photographer: Monstera https://picnoi.com/people/6443/

Three hands hold the letters EDI

When Inclusion Excludes: The Paradox of EDI in UK Higher Education  

by Chong Liu and Qiaohui Xue  

Equity, diversity, and inclusion (EDI) have become central terms in UK higher education. Universities release strategies, policies, and glossy brochures that proudly proclaim their commitment to fairness and belonging. On the surface, it looks progressive. Yet research and lived experience suggest something more complex: EDI discourse itself can sometimes reinforce exclusion rather than dismantle it. This blog is co-authored by Chong and Qiaohui. Both of us engage with UK higher education as international researchers. Chong currently serves as the EDI Lead of the Gender and Education Association, while Qiaohui is a Student Representative. Although our roles and perspectives differ, our stories intersect in showing the paradox of EDI, especially as it is experienced from international positions.  

Chong’s Story:  

One issue lies in the dominance of white-centric perspectives. Curricula shaped by Eurocentric traditions often leave out diverse knowledge systems, marginalising Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic (BAME) students and staff. The acronym “BAME” itself, once introduced to signal inclusivity, has been criticised for producing alienation rather than belonging. Many people describe feeling reduced to a label that institutions choose, rather than a language of identity they claim for themselves.  

For me, the tension runs even deeper. The term BAME does not exist in my mother tongue. I encountered it only after coming to the UK, learning it as part of the institutional language of equity and inclusion. In that sense, I was learning a foreign word that seemed to describe me, yet I was not fully entitled to use it. The distance was not only linguistic but also emotional – I was learning how to name myself in someone else’s language, within someone else’s framework.  

I remember this tension vividly from a personal experience. While preparing an application for the Higher Education Academy, I described myself as a “BAME student” – a “fancy” word for me at the time, learnt from a university’s Inclusive Teaching course and thought I was using the right language. When a white academic staff member read my draft, she looked at me in surprise and asked, “Are you BAME?” At that moment, I said yes, but later I realised why it felt unsettling. The term seemed available for her to apply to me, but not for me to claim for myself. What stayed with me was a strong sense of being othered. A word that was supposed to include me instead created distance.  

Representation often works in similarly ambivalent ways. At one disciplinary conference, my photo appeared in a publication page alongside a middle-aged Black woman and an older white woman. The arrangement looked perfectly composed to illustrate “diversity”. Yet I could not shake the feeling that I was being positioned less for my scholarship than for my identity. We were placed together to signify inclusion, but the effect was structural, almost performative. I was visible, yet not fully recognised.  

For women of colour in particular, such dynamics are deeply familiar. In white-dominated spaces, identities are often simplified or essentialised. Even in institutions with formal EDI policies, structural practices remain that separate “marked” from “unmarked” identities. Members of dominant groups may unconsciously reinforce their own belonging, keeping boundaries intact despite intentions to erode them.  

At the same time, I hope my current role will allow me to approach EDI from a more transformative angle. As the EDI Lead at the Gender and Education Association, I want to move beyond symbolic gestures and foster genuine participation. My aspiration is to create spaces where international students and scholars can define inclusion on their own terms — where they can exercise agency, build solidarity, and reimagine what belonging means. While I am still learning how to do this in practice, I see this as a process of collective exploration, one that challenges the limits of existing EDI discourse and opens up possibilities for change.  

Moving beyond critique means asking what genuine inclusion could look like. Real inclusion is not about filling quotas, showcasing diverse faces on a webpage, or categorising people into acronyms. It is about listening to lived experiences and recognising individuals in their full complexity. It is about rethinking curricula so that knowledge is not narrowly defined by Eurocentric traditions but enriched by multiple voices. It is about shifting power, ensuring that those who have historically been silenced are not only present but also shaping the agenda.  

Qiaohui’s Story:  

The other issue is that international students often seem absent from EDI discourse. At first, I was not even sure whether EDI was meant to include students like me. In my first year in the UK, I noticed posters about EDI in university buildings. Curious, I searched for definitions and began to read related academic work. One article, ‘Feeling excluded: International students’ experience of equity, diversity and inclusion’ (Tavares, 2021), resonated strongly with me, which highlights this paradox: although universities often emphasise their commitment to EDI, international students are rarely treated as an equity-seeking group. As a PhD researcher focusing on gender and international student mobility, I was particularly sensitive to such ideas, and I started to wonder whether they could inform my own research.  

But when I raised these questions in conversations with other staff members, the responses I received were often ambiguous. Some people told me directly that EDI was not designed with international students in mind. Yet at the same time, many international students come from minority ethnic backgrounds, making it impossible to separate their experiences from the very concerns that EDI claims to address. This ambiguity pushed me to think more critically about whether international students are actually included.  

My interviews with other international students confirmed this uncertainty. Several had never heard of EDI. Others said they knew the term but felt it had little to do with them. The most visible sign of EDI, for many, was the rainbow flags displayed across campus. For some Chinese students, these flags felt novel, since in the Chinese cultural context, gender and sexuality are not always framed as diverse. The flags created a sense of curiosity, but also confusion. Students wondered what connection these symbols had with their own everyday lives.  

On the one hand, some international students see the posters of EDI in their University. On the other hand, many still encounter exclusion in daily practice, whether through racial microaggressions or moments when their voices are ignored. The gap between EDI discourse and lived experience can leave students feeling positioned outside the very spaces that claim to include them.  

These reflections also shape my current role as a Student Representative of the Gender and Education Association (GEA). For me, the goal is not simply to promote EDI as an abstract principle, but to make it real in practice. I want international students to feel not only that they are present in these conversations, but that they belong. This means creating space for their perspectives, supporting them to participate on their own terms, and ensuring they are recognised not just as symbols of diversity but as contributors to academic and social life. Only in this way can EDI move beyond words on posters and become something lived and transformative.  

Conclusion:  

Our different perspectives point to the same paradox: EDI can both include and exclude. Chong’s experiences show how label representation can create distance instead of belonging, while Qiaohui’s reflections reveal how international students often see EDI only as symbols, not as something that speaks to their daily struggles. Together, we argue that if EDI is to be transformative, it needs to move beyond posters and acronyms. Real inclusion means recognising international students as part of the conversation, shifting power, and creating spaces where people are valued for who they are and what they contribute. As universities renew their EDI strategies each year, perhaps the most radical act is not to add more words, but to listen more deeply.  

Reference:  

Tavares, V. (2021). Feeling excluded: international students experience equity, diversity and inclusion. International Journal of Inclusive Education, 28(8), 1551–1568. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603116.2021.2008536 

Image sourced from: https://phecanada.ca/professional-learning/equity-diversity-and-inclusion/understanding-edi-and-edi-intersectionality