by Anthony Corona
There is a quiet but undeniable force that lives in all of us. It transcends identity, status, physical ability, or even belief systems. It is ancient. Unpolished. Unteachable. It is intuition. It is our gut feeling. It is the internal radar we are born with — the one that whispers truths even when the world shouts otherwise.
In a time of multiple truths, alternative facts, divisive narratives, and increasingly weaponized words, this internal compass may be the most powerful tool we still possess.
I was asked recently to write about diversity, equity, inclusion, and accessibility from the perspective of someone who is blind, employed, constantly on the move, and actively advocating across both the Blind and Low Vision and LGBTQIA+ communities. And I keep coming back to this: amidst the chaos of what we see and hear, what are we feeling?
Because what we’re seeing and hearing is a lot.
We’re watching protections be stripped away. We’re witnessing legislation that once stood for fairness and access be torn down or ignored. We are watching accessibility, once considered a baseline for equity, now recast as a burden or even a threat. We are seeing DEIA efforts hijacked and reframed to justify hateful rhetoric and institutional cruelty.
And yet, beyond the shouting matches and scrolling headlines, there’s that flicker. That buzz in the back of the mind. That twinge in the stomach. That moment of knowing something is not right. That’s where it starts. It starts with intuition.
It’s the goosebumps when someone says something that cuts too close to erasure.
It’s the lump in your throat when a politician smiles while stripping you of rights.
It’s the ache in your stomach when your organization says all the right things but acts in all the wrong ways.
It’s the knowing. The undeniable knowing that something vital is being lost.
We must learn to listen to that voice. It is our built-in lie detector. Our inner truth-teller. When media spins, when politicians scream, when organizations preach but do not practice — our intuition stands unshaken, whispering: “This does not align with who we are.”
But here's the truth many of us need to reckon with: silence is complicity.
Choosing not to act, choosing not to speak, choosing not to engage out of a desire to remain neutral or non-confrontational is still a choice. It is action. And more often than not, it is a silent nod of approval to the very rhetoric and policies we claim to reject. When we ignore our gut feelings in favor of comfort, we are not avoiding harm — we are allowing it to grow unchecked.
At the same time, advocacy does not have to be loud. It does not have to be dramatic or performative. It does not have to involve picket signs or public confrontations. It can be a quiet unfollowing of an ugly voice. It can be a small but intentional comment of support or a gentle rebuke in a space where it matters. It can be an email. It can be a phone call. What it cannot be — what it must never be — is a feeling without action.
We must demand better from others — but first, we must demand it from ourselves. We must each examine the ways we uphold or ignore equity. We must call out hypocrisy and opt into the uncomfortable work. We must act. Because without personal action, no amount of advocacy or legislation can sustain progress.
Where does change happen? It happens in both directions — top-down and grassroots-up. Yes, leadership must model DEIA in policy and practice. But those of us on the ground must rise to meet that moment. Words are not enough. Social media statements are not enough. We must show up. Speak up. Participate. Not only when it’s convenient or trending.
Inclusion is not just making room at the table. Equity is not a checkbox. Accessibility is not a footnote. These are living, breathing values — and they require constant care.
Inclusion means you are willing to sit beside me.
Equity means you are willing to walk with me.
Accessibility means you are willing to remove the barriers so I can get in the room to begin with.
And diversity means celebrating the fact that I am there.
In the end, I return to the truth I’ve known all along: diversity, equity, inclusion, and accessibility are not abstract ideals. They are the beating heart of humanity.
Humanity is standing up when it's easier to sit down.
Humanity is letting go of ego in favor of compassion.
Humanity is seeing difference not as something to manage but something to honor.
Humanity is not tolerating one another — it is valuing one another.
We are all different. And those beautiful differences, when respected and protected, form the very foundation of what links us together.
It’s time to stop treating these words as checkboxes or buzzwords. It’s time to treat them as what they really are: the blueprint for a better world. The embodiment of humanity itself.