A Hill to D.E.I. On, Part 2 | The Sickle Above My Head: Navigating the Crosshairs of DEI in a Hostile Era

A sickle hangs above my head.

It sways—not with the rhythm of my own making but with the turbulent winds of our social climate. A sickle sharpened by shifting political tides, institutional cowardice, and the increasingly emboldened backlash against diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI). I wake up knowing that with every news headline, every legislative proposal, and every reactionary boardroom decision, the rope frays just a little more. The question is no longer if it will fall but when—and how much it will cut before it does.
​
I have watched colleagues fall. Some were severed from their jobs in a swift, corporate culling of DEI departments; others were left dangling, their positions eliminated under the guise of restructuring. The rest? Many have jumped—abandoning the profession altogether, seeking safety in fields where their convictions will not cost them their livelihood. DEI has become the low-hanging fruit of an administration eager to appease disillusioned majorities, and we, the professionals who champion the work, have become easy targets.

Yet, here I stand. A survivor. But surviving is not the same as thriving. There is guilt in watching others fall while I remain. I am guilty of knowing that my paycheck still comes while others have been stripped away. Guilt in witnessing the institutional abandonment of a movement that was deemed indispensable only a short time ago. Guilt, too, in feeling afraid.

And I am afraid.

I feel the sickle above me when I read newspapers that detail yet another organization dismantling its DEI program, capitulating to political pressure or financial expediency. I feel it when I log onto social media and see vitriolic rhetoric framing DEI as a societal ill rather than a moral imperative. I feel it when I hear the news and recognize the growing coalition of lawmakers seeking to legislate us out of existence. Fear is a heavy burden, but an even heavier companion is doubt. I wonder, more often than I care to admit if I have chosen the wrong profession at the worst possible time.

But then I remember: I did not choose DEI as a career. I decided it was a calling.

There is a reason I am here at this precise moment in history. DEI was never meant to be a comfortable field, or one shielded from attack. It is, by its very nature, disruptive work, work that challenges the very foundations of exclusion, inequity, and systemic injustice. History has taught us that when power is challenged, it does not simply yield—it retaliates.

The sickle above me is not new. The same sickle hung above abolitionists in the 19th century, civil rights leaders in the 1960s, activists, educators, and truth-tellers in every era where progress met resistance. It is wielded by those who fear change, mistake equity for oppression, and would rather preserve the status quo than confront its failures.

I cannot control the sickle. I cannot dull its blade nor slow its descent. But I can control what I do while I stand beneath it.

I can speak, even when silence feels safer. I can persist, even when retreat seems rational. I can mentor, organize, educate, and build, even when the structures around me crumble.

And I can prepare.

The reality is that the era of unchecked corporate DEI expansion is over. The floodgates of 2020 have closed, and what remains is the reckoning—who is here for the long fight, and who was merely passing through when the climate was more forgiving? What remains, too, is the imperative to adapt. If history has taught us that power retaliates, it has also taught us that movements evolve. Even when institutions abandon DEI, people do not. Equity and inclusion do not live in departments, job titles, or budgets—they live in the work, communities, and collective action.

So, I remain. Not because I am fearless but because I refuse to be paralyzed by fear. Not because I believe the path ahead is certain, but because I know my journey has meaning. Not because I do not see the sickle above my head but because I refuse to let it silence me before it falls.

And if it falls—when it falls—I will not regret standing where I stood.

For I was made for this time. Right here. Right now.