Black History Month is not just a month for me, it’s my lifestyle – I know nothing else. Although designed to be a time for celebration, I experience a range of mixed emotions at this time of year.

I’m very proud of who I am, my heritage and the great things Black people have and continue to do and contribute towards society. Yet I feel exhausted and overwhelmed because many organisations along with the mainstream media, suddenly focus their attention and recognition on Black people when it isn’t there authentically the rest of the year, and when it is, it’s often through a negative lens.

Over the years, I’ve had many conversations with people who feel like Black History Month is a tiresome tick box exercise. As a result, I’m intrigued to know what Black History Month means to everyone else BUT Black people. I’d also like to see Black people being acknowledged and celebrated, without them having to do the majority of the organising, facilitating and educating themselves.

Growing up Black in the UK has been and still is very heavy, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I love the skin I’m in but want to be able to live and work in a society where I’m free to be me and don’t have to suppress my thoughts, feelings and emotions in order to cope with everyday life.

Although there continue to be great improvements in some areas, there is a long way to go and it’s frustrating to still experience and witness micro-aggressions and ignorant comments within the workplace, frequently reminding me that I don’t quite belong.

When engaging in this month’s activities around Black History Month, please remember that a good time for some can be very challenging for others who work and live in spaces where they endure being gaslighted, dismissed or completely ignored when issues around race arise.

Be curious and seek to understand, but also be sensitive and mindful, as many people will be re-opening some very painful wounds that still remain, long after the conversation has finished.

October shouldn’t just be a time to ask Black people to share their lived experiences. It should be a month of reflection for all, and particularly for organisations to reflect on what they are consistently doing to combat racism and ensure working environments where discrimination doesn’t exist at any level.

Let’s change the narrative!

Leyhana McCarthy

Information Point Team Leader

Content warning – experience of infertility and pregnancy loss

I write this as fertility awareness week approaches and find myself reflecting on the past seven years. How did that happen? My primary reason for sharing my experience is to raise awareness and because although it was painful, I feel I can share it, whilst others cannot. I feel like being more open about what infertility was like for me will help destigmatize it; and maybe someone going through a similar journey will feel less alone.

Spoiler alert – I now have a turbo-charged, head strong toddler after IVF eventually resulted in a successful pregnancy. If you need to stop reading because this is now one of many infertility stories that includes success, then I 100% support that choice. One source of frustration for me during infertility was the absence of stories from people who underwent years of treatment and chose to stop without having a child. It felt as if these people didn’t exist, yet I felt they must (they do!) and I wanted to hear how they scaffolded their way out of the sinking sand of infertility treatment. Their stories are so important in a society which seems to ask women at every turn when they are having children or why they haven’t had them yet. (If this is something you think you might be guilty of doing, even with close friends or family, please stop) The weight of expectation from society is a lot to carry on top of the ache from within to become a parent.

This is Llansteffan beach. It was here, settled on the same bench, that I realised I had visited for the past 4 years, almost to the day, each year. I would sit here gazing at the water, fiercely close to bursting with emotion, an outward calm belying what I now recognise as a response to trauma. As a write I feel this is sounding a little dramatic, but I am working on being kind to myself; a part of that is being honest about what a destructive experience it was to go through infertility and subsequent treatment, in order to carry and give birth to a child.

One thing which is helping me process the experience is recognising that not getting pregnant every cycle, over years, became a monthly hop on the grief train. Grief, with all its stages and visceral extremes, was triggered each time I was not pregnant. The hope attached to the possibility that this might be the time my period wouldn’t come and I could take a test, was lost each time. The meaning held within that, the imagined future that disappeared with a grimly comic ‘POP!’ every month. I am not a particularly superstitious person, but it became very difficult to shush the thought that this was punishment for something, that the universe had somehow found me not deserving of becoming a parent. That self-kindness, I mentioned earlier? I am trying to apply it to those sorts of thoughts.

After not being pregnant for a long time and after repeat trips to the GP, I was referred to a fertility clinic for further investigations, along with my partner. After several procedures, including surgery, we were given a diagnosis of ‘unexplained fertility’–  yes that is an actual diagnosis – with a 13% chance of successful conception with treatment. I want to say that hearing that percentage was a hammer blow, but in reality I was so worn down and used to the loss of hope by this point that I don’t think I engaged with the bleakness of it until much later.

Having already spent years trying to start a family by this point, and after the invasive procedures for diagnosis, we decided to give IVF a try despite the low likelihood of success. Living in Bristol we were entitled to one round of treatment on the NHS. This started in early 2020, so I was administering the hormone cocktails by daily injections while watching our government pretend there wasn’t an incredibly worrying virus sweeping across the world. I started working from home during this time as I was worried about getting unwell while in treatment. This was coupled with regular visits to the clinic to check how my ovaries were responding.

After the course of hormones came to an end, I had the procedure to harvest eggs; the embryologists did their (amazing) thing and an embryo started to develop in the lab, and I went back in to have it implanted. Two days later, the country went into lockdown and everything stopped. I was lucky that I had been able to get that one embryo implanted before the clinic had to close. What followed was the ‘two week wait’ – the window after the embryo transfer when you wait to take a pregnancy test to see if it has implanted.

You’re meant to spend that time doing nice relaxing things, such as being creative, and distracting yourself. Like everyone else at this time my main distraction was watching the government bungle its way through how we should be behaving, how we could protect ourselves and one another, and how we must stay at home. Work turned out to be a great way to occupy my mind since there was so much opportunity to pitch in and do whatever needed doing to help teaching move online – it was far from relaxing though.

The two weeks passed painfully slowly, before test day eventually rolled around. It was negative. It ‘doesn’t count’ as a loss, but after two weeks of behaving like I could be pregnant it certainly felt like one. That loss of hope emerged again; the single funded cycle was now complete with nothing to show from it. The other two embryos that had started to develop in the lab had stopped a day later – the day before lock down – so there was nothing in the freezer to transfer. That was it.

We let the clinic know by email and were given a phone appointment with a consultant at the clinic. She was clinical about it all and explained that the first cycle was often more diagnostic than anything, and on average they advised people to try at least three cycles of treatment with adjustments based on what they learned from previous ones. This was news to me! I felt like I’d been duped into some medical (and financial) lottery where if I just tried once more it might just work out. You’ve had the first go, keep going!

The clinic could not open for further treatments until four months later so we had some time to think about what to do; we decided we could afford to fund one more cycle ourselves, so we contacted them in July and started the process again. This time, the doses of hormones was changed to increase the chances of having more eggs to harvest, which worked. A bit too well.

I started to feel unwell with six days left of treatment. The clinic ordered blood tests which showed my hormone levels were higher than they should be.  My treatment was tweaked but I was advised to keep injecting the hormones and go for egg retrieval on the planned day. This time, they got more eggs and were really pleased but I had to be helped out of the clinic to the car with a lovely cardboard bowl to throw up in on the way home. Over the next two days at home, I felt even worse. It then became clear I had ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (OHSS), which meant I could not have any of the three embryos that had developed transferred and they were all frozen instead.

The COVID-19 measures were still in place at this point so my partner was not allowed into the clinic, and they didn’t want to admit me to hospital if they could avoid it because of the COVID risk at Southmead. As a result, my partner drove me to the clinic every morning for observation, and blood tests. In addition to this exhausting routine, we had to be on standby to go into hospital each day depending on the test outcome which came at lunch time. After five days of this, I was starting to feel better and was cleared to rest and relax until I felt back to full health, which I chose to go and do in Llansteffan.

After a couple of normal menstrual cycles, I was allowed to have an embryo transfer in early December 2020. The best graded embryo was defrosted and transferred, starting that two week wait period again. I was resigned to it not working this time so was absolutely floored to be staring at my first ever positive pregnancy test two weeks later. I lived in a weird daze, keeping away from people as COVID surged again and not quite believing I was finally pregnant. On 22^nd December I started bleeding and called the clinic, who said it sounded like a chemical pregnancy. A chemical pregnancy isn’t considered a miscarriage, but to me it was (and is). Because of it being by IVF, I know the would-have-been due date for that embryo and that day will never pass without me thinking of what may have been. Christmas was shit.

We had another decision to make. Our remaining embryos were frozen and stored at no cost for one year, but we had to fund any further transfers, so we decided we would transfer those embryos before the year was up and then call it a day. In early April, after further normal menstrual cycles, we had the best graded embryo of the remaining two transferred and started yet another two week wait. It passed much more quickly this time and I found myself staring, once again, at a positive pregnancy test. I felt numb, until a couple of weeks later, when I suddenly lost my appetite, developed a strong aversion to any food with flavour, and started to consider that this might actually be a real pregnancy. A seven-week scan at the clinic showed that everything was as it should be at that stage – a blob of grey fuzz on a screen as far as I could tell – and my morning sickness continued. I was released from the clinic’s care and entered the care of midwifery, the most wonderful women and best medical care I have experienced. After the occasional event during the pregnancy, my son was born on Christmas Day 2021.

This is one woman’s experience of infertility and IVF, statistically unremarkable, as according the NHS ‘1 in 7 couples struggle to conceive’. I’m conscious that my experience as a cis, white woman in a heterosexual relationship – and that 1 in 7 statistic on the NHS site – only shows a small part of the picture of infertility, a subject that is so infrequently discussed with much feeling and one that brings plenty of other challenges – and battles – for people in different circumstances. That said, more people sharing their stories can only be a good thing and this is mine.

As you can probably tell this experience still feels very raw for me and raises resentment, confusion, guilt, sorrow – to name a few of the complex range of emotions I am slowly working through.  Having my son had an amazing shrinking effect on the space that it takes up inside me, and he brings me joy every day. Imagining becoming a parent was something I stopped myself from doing when it became too painful, but occasionally my son will do something, or we will be in a moment together, and I will realise I had daydreamed about it years ago. That is a warm feeling.

Sarah Salter

Senior Project Manager – Digital Learning

Content Warning: This text discusses homophobia and mental health. 

My journey of coming out has been a path of self-discovery, self-acceptance, and, ultimately, self-love. In some ways, this process of “coming out” continues even today. Just last Christmas, a checkout attendant assumed my “wife” might be upset about my shopping spree and was surprised when I explained he would be delighted with the extra wine! While these assumptions can be uncomfortable, they pale in comparison to the more severe prejudice I’ve encountered in the past. 

I grew up in the 1980s and 90s, when the shadow of Section 28 loomed large, campaigns stigmatised the gay community during the HIV/Aids crisis, and casual homophobic verbal and physical abuse were distressingly common. I vividly remember my first Pride in London when parents quickly moved their children away from us and when I became the target of hateful slurs and was spat at.  

Even in the confines of my family and a circle of friends who loved me, homophobic attitudes and language created a climate in which I felt it impossible to be openly or fully me. For many years I lived a kind of double life trying to hide my sexual orientation. It was torture. It became hugely stressful as I navigated a complex web of telling different people at different times. The self-editing and sense of deceit was exhausting and took a huge toll on my physical and mental health.    

Over twenty years on it saddens me to still hear about the homophobia that exists both here and around the world, but at the same time I am very proud to know that our country has come so far in embracing equality and valuing our human diversity. When I watch the news, I worry that we mustn’t allow this to backslide. This is hard-won progress and a continuing struggle. I never underestimate the important role of allies and activists who work for change – not just in our interpersonal behaviours and societal culture but also in dismantling the systemic and institutional forms of discrimination that can hold us back and which diminish us all. Those champions of equity and inclusion are needed throughout society more than ever.  

In my professional life, I’ve seen the positive impact of inclusive policies and a welcoming environment. Our university is dedicated to creating a space where people of all sexual orientations and gender identities feel valued and supported. We recognise that diversity enriches our community, sparks creativity, and enhances everyone’s educational experience. I know not everyone experiences this and until they do, we must work hard to make improvements. The responsibility for change, however, should not rest disproportionately on the shoulders of those most affected by discrimination.  

World Coming Out Day reminds us of the power of visibility and representation. By sharing our stories, we break down barriers, challenge stereotypes, and dispel misconceptions. When we come out, we not only honour our true selves but can also offer hope to others.  

In academia, diversity and inclusivity are fundamental to our mission. It is through the exchange of ideas and perspectives that we push the boundaries of knowledge and foster understanding among all members of our community. Stonewall has conducted research that found two in five LGBT+ students (42%) have hidden their identity at university whilst more than a third of LGBT+ staff (35%) have hidden that they are LGBT+ at work for fear of discrimination.  

In my role, I am committed to ensuring that every student, academic and staff member feels safe, valued, and respected, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity. More than a quarter of LGBT+ students (28%) say they were excluded by other students for being LGBT+. We clearly have some way to go yet but it is only through us acting to bring about change at all levels that progress can be made. 

To those who are considering coming out or choosing to keep their identity private for now, please know that you are not alone. There are supportive communities here who are ready to embrace you for who you are. Embrace your truth and remember that you are deserving of love and acceptance just as you are.  

On this World Coming Out Day, let us celebrate the progress we’ve made in promoting acceptance and inclusion, but also recognise the work that lies ahead. Together, we can create a world where everyone can live their lives authentically and without fear. A world where every day is a celebration of our diverse identities, marked by acceptance, love, and celebration. 

Dan Wood

Chief People Officer

For a variety of reasons each year Black History Month arrives with controversy. I agree with those who bemoan the packaging of Black history into one month. To us it can feel like it is too neatly commodified and just like a Christmas tree put back into a box for the rest of the year. At these times I reflect on several conversations that have helped me to put Dr Carter G Woodson’s words into action.   

In Bristol we have a vibrant Black community who this year honoured the Bristol Bus Boycott, the 75th anniversary of Windrush and St Pauls Carnival. Our communities across the African diaspora have centuries of contribution, connections and activism from their diverse histories across continents. 

Every year I meet people without that rooted knowledge to their Black heritage. For them Black History Month (BMH) provides a gateway of entry. A white parent who raised their dual-heritage child once pointed out to me that there was nothing in the curriculum to help their child deal with their self-esteem following a bout of racism. One young Black man, who had grown up in the countryside once confided to me that BHM had helped him better understand his identity. Through BHM both found new networks, support and cultural reference points. Windrush 75 Chair Patrick Vernon OBE said ‘BMH has influenced and inspired the equalities world to organise similar months, exposing hidden and excluded histories.’ These include LGBTQ, Disabled and Women’s History Months.

Of course, we can’t confine anybody’s history to a day, week or month one month. I respect anyone taking the knee and sitting out BHM 2023, whilst they ensure Black history is represented throughout the year. For me, there is a practical and pragmatic need to do both. To ensure that the culture that gives us all so much inspiration and pride reaches as many influencers and audiences as possible. Post pandemic and with those seeking to divide, we need every opportunity to bring us together. United we can tackle new emerging themes of intersectionality and demographic changes within and beyond our communities.

The Rewarding Gap is just one area UWE Bristol and academia need to address in tackling structural racism in Britain. BHM on its own isn’t going to overturn decades of injustice but we can make a compelling case for achievement and celebration. At a recent community conference our communities bemoaned that too many of our Black and Brown young men are in enrolled in the judicial system than studying in higher education. Until that set of circumstances changes every action and every opportunity must be tried and taken. Black History Month can build awareness and as an engagement campaign to fight against the daily injustices of racism during October and …all year round! 

Dr Roger Griffith MBE, UWE Bristol Lecturer, Author and CEO Creative Connex CIC