Are You an Ally or Just Loud?

Allyship Without Accountability is Just White Noise

I’ve been thinking a lot about allyship lately. Not the buzzword version. Not the shiny Instagram story on a rainbow background. I mean real, sustained, uncomfortable allyship. The kind that doesn’t wait for a camera, a PR opportunity, or a trending hashtag.

Allyship, at its core, is about action.

It’s about accountability.

It’s about power.

Who holds it.

Who shares it.

And who’s willing to use theirs when the room goes quiet.

But lately, it feels like the word “ally” is losing its meaning. It’s become something you say more than something you do. Especially since 2020. That year, during the global uprising after George Floyd’s murder, everyone seemed to find their voice. Companies posted black squares. Influencers got political. Suddenly, everyone was talking about anti-racism, diversity, and inclusion.

But here’s the thing. A lot of that noise faded when the algorithms moved on. The promises dried up. The ‘we stand with you’ captions turned into silence.

And in that silence, nothing really changed.

This is where I ask: Were you ever an ally, or were you just loud?

Because performative allyship isn’t new. It’s part of a long, tiring history. Especially for Black women. You only have to look back at the feminist movement to see it. On the surface, feminism was supposed to be about liberation for all women.

But who got to lead?

Who got heard?

Who was left to pick up the pieces when movements fell apart?

White women were often centred as the default. In books, campaigns, funding, even the language. Black women, meanwhile, were expected to show up, speak up, but not take up too much space. We had to fight not just for gender equality, but to be seen within the fight.

It wasn’t just about gender. It was about how race, class, and gender collided in everyday life. And how mainstream movements often ignored that.

Black feminists like Audre Lorde, bell hooks, Angela Davis, and Claudia Jones weren’t asking to be included. They were calling out the entire structure. They reminded us that the struggles of Black women aren’t footnotes in broader movements. They are central.

And yet, time and time again. We’re asked to do the work without the recognition. To carry the movement but never lead it.

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” Audre Lorde

I think about that a lot. Especially when I see organisations claiming to care about inclusion while upholding the same systems that exclude people. In healthcare, in education, in the media.

It shows up clearly in sexual health too. Black women are often described in research and public health reports, but rarely invited to shape the narrative. We become statistics, not storytellers. I’ve read countless strategies that talk about “reaching underserved communities” while ignoring the fact that grassroots, Black-led organisations are already doing that work. And they are doing it well, without the same funding or recognition.

In 2023, people of Black African origin made up a third of those receiving HIV care in the UK, despite being just 4 percent of the population. That’s not a small gap. That’s a crisis.

But where are our voices when policy is made? Where is the support for the community-based work that kept us informed, cared for, and alive?

This is why allyship matters.

Not in theory, but in action.

Allyship in sexual health means funding grassroots groups, not just consulting them.

It means putting Black women’s experiences at the centre, not just citing us in reports.

It means recognising that the personal is political, and that our health is shaped by systemic injustice.

Racism, classism, sexism. Every single day.

Too often, allyship is treated like a badge you earn once.

But real allyship isn’t static.

It’s not a line in your bio.

It’s a practice.

And it gets messy.

It means:

Calling out racism even when it’s uncomfortable. Especially when it’s someone you like or someone in your industry.

Amplifying Black voices without centring yourself in the process.

Being consistent, even when no one is watching.

So maybe the real question isn’t just:

Are you an ally or are you just loud?

Maybe it’s, are you still here?

Are you still here?

Are you still here when the energy dies down?

When the headlines move on?

When the Black squares are long deleted, and the DEI statements have gathered dust?

We remember who was loud in 2020 but disappeared by 2021.

And now, five years on, we’re still paying attention.

We remember who launched campaigns about solidarity then quietly slashed budgets when the spotlight moved on.

We remember who showed up when it was popular and who stayed when it wasn’t.

If you’ve been quiet lately, ask yourself why.

If you stepped back, ask yourself what it means to step forward again.

This time with more care, more listening, and less ego.

There are people who never had the luxury to opt out:

Black women.

Queer Black people.

People living with HIV.

Disabled organisers.

Who has been doing this work, unpaid and unpraised, for decades.

The least you can do is stop centring your discomfort and start redistributing your power.

If you call yourself an ally, ask yourself:

What has changed because of your allyship?

What have you risked?

Who have you defended when there was no applause?

Because real solidarity does not need a spotlight.

It needs:

Consistency.

Humility.

And people who are still here, long after the hashtags fade.

Are You an Ally or Just Loud?