Speaking the Unspoken: What I Learned from Saying the Quiet Parts Out Loud

In the days leading up to my keynote at Scaling New Heights, an opportunity to share something meaningful, and it felt exciting. It also felt heavy, complicated. And, if I’m honest, a little risky.

I was afraid to say the word “diversity.” Even more afraid to say “inclusion.”

Dare I say them together – “diversity and inclusion” – on a mainstage, with nearly 1,800 pairs of eyes watching and a microphone broadcasting every word.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when leading conversations around inclusion and belonging felt energizing. But things have shifted over the past year. The backlash has gotten louder. More toxic. More personal. Words that once pointed to shared values have become political landmines. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if this room, in this industry, at this moment, was safe for the kind of truth I wanted to speak.

So, I hesitated. I overthought. I second-guessed every phrase.

The Iceberg and the Inner Critic

A few years ago, I developed an Identity Iceberg. I wanted to create a visual that went beyond the typical graphic to capture the many layers, both above and below the waterline of visibility, that make up the dimensions of our identity. That metaphor has always been well received, but as a central theme in my keynote, it started to feel risky. What works in training doesn’t necessarily translate to the main stage. I worried it might come off as simplistic or, worse, cheesy. Would people see the depth I was trying to show? The complexity? The nuance? Would they get it?

I knew the iceberg was visually powerful. It showed that what we see above the surface isn’t always readily visible. At first, unconsciously and instantly process cues like race, gender, age, and physical appearance. But, as we look a little longer or zoom out to take in the whole person, we form impressions by inference, through body language, communication style, clothing, or how someone presents themselves. As we look below the waterline of visibility, it reveals different levels of what’s hidden below the surface, from the readily shared (think: social media identities, pets), to the increasingly personal (think: opinions, passions, heritage), to the deeply guarded (think: trauma, upbringing, chronic illness). Real things. Human things.

Still, I kept imagining someone rolling their eyes and muttering, “Really? An iceberg?”

And then there was the hardest part: finding the story. Not just the slides or the flow, but the throughline. The heart. The part that connected my own experience to theirs. I wasn’t sure I had it. I wasn’t sure I was it.

So I did what I always do when the fear gets loud: I kept working. I shaped and reshaped the message. I questioned whether this was the right talk for the right moment. I tried to balance authenticity with restraint, clarity with care.

And then I got on stage.

They Got It

What happened next surprised me, encouraged me and inspired me.

Not only was my keynote well received, it was warmly received. People didn’t just tolerate the iceberg. They loved it. They told me it helped them see things differently. That it made something complicated feel clear. That it gave them a way to understand each other, and themselves, more deeply. That the complexity of their own identity was validated, acknowledge and honored.

I’m grateful for the friends who contributed their voices: Tanya, Ingrid, Stasie and Dave. Their stories gave a face and a name to the experiences of being judged on the visible or isolated by the invisible. More than once, someone said their stories helped bring it home.

It reminded me that people aren’t as closed off as we sometimes assume. They’re just tired of being talked at. They don’t want the buzzwords or the corporate-speak. They want something real. Something honest. Something that makes them feel less alone.

That’s what the iceberg did. It showed them a reflection of their own invisible layers. It reminded them that everyone carries something under the surface. And that’s the real power of inclusion: recognition, not representation.

I ended up saying the words “diversity” and “inclusion” during my keynote. I thought it was important to provide the context – that the labels we’ve been using do not reflect the beautiful, complex diversity that lives within each of us. And, that inclusion isn’t about them – it’s about how we show up for others.

I thought it was important to say these words because, if we are going to talk about belonging, we need to talk about identity and lived experience. Of visibility and the power of connection. I explored what happens when people don’t feel seen, or when they’re reduced to what others can see. I named the complexity without weaponizing the language. And maybe that’s what made it land.

Because sometimes people need a new way in. A softer door. Not less meaningful, just more human.

That’s what I’m learning in this chapter of my work: that the words might change, but the work still matters. And the people who care? They’re still out there. Maybe even more than before.

Looking back, the fears I carried into that keynote weren’t signs I was doing something wrong. They were signs I was telling the truth.

It’s easy to assume that if something feels scary or uncertain, we should back off. But I’m realizing that fear is often a compass, pointing toward the thing that matters most.

I could have played it safe and avoided weaponized DEI terminology. But instead, I chose to go deeper. And people came with me.

That’s what I’ll carry forward from this experience. Not the applause or the compliments, but the quiet conversations afterward. The nods of recognition. The people who lingered to say, “I’ve never heard it put that way before,” or “That was wonderful,” or, the most meaningful of all: the simple and knowing “Thank You.”

More Stories to Come

There’s more I want to say about this talk – about the iceberg, the personal stories people shared with me afterward and the power of identity. In the conversations that followed, and in one especially clarifying chat with my husband, I realized that this message, this moment, was pointing me back to something I’ve always known.

I could never have guessed that a keynote would spark the opening a new chapter. It has reaffirmed my approach to leadership and belonging, and I can see new pathways beginning to emerge, of possibilities I hadn’t fully recognized before, but now feel both familiar and exciting.

But for now, I just want to mark this moment.

The fear was real. The risk was real. And it was still worth it.

So if you’re carrying a message that feels vulnerable or too big, if you’re wondering whether now is the time or this is the place, maybe that’s your sign to speak anyway. Sometimes, the most powerful impact comes from speaking the unspoken.

Say the quiet part out loud. You might be surprised who’s listening.