My Dear White Friend: Loyalty and Belonging- What Is the Price of Being Accepted?
My dear white friend,
I have been thinking about loyalty and belonging. Two words that sound so positive, so reassuring. We all want to belong. We want to feel accepted, valued and connected to others. And loyalty is something we often admire. We describe people as loyal friends, loyal colleagues, loyal members of their communities. We expect loyalty from those we love and those with whom we work.
But I have been wondering about the price we sometimes pay for that loyalty. What happens when belonging becomes conditional? When acceptance depends on our willingness to remain silent, agree with others, or behave in ways that make them feel comfortable? And what happens when we challenge those expectations? Does questioning someone mean that we are being disloyal?
Perhaps we begin learning these lessons much earlier than we realise.
Think about a child growing up within a family where they feel different. Perhaps their skin is lighter than that of their siblings. Perhaps they do not resemble their parents in the way their brothers and sisters do. Perhaps comments are made, sometimes jokingly, about who they look like or where they really belong. These comments may appear harmless to the adults making them, but what does the child hear? What meaning do they attach to those differences?
For some children, the family becomes the first place where they learn that belonging is not necessarily guaranteed. They may work harder to gain the attention and affection of parents or siblings. They may become the child who keeps the peace, who avoids conflict, who learns to accommodate others. Over time, they may begin to believe that being accepted depends on being agreeable.
As an Educational Psychologist, I often think about the ways in which our early environments shape our understanding of ourselves and others. A child may be surrounded by people who love them and still experience moments of exclusion or difference. The important question is whether those feelings are recognised and explored or dismissed and minimised.
And then that child enters school, where the circle of belonging becomes wider and, in some ways, more complicated.
Children quickly learn about groups, friendships, popularity and difference. They learn who is included and who is excluded. They discover that belonging can depend on how they look, speak, behave, dress or where their families come from.
For Black children attending predominantly white schools, these experiences can be particularly complicated. They may already be aware of being different from many of their peers. Sometimes they experience racism directly. At other times, the message is more subtle. They may learn that raising concerns about racism makes other people uncomfortable, or that challenging an incident can lead to them being viewed as difficult. I explored some of these issues in My Dear White Teacher: Was I the Child You Didn’t See?
And parents learn these lessons too.
I have seen how Black parents can find themselves navigating predominantly white school communities, trying to ensure that their children are included. They attend the playdates, join the social gatherings, maintain relationships with other parents and try to be part of the school community. Many of these relationships are genuine and rewarding. But sometimes there is another dimension.
There can be an unspoken expectation that we keep the peace. That we do not raise uncomfortable questions about racism or inequality. That we remain grateful for the opportunities our children have been given. After all, we chose to send our children to these schools, didn’t we?
And so we sometimes find ourselves making calculations. Do I challenge that comment? Do I question what happened in the classroom? Do I raise concerns about the way my child has been treated? Or do I remain silent because I don’t want my child to experience the consequences of my speaking out?
What kind of belonging is that, my dear friend, when a parent feels that their child’s acceptance might depend on their own silence?
Yet these pressures do not exist only within white spaces. Black children can also experience exclusion within Black communities. Differences between African and Caribbean backgrounds, between nationalities, cultures, languages and even skin tones can become reasons for deciding who belongs and who does not. A child may find themselves excluded because they are not considered Black enough, African enough, Caribbean enough, or sufficiently connected to a particular cultural identity.
It is interesting, isn’t it, how easily we can reproduce the very conditions of exclusion that we ourselves have experienced?
I was reminded of this when reflecting on a conversation I had with a Black friend several years ago.
Our children were of similar ages, and I had made the decision to send my daughter to a private school. I remember telling my friend about the decision, expecting that she would be pleased for us. Instead, I was taken aback by her response.
She challenged my decision and expressed concerns about Black children attending private schools. She raised questions about the impact on their self-esteem and racial identity. She said that she would never send her own children to a private school.
I remember feeling disappointed. I had expected support from someone I considered a friend, someone who understood some of the challenges faced by Black families. Instead, I felt that my decision was being judged.
Looking back, I can understand some of the concerns she was expressing. Predominantly white private schools can present significant challenges for Black children. Issues of identity, belonging, racism and exclusion are real, and they should not be minimised. My friend was right to recognise those risks.
But I did not agree with her conclusion.
For me, the answer was not to stop Black children from attending those schools. As a Black psychologist working in diversity and inclusion, I believed then, as I do now, that we need to challenge exclusion in every sector of society, including institutions that have historically been accessible primarily to privileged white families.
Why should Black children be denied opportunities because the environments offering those opportunities have not yet become sufficiently inclusive? Surely part of our work is to open those spaces, challenge the barriers within them and support our children to enter environments from which they have historically been excluded.
I also believed that my responsibility as a parent was to provide my daughter with the best opportunities I could. I wanted her to have choices. I wanted her to develop confidence in navigating different environments. I wanted her to know that she had as much right as anyone else to occupy spaces that had not traditionally welcomed people who looked like her.
This did not mean that I was abandoning my commitment to improving state education or to challenging racial inequality. Those commitments remained important to me. But my daughter’s childhood could not wait until the education system became more equitable.
I remember writing to my friend afterwards, explaining that I did not believe my decision undermined my commitment to diversity and inclusion. If anything, it strengthened my resolve.
Looking back now, I wonder whether we were both approaching the same issue from different positions. Perhaps she was concerned about the psychological costs of entering spaces where Black children might experience exclusion. I was concerned about the costs of remaining excluded from those spaces.
Both concerns deserved consideration. But was there sufficient room within our conversation for us to recognise that we might be pursuing similar goals through different choices?
And this brings me back to loyalty.
Was I being disloyal to the Black community by choosing private education for my daughter? Was I somehow turning my back on other Black families or on the struggle for educational equality? Or was I exercising the same choices that many white parents make without their loyalty to their communities being questioned?
I recognise that some Black readers may agree with my friend. They may argue that placing Black children in predominantly white institutions exposes them to unnecessary harm or reinforces unequal systems. Others may believe that remaining within state education demonstrates solidarity with families who do not have the same choices.
These are important debates. But surely we need to be able to have them without deciding that those who make different choices are somehow less committed to racial justice.
The same questions arise in other aspects of our lives.
Consider Black people who have close white friends or who choose to marry outside their racial or cultural group. Their choices can sometimes be interpreted as a rejection of their own community. There may be questions about loyalty, identity and belonging. But why do we sometimes assume that relationships across racial boundaries must come at the expense of relationships within our own communities?
And what about Black people who have lived in Britain for decades but still struggle to describe it as home? Are they being disloyal to the country in which they have built their lives? Or might their reluctance reflect years of experiences that have repeatedly reminded them that their belonging is conditional?
I remember a manager who had supported me professionally and provided me with opportunities. I appreciated those opportunities and recognised the role he had played in my professional development. But over time, I came to feel that he regarded that support as giving him some kind of ownership over me. When I raised concerns about his behaviour towards me, he accused me of being disloyal.
I remember being struck by that accusation. Disloyal? Because I had challenged behaviour that I found undermining? Because I had raised concerns about the way I was being treated?
It made me question what he believed our professional relationship actually meant. Did he see the opportunities he had given me as something for which I should remain permanently indebted? Did he believe that supporting my development entitled him to unquestioning loyalty, even when I felt that he was misusing his position or undermining me?
My dear friend, what happens when support and advocacy become conditional? When the person who opens doors for you begins to believe that they also have the right to determine when you speak, what you challenge and how you respond to their behaviour?
Surely helping someone develop professionally does not mean that they belong to you. Surely advocacy should be about enabling another person to grow, become independent and exercise their own judgement, rather than creating an expectation of obedience.
I can be grateful for the opportunities someone has provided while also recognising that their subsequent behaviour may be unacceptable. The two are not mutually exclusive. One does not cancel out the other.
And this is where power becomes particularly important. When someone in a position of authority provides opportunities, sponsorship or professional support, they can have considerable influence over another person’s career. That influence can be used to empower, encourage and develop others. But it can also create a relationship in which the person receiving support feels unable to question or challenge the person providing it.
When gratitude becomes an obligation to remain silent, the relationship changes. What appeared to be support can become a mechanism of control.
And I wonder how often this happens in organisations. How many people remain silent about inappropriate behaviour because they feel indebted to the person who supported their appointment or promotion? How many are labelled ungrateful, difficult or disloyal when they begin to question the behaviour of someone who previously advocated for them?
Perhaps the deeper question is whether we are genuinely supporting people’s development or whether we are investing in relationships from which we expect loyalty in return.
What does it tell us about our understanding of leadership when we experience another person’s independence as a threat?
And what happens, my dear friend, when the manager is also Black?
Imagine working in an organisation where your manager is Black, but where you feel undermined, overlooked or repeatedly treated unfairly. Do you challenge their behaviour? Or do you remain silent because you worry that raising concerns about another Black professional might be seen as disloyal?
What happens when that manager occupies a senior position within a predominantly white organisation and appears reluctant to support the progression of other Black colleagues? Do we question the possibility of internalised racism? Do we explore whether organisational pressures, fear or the desire to maintain one’s own position are influencing their behaviour? Or do we avoid these conversations because they are uncomfortable?
Being Black does not automatically make someone inclusive, any more than being white automatically makes someone incapable of challenging racism. We are all influenced by the environments in which we operate, the beliefs we have developed and the pressures we experience.
And what about our professional groups and associations? What happens when we question long-held assumptions, beliefs and behaviours within the professions to which we belong? Does challenging our own profession make us disloyal? I have sometimes wondered whether, when I published my letters to white psychologists, some within the profession viewed me as disloyal, perhaps even a troublemaker. I cannot know how others interpreted those letters, but I have wondered whether challenging the profession’s own practices and attitudes can be experienced as a betrayal rather than an invitation to reflect.
I explored some of these questions in my recent Weekly Reflection #018, The Spring of Activation. Surely loyalty to a profession should not mean protecting it from scrutiny. If anything, our commitment to the people we serve and the values we claim to uphold requires us to question harmful assumptions and practices. Our own professional standards on challenging discrimination and raising concerns recognise these responsibilities. Perhaps genuine professional loyalty is not about defending the profession at all costs, but about having the courage to challenge it when necessary.
I have also encountered another version of these expectations through my work as a Black psychologist and consultant. There have been occasions when Black parents or professionals have expected me to reduce my fees substantially or provide my expertise without payment. Of course, requests for reduced fees are not confined to Black clients or organisations. But sometimes the expectation appears to rest on a sense of shared racial identity.
And I find myself asking whether asserting the value of my professional time and expertise makes me disloyal. Does solidarity require me to undervalue my own work? Can I support my community while also establishing professional boundaries?
Surely genuine solidarity involves recognising one another’s worth, rather than assuming that shared identity entitles us to make demands of one another.
My dear friend, as I reflect on these experiences, I can see how closely they connect to the Six Stages Framework.
The Framework encourages us to explore our beliefs, attitudes, behaviours and the ways in which we respond to difference. It also helps us recognise that we do not always occupy the same stage across every aspect of our lives.
We might be thoughtful and reflective about racism in the workplace but become defensive when our parenting choices are questioned. We might advocate strongly for inclusion in one context while struggling to recognise exclusion within our own family or friendship groups.
And we might see ourselves as supportive and inclusive leaders while becoming hostile when someone we have supported begins to question us.
At Stage +2, Discomfort & Awakening, we may begin to experience the unease that comes when our assumptions are challenged. But discomfort does not automatically lead to growth. We can move towards Stage +3, Developing Understanding, and Stage +4, Engaged & Reflective, by becoming curious about perspectives that differ from our own.
Alternatively, we may move towards the negative axis, perhaps responding through Stage -2, Dismissive & Avoidant, or Stage -4, Blaming & Deflecting, when we feel threatened by what someone is asking us to consider.
I also think about the difference between our stages and our states. A stage may reflect a broader pattern in our thinking and behaviour, while a state captures something more immediate about what is happening within us at a particular moment.
When my friend questioned my decision, I remember feeling disappointed and defensive. Perhaps I was occupying a state in which my need to protect my daughter and justify my decision was particularly strong. Perhaps she was approaching the conversation from a state of concern about the potential harm faced by Black children in predominantly white environments.
And when a manager feels challenged by someone they have supported, what state might they be occupying? Could they be experiencing a perceived loss of control, a threat to their authority or a challenge to how they see themselves? Might they respond with anger, defensiveness or accusations of disloyalty rather than curiosity about the concerns being raised?
Understanding those possible states does not excuse harmful behaviour. But it may help us recognise how our responses can undermine the very relationships we claim to value.
I cannot know precisely what another person is experiencing. But I can recognise that our emotional states may influence what we hear, how we interpret one another’s words and how we respond.
And perhaps that is part of the challenge. When we feel that our loyalty is being questioned, we can move quickly into a defensive state. We become more concerned with explaining our position than understanding the other person’s perspective.
The opportunity is to recognise those states, regulate our responses and create space for reflection.
Stage +5, Systems Thinker & Advocate, invites us to look beyond individual decisions and consider the environments and structures shaping them. Instead of asking whether a Black parent is disloyal for choosing private education, perhaps we should be examining why educational opportunities remain so unequal and why some children must navigate environments where their racial identity can become a source of vulnerability.
Similarly, rather than simply asking whether an employee has been disloyal to a manager, perhaps we should examine the power relationships and organisational cultures that allow professional support to become entangled with expectations of personal allegiance.
And at Stage +6, Transformational Leader, the challenge becomes one of creating conditions in which people do not have to choose between their identity, their opportunities and their sense of belonging. Environments where people can raise concerns without being labelled disloyal, and where leaders understand that the independence of those they support is a measure of successful leadership, not a threat to their authority.
This also connects with my reflections on Human Environments: The Climates We Create. What kind of climate are we creating when people learn that speaking honestly may cost them their acceptance, opportunities or relationships?
But I return, my dear friend, to something closer to the heart of these letters. Our friendship.
I have often wondered what happens to loyalty when a Black person raises uncomfortable questions about racism with a white friend.
We may have known one another for years. We may have shared celebrations, supported one another through difficult times, laughed together and built what we believed to be a trusting relationship.
But what happens when I begin to talk about racism? When I ask you to consider whether something you said or did may have caused harm? When I ask you to examine beliefs or assumptions you may never previously have questioned?
Do you experience my questions as an invitation to understand something important about my life? Or do you experience them as criticism, accusation or betrayal?
Was I being disloyal when I challenged you? Was I placing our friendship at risk simply by asking you to look within?
And if you withdrew from the conversation, was that because you no longer valued the friendship? Or because the discomfort of the conversation became greater than your willingness, or perhaps your ability in that moment, to remain engaged?
I do not think we always recognise how powerfully our need to belong influences our behaviour. We may describe ourselves as loyal when, in reality, we are afraid of exclusion. We may describe ourselves as keeping the peace when we are avoiding difficult truths. And we may accuse others of disloyalty when what we are really experiencing is discomfort at being challenged.
These patterns can extend far beyond our personal relationships.
I was recently reminded of the extraordinary story of Bilal Fawaz, the British and Commonwealth boxing champion. His story raises some uncomfortable questions about what it means to belong to a country and what happens when someone’s contributions are celebrated while their right to fully participate remains uncertain.
Bilal was trafficked to Britain at the age of 14. After escaping exploitation, he entered the care system. Despite the difficulties he experienced, he went on to become an accomplished boxer, representing England and captaining its amateur boxing team. He subsequently became English, British and Commonwealth champion, defending his British title again in October 2026.
And yet, after approximately 24 years of living in Britain, he still does not have a British passport. His complicated immigration and nationality circumstances have prevented him from travelling abroad to pursue international boxing opportunities. He has built his life and family here, contributed to British sport and achieved the distinction of becoming a British champion, yet he continues to face uncertainty about his nationality and long-term status.
As highlighted in a recent article examining Bilal’s continued struggle for British citizenship, his route towards settlement and citizenship could mean waiting until 2034 or 2035 before he is able to obtain a British passport. By then, the opportunities available to him during his professional boxing career may have passed.
Think about that, my dear friend. A man who has represented England, contributed to British sporting success and built his family and professional life here is still fighting for recognition of his belonging.
What does loyalty to a country mean when that country’s recognition of your belonging remains uncertain?
And I wonder whether this takes us back to the same question we have been exploring throughout this letter. Can we be valued for what we contribute without truly being accepted for who we are? Can we give our loyalty, our talent and our commitment to an institution, a profession or even a country, and still be treated as outsiders?
Of course, immigration and citizenship involve legal requirements and processes. But Bilal’s story also invites us to consider something beyond those requirements. It challenges us to examine the relationship between contribution, identity, recognition and belonging. At what point does a country become someone’s home? And who gets to decide whether they belong?
Perhaps there is a connection here to the child with whom I began this letter.
The child who learns to keep the peace to gain acceptance. The Black parent who hesitates before challenging racism in their child’s school. The professional who remains silent to protect their position. The employee who feels indebted to a manager who once supported them. The psychologist who questions their profession and wonders whether doing so will cost them their place within it. The friend who avoids difficult conversations because they fear losing a relationship. The athlete who represents a country and brings it sporting success but still struggles to obtain the passport that would allow him to compete internationally.
Different lives, different circumstances, different expressions of the same underlying question.
What must I do, or what part of myself must I suppress, in order to belong?
I wonder whether we have sometimes confused loyalty with obedience, belonging with conformity, gratitude with indebtedness, and disagreement with rejection.
Surely genuine loyalty can include challenge. Surely we can care deeply about someone while disagreeing with their choices. Surely we can appreciate someone’s support while holding them accountable for their behaviour. Surely we can belong to a community without being required to think, speak or behave in exactly the same way as everyone else.
And surely a friendship that cannot tolerate difficult conversations is asking one person to carry a greater share of the emotional burden than the other.
I do not want a friendship in which you agree with everything I say. Nor do I want to feel that I must agree with you to remain your friend. I want a friendship in which we can challenge one another, recognise when we have caused harm, and remain sufficiently connected to explore what that harm means.
Perhaps that is what it means to build bridges of empathy. Not simply finding people who share our views, but remaining open to understanding those whose experiences and perspectives challenge us.
And perhaps that is what belonging should offer us. Not a guarantee that we will never feel uncomfortable, but the psychological safety to be ourselves, to question, to disagree and to grow without constantly fearing that our place will be taken away.
So, my dear white friend, I leave you with a question.
If my loyalty to you requires me to remain silent about racism, am I truly your friend, or have I simply learned what I must not say in order to keep your friendship?
And perhaps there is another question we should both be asking.
When someone challenges us, do we see their challenge as an act of disloyalty? Or could it sometimes be one of the deepest expressions of care, respect and commitment to the relationship?
Because perhaps true belonging begins when we no longer have to choose between being accepted and being ourselves.
Your friend.
If this letter has prompted you to think more deeply about loyalty and belonging, you may also want to read Letter nine: Why Did I Feel Grateful When a White Man Spoke About Racism? where I explore White Allyship and Belonging which explores unconscious bias, accountability and the environments that shape who we become. Read Letter Nine sixstagesframework.com
You can also explore the Six Stages Framework and how it supports reflection on attitudes, behaviours, relationships and movement towards greater awareness and accountability. Explore the Six Stages Frameworksixstagesframework.com
My Dear White Friend is a reflective letter series by Dr Shungu Hilda M’gadzah, founder of the Six Stages Framework. The series explores racism, bias, belonging, accountability and human behaviour through psychology, lived experience and the SSF lens.
The themes explored in this reflection — belonging, emotional awareness, psychological safety, human environments and our responses to difference — are also explored in my new book, Understanding Human Behaviour in a Complex World: Applying the Six Stages Framework to Navigate Difference, Challenge and Change.
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