The Cost of Saying Nothing

Why Silence Isn’t Neutral—And How Allies Can Make a Difference

When Silence Becomes Complicity

The room was tense, but not hostile—just the quiet friction of differing opinions circling a delicate topic. I sat two seats away from her, watching as her voice softened under the weight of repeated interruptions. Each time she spoke, someone cut in. Each time, her words faded a little more.

And I stayed silent.

It wasn’t overt. No raised voices or explicit dismissals. Just the subtle hierarchy that often plays out unnoticed—until it’s too loud to ignore. I noticed. And still, I said nothing.

The moment ended quickly. The meeting moved on. But the weight of my silence didn’t.

The meeting wrapped up like any other—papers rustled, chairs scraped back—but I stayed seated, my hands flat against the table. No one noticed. Or maybe they did and chose not to. Her words, the ones that never got the space they deserved, hovered in the air long after the room emptied. I felt the weight of it then—my silence stretching wider than I’d realized, filling more space than I intended.

I gathered my things slowly, as if moving too fast might make the moment slip away before I fully understood it. The hallway outside felt colder, the fluorescent lights too harsh. By the time I reached the parking lot, the weight of my inaction had settled in, heavy and familiar. I sat in the car for a moment before turning the key, the silence inside louder than it had been in the meeting.

The Cost of Inaction

I kept replaying it. The hesitation. The why-didn’t-I? moment that lodged itself deep and refused to let go.

Why hadn’t I said anything?

Because I didn’t want to make it awkward. Because I didn’t want to overstep. Because I told myself it wasn’t “my place.”

And, honestly? Because I’m British—and generations of social conditioning have hardwired me to treat politeness like it’s a moral obligation. We’re trained from birth to apologize when someone else steps on our toes, to queue without complaint, and to avoid confrontation like it’s a national sport. Speaking up? That’s practically rebellion.

But here’s the thing: silence isn’t neutral. It’s a choice. And in that moment, my choice aligned with the problem, not the solution.

I used to think silence was safe—harmless. But walking out of that room, I realized it wasn’t. Silence cushions discomfort, not justice. It makes it easier for people like me to look away, to stay safe in the shadows of politeness. That day, I chose comfort over courage. And that choice had weight—even if I tried to ignore it.

The Relational Ripples

Weeks later, during a casual team lunch, she glanced at me over her coffee and said, “I wondered why you didn’t say something.”

It wasn’t accusatory. It was simple, honest.

“I didn’t know how—but that’s no excuse. I should’ve spoken up.”

She nodded. “It happens a lot.”

Her words weren’t meant to wound, but they landed heavy. The conversation moved on, but I stayed in that moment, feeling the weight of what I hadn’t done. Our dynamic shifted—not broken, but clearer. There was an unspoken understanding now, a line drawn between who I had been in that meeting and who I wanted to be moving forward.

And I kept thinking about her. How many meetings like that had she sat through? How many times had she been interrupted, dismissed, talked over—left to finish her thoughts in her head because no one made space for them out loud?

And worse—had she expected my silence?

That thought stayed with me longer than I wanted it to.

The Work of Allyship: From Awareness to Action

Allyship isn’t a destination—it’s a practice. One that’s messy, evolving, and deeply relational.

It’s easy to speak up when there’s no risk—when it’s just theory. It’s harder when the stakes feel personal, when you might disrupt a meeting, offend a friend, or stand out. And that’s the problem. We wait for perfect moments—the ones where speaking up is neat and risk-free—but those moments rarely come.

I used to think allyship was a thing you prepared for, a moment you could rehearse. But allyship isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the small, messy choices: the offhand comment you call out at a family dinner, the coworker you back up in a crowded meeting, the moment you interrupt a narrative that shouldn’t go unchecked.

The risk is always there. The question is: am I willing to take it?

It doesn’t just happen in conference rooms. It happens at family dinners when a relative makes a “joke” that crosses the line and no one speaks up. It happens in grocery stores when someone cuts in line and no one says a word—until it’s someone they know. It happens online, where misinformation spreads fast and unchecked because calling it out feels exhausting.

Silence is everywhere. And it thrives in the spaces where we convince ourselves that speaking up is someone else’s job.

A Commitment to Show Up

I still think about that parking lot—the way the air felt too still, the quiet too heavy. But now, I don’t just sit with it.

A few weeks later, in another meeting, the same thing started to happen. Someone spoke—someone softer-spoken, someone interrupted. And before I could hesitate, the words were out of my mouth.

“Let her finish.”

It wasn’t some grand moment. No applause, no nods of approval. Just a pause. Then she spoke again.

And this time, I didn’t stay silent.

Because silence? It’s never empty. It’s waiting—either for someone to break it or for someone to let it stand.

Robert Ford followed the call to "Go West, Young Man," moving from the UK to the US in 1995, drawn by its can-do culture and deep-rooted spirit of giving back. In 2010, he proudly became a US citizen.

Robert writes about technology, storytelling, and culture on Substack and helps organizations navigate the digital landscape through his consultancy, Digitis.