Fight the Good Fight

Fight the good fight; every struggle needs a voice.

Not every voice finds its time, or its crowd.

Still, fight the good fight.

Some fade unheard, yet none fade alone.

When one voice finally reaches its audience,

it bears the weight of all who could not speak.

Always, fight the good fight.

I wrote this poem after sitting with a thought when John shared this with me:

Every few moments in history, we look back and ask ourselves—did we really live like that?

Over the past few days, I’ve had several of those moments.

I was in Cambridge recently—a place that has stood as a symbol of learning and intellectual pursuit for centuries. And yet, for nearly 600 years, women were not formally enrolled there. From the 1200s until the 1800s, women were excluded entirely. Even after that, they were allowed to study but not to graduate—present, but not recognised. I keep wondering about the voices that existed during those centuries. The ones that spoke. The ones that tried. The ones that were dismissed. It took generations before one voice finally found its audience—and when it did, it changed everything that followed.

Around the same time, Aishwarya, a friend who works closely with people with disabilities and transport inclusion shared something that stayed with me. Until 2012, if a wheelchair user wanted to board the London Underground, they had to email 48 hours in advance so staff and equipment could be arranged. Forty-eight hours—just to travel. It sounds absurd now. And yet, that was normal until it wasn’t. The shift came during the London Paralympics—not because access suddenly mattered more, but because visibility did. Because the world was watching. One moment, one audience, and suddenly a long-standing injustice became unacceptable.

I’ve noticed these moments everywhere. A charity that supports people with hearing loss—but requires phone calls to book appointments. Systems designed to help, unintentionally built in ways that exclude. And each time, I catch myself thinking: Oh my god, this still happens like this?

Change doesn’t always arrive quickly.

Sometimes it takes decades. Sometimes centuries. And often, many voices speak before one is finally heard. Most don’t get to see the outcome of the fight they started. But that doesn’t make their struggle meaningless.

This poem is a reminder to myself—and maybe to you—that not every role in change is about being the loudest voice. Sometimes, it’s about being the bridge. The amplifier. The person who helps a voice reach its audience. Because when one voice finally breaks through, it rarely speaks just for itself. It speaks in representation of everyone who tried before.

So even when progress feels slow.

Even when the fight feels futile.

Even when history hasn’t caught up yet.

Always—fight the good fight.