I was 19 years old.

Part-time sales assistant in a furniture superstore, a couple of days a week, while going to University. Barely old enough to be taken seriously by anyone in that building.

And yet there I was, sitting in my manager's car in the car park, telling her something nobody else had been willing to say.

Nobody likes the way you manage us. We are unhappy. We are upset. And this needs to change.

She had humiliated a colleague in front of a customer that day. Jumped in, took over, made her look incompetent in the most public way possible. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't have been the last.

But I couldn't just walk past it.

So I pulled her to one side. Quietly. Privately. And I told her the truth. “You cannot treat us this way”

She blew up. Accused me of being the spokesperson for a rebellion. Demanded to know why nobody had come to her directly.

And I said: because not everybody has the courage to speak up. Not everybody likes conflict. But that doesn't mean people aren't suffering.

She called the area manager the next day.

Either she goes or I go.

He called me in.

And to this day, I remember exactly what he said:

If you're not happy in this store, you can leave. But I'm not letting Sindy go.

I was nineteen. She was double my age. And I had never felt more certain that I had done the right thing.

Years later, I was working in Investment Banking.

Different environment. Different stakes. Same patterns.

I watched a colleague break down, not necessarily from the pressure of the work, but from the behaviour of one person in a position of power. A manager who was difficult with everyone, whose conduct was widely known, and about whom almost nobody said anything.

Almost.

I took it to their boss. I took it to my boss. I raised it with multiple people because I believed then, as I do now, that silence in the face of consistent mistreatment is its own form of participation.

At one point, a senior manager responded to my concerns with something I won't forget.

“It must be your Sri Lankan blood speaking.”

I froze. In that moment, I didn't know what to do with it. It was only later that I understood what had happened: my concern had been dismissed not on its merits, but on the basis of where I came from. The substance of what I was saying had been reduced to an emotion I apparently couldn't control.

It was a racist comment.

And it was designed, consciously or not, to silence me.

Did it work?

No.

But I won't pretend it didn't cost me something.

People ask me where my courage comes from.

The honest answer is: my dad.

From a very young age, he taught me something I have carried into every room I have ever entered:

It doesn't matter if the person sitting across from you is the president of a country. You have the right to speak up. You have the right to ask questions. You have the right to make people think when they do something wrong.

Because otherwise, he said, what is the point of having a voice?

I didn't fully understand that then. I understand it completely now.

It's why I don't get intimidated by titles or hierarchy. It's why I've never been able to walk past something I know is wrong and convince myself it's not my place to say anything.

For me, every person in that room is a human being first. And human beings deserve to be treated with dignity, regardless of where they sit in an org chart.

But here's what I want to say to you directly:

Not everyone was raised with that message.

Not everyone had a father who modelled that kind of courage. Not everyone had a manager who defended them when they spoke up. Not everyone has had the experiences that build that particular muscle.

And so they stay quiet.

They see what's happening.

They know it's wrong.

But speaking up feels like a risk they can't afford.

I understand that.

And I also know this:

The cost of silence compounds.

Every time you don't say the thing that needs to be said, a little more of your confidence erodes. A little more of your sense of self shrinks. You start to believe that you don't have the right. That it's not your place. That the person with the title is probably right about you.

They're not.

And the environment that makes you feel that way is not the only environment that exists.

There are rooms where your voice is valued.

Where speaking up is not a career risk but a sign of exactly the kind of courage people are looking for in leaders.

Where the area manager says: I'm not letting her go.

Those rooms exist.

And sometimes, finding them starts with one honest conversation. With yourself first. And then with someone who can help you navigate what comes next.

That is work I know deeply.

Not from a textbook.

From a car park in a furniture store, a long time ago, and every room I've walked into since.

If you're sitting with something right now that needs to be said, and you don't quite know how to say it, my inbox is open.

Wishing you a wonderful weekend. Stay well, stay true.

Sindy

If this resonated, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

You can connect with me on LinkedIn here, or learn more about my work here.

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