Adam is the Founder and Chief Executive of ProjectChange. He struggles to write his own biographies so as a friend describe him "he's a bundle of contradictions".
Even writing this I feel the need to profusely apologise for using such antiquated and exhaustive language that would make even the most remote and nefarious regions of a former priminsterial blonde-haired charismatic brain cringe.
I must apologise straight away as is my tendencies for awkwardness. The irony is not left on me that we (ProjectChange) are running this series on community voices, and I have so felt the need to write my own blog. If you’re happy with that, you’ll have to follow my logic with me on this one.
I forget I’m care experienced, constantly. Like more than I forget my keys, or where I’ve hidden the last few pringles, so I don’t go out and buy another tube, sort of forget. Like I know they’re there somewhere, I can sense their presence, but it doesn’t dictate me. Maybe a metaphor on pringles before breakfast was unwise. Anyway. I forget.
Which is why I’m forcing myself to write this blog, because dear viewer (dear reader, I guess technically). Because, when I think of the role of ProjectChange and my role in having created and leading it, I don’t think about it from my perspective. I have such a deep yearning to help my community own their own voices and be who they want to be. That I forget that I am also a part of this community and I have every right to not only be a part of it but also use my own personal voice to shout about the things that matter to me. That’s of course my community.
Even writing this I feel the need to profusely apologise for using such antiquated and exhaustive language that would make even the most remote and nefarious regions of a former priminsterial blonde-haired charismatic brain cringe.
But why, do I feel guilty about using my own voice.
It’s presented as a trade-off. A fight, a battle, a tug-of-war, a to-and-fro. Between having my own voice and having the ability to showcase other people’s voices. So ultimately I have to choose, me or you. And I’d always choose you. I feel like I’ve had my turn, made my arguments.
But why, am I writing this blog then.
Well because, it shouldn’t be a trade-off. If you were me, what would you do. If I were you giving me advice as if you were me and I was you (you follow??). I’d say to hell with that why should you sacrifice your voice, that you’ve worked really hard to figure out just for the sake of other people. The more people are talking the better. The more people in our community discussing, the better, the more people in society who hear us, the better, and the more people in power that fear us, the better.
I understand the need for trade-offs in life. Like do I finish the bar of chocolate now. or. Or. OR. do I finish the bar of chocolate now and buy another one. Life is full of these dilemmas, not all of them delicious, but usually important. But this, this isn’t a trade-off we should be making. Not with our voices, not with our expertise, not with the things that matter to us.
It’s almost like we’re conditioned to think there’s only so much space, like there’s some cosmic voice quota that, once hit, means someone else gets muted. And no matter how hard they try – think Zoom call with a non-tech-proficient relative, circa mid-2020 – they just can’t get unmuted. I get it. We’ve all been there, especially when we all care seem deeply about our community. There’s this unspoken fear that speaking up might take away someone else’s turn. But what if – now stay with me here – what if there’s enough air to go around? Like, we’re not running out of oxygen, right? The planet may be approaching apocalyptic levels of climate change, but we’re still fine on oxygen (I checked, turns out we’re good). So why do we act like we’re running out of room to be heard?
This is where I’m supposed to tell you the moral of the story, right? Well, the thing is, I’m still figuring it out.
5 years running this charity.
10 years living in care.
The hell if I know.
But what I do know is that there’s no need to apologise for having something to say. In fact, I’ve decided I’m going to stop apologising. (Unless, of course, I spill coffee on your favourite jumper, then we’ll talk.)
Because here’s the thing: when we speak, we’re not drowning each other out. We’re adding layers, melodies, harmonies, chords. It’s not noise, it’s the most beautiful symphony. And trust me, the louder this orchestra get, the harder it is for anyone to ignore the tune. If anything, that’s what they fear. They don’t fear one voice, they fear a whole lot of them, together, in perfect disharmony.
So if I’m going to leave you with anything, dear reader (yes, you, still here after all this rambling), it’s this: speak. Loudly, softly, however you want. Speak with purpose or speak with none at all. Just don’t stay quiet because you think you’ve had your turn or because you think someone else’s voice is more important. We all deserve to be heard. And who knows, maybe one day, the people with power will stop pretending they’ve got earplugs in.
That’s the dream, anyway.
Until then, I’ll keep munching on metaphorical Pringles and forgetting where I’ve put them, while also reminding myself – and you – or me pretending to be you – or you pretending to be me – that our voices matter. Every single one of them.
P.S. You will notice that I start lots of sentences with a question or the use of a doing word, this is classic english literature rule breaking, but when did I ever listen to the rules.