Today I Choose to be Equitable – How to be Equitable

Fairness is one of those ideals we chase, but in real life it’s messier than we want to admit. I see it in small, everyday places—like the dinner table with my in-laws. My father-in-law wants steak, my mother-in-law avoids meat, Curtis is happy with anything, and I just want peace. Creating an “equitable” meal doesn’t mean everyone gets exactly what they want. It means no one walks away unseen.

Last Sunday, watching my father-in-law’s face light up at the smell of grilled steak while my mother-in-law smiled at her roasted vegetables with the same herbs, I understood something deeper about equity. It wasn’t that everyone got the same thing. It was that everyone felt considered. The extra effort to prepare two proteins, to remember who needs what, to make sure no one sits at the table feeling forgotten—that’s equity in action.

That lesson stretches far beyond food. True equity isn’t about splitting everything down the middle—it’s about noticing who’s been overlooked and making sure they’re brought back into the circle. Sometimes that means cooking two proteins. Sometimes it means shutting up so someone else’s story can be heard.

The Workplace Reality Check

At work, I see this constantly, and it makes my chest tight every time. Equal would be giving everyone the same raise—a nice, clean 3% across the board, no complaints, no complications. But equitable? That’s recognizing that Sarah started this job making $10,000 less than her male colleague who had identical qualifications. That Marcus has been passed over for three promotions while watching less experienced people advance. That Jennifer works twice as hard for half the recognition because she’s been labeled “difficult” for speaking up in meetings.

Equitable means adjusting accordingly. It means Sarah’s raise reflects not just her performance this year, but correcting past inequity. It means creating pathways for Marcus that acknowledge the barriers he’s faced. It means recognizing that Jennifer’s “difficulty” might actually be competence that threatens people.

It’s not popular. When I advocated for Sarah’s larger raise, I watched the discomfort ripple across the conference table. People who’ve always gotten the bigger slice think equality feels like oppression. But I’m done pretending that treating everyone the same when they don’t start from the same place is fair. The math doesn’t work. The morality doesn’t work.

Dave from accounting actually said to me, “But isn’t that reverse discrimination?” And I wanted to shake him. No, Dave. It’s correcting actual discrimination. It’s recognizing that the playing field was never level to begin with.

The Weight of Really Seeing People

Being equitable requires really seeing people. Not just their surface needs, but their context, their history, their invisible struggles. It’s emotional labor that most people don’t want to do because it’s easier to assume everyone’s starting from the same place.

The employee who’s always late might be dealing with eldercare for three parents while working full-time. The quiet one in meetings might have been shut down so many times they’ve stopped trying. The one who seems fine might be drowning silently, holding it together by threads while managing a chronic illness no one knows about.

I learned this the hard way with my former colleague, Maria. For months, I was frustrated with her performance—distracted in meetings, missing deadlines, not her usual sharp self. I almost recommended her for a performance improvement plan. Then I found out she’d been caring for her mother with dementia while raising two teenagers alone after her husband left. She hadn’t told anyone because she was terrified of seeming unreliable.

Equity meant adjusting my expectations and our workflows to support her reality, not punish her for it. We rearranged her schedule for flexibility, redistributed some responsibilities temporarily, and created check-ins that were supportive rather than punitive. Maria didn’t need the same support as everyone else. She needed what she needed.

That’s the thing about equity—it requires you to see people’s actual circumstances, not their theoretical ones. And seeing requires asking. Listening. Believing what you’re told instead of assuming you know better.

The Family Dinner Table Politics

Back to that dinner table, because it’s where I first learned about equity versus equality in action. Growing up, “fair” meant everyone got the same portion, the same attention, the same rules. But even as kids, we knew it wasn’t really fair. My brother needed more food because he was going through growth spurts. I needed more patience because I was struggling in school. My sister needed more emotional support because she was sensitive in ways that our thick-skinned family didn’t naturally understand.

But “same” was easier than “equitable,” so same is what we got. Everyone got fifteen minutes to share about their day. Everyone got one serving of dessert. Everyone got the same bedtime regardless of age or need. It was fair in the most superficial way possible.

Now, with my in-laws, I’ve learned to cook to people’s actual needs. My father-in-law is diabetic, so his portions are smaller but more frequent. My mother-in-law has texture sensitivities, so I prepare her vegetables differently. Curtis is recovering from his health scare, so I focus on foods that support his healing. I eat whatever’s left, adjusted for my own needs.

It takes more work. More planning. More individual attention. But watching everyone at the table feel cared for in their specific way? Worth every extra dish to wash.

The Inheritance Conversation

This concept hit closest to home when Curtis and I started talking about our wills. Initially, we planned to split everything equally between our kids. Seems fair, right? Each child gets the same amount.

But then we started thinking more deeply. Tyler went to college, and we paid for all of it. Jesse started working right after high school and has been on his own financially since eighteen. Tyler got wedding help; Jesse’s still single. Tyler bought a house with our co-signature; Jesse rents and has never asked us for financial help.

Equal would be splitting our assets 50/50. Equitable means acknowledging that Tyler has already received significantly more financial support throughout his life. Not because we love him more, but because his path required it and he asked for help. Jesse’s independence meant he received less simply because he needed less—or asked for less.

So our will now reflects equity over equality. Jesse will receive a larger portion to balance out the lifetime support that’s already gone to Tyler. When I explained this to a friend, she was horrified. “But that’s not fair to Tyler!”

Actually, it’s more fair. Tyler got help when he needed it. Jesse is getting help now, when we’re in a position to provide it posthumously. Both children will have received substantial support from us, just at different times in their lives.

It’s messier than equal division. It requires explanation, documentation, difficult conversations. But it’s honest about the reality of how resources have actually been distributed in our family.

The Emotional Labor of Equity

Here’s what no one tells you about choosing equity over equality: it’s exhausting. It requires constant attention to who needs what, who’s been overlooked, who’s struggling silently. You become the person tracking invisible needs, adjusting constantly, advocating for those who can’t advocate for themselves.

At work, I’m the one noticing that certain voices never get heard in meetings. So I create space deliberately: “Marcus, what’s your take on this?” or “Before we move on, let’s hear from anyone who hasn’t had a chance to weigh in.” It shouldn’t be my job, but if I don’t do it, it doesn’t happen.

I’m the one tracking who gets credit for ideas, who gets interrupted, who gets talked over. I redirect: “I think Jessica was making a point,” or “Let’s let her finish.” Small interventions that add up to making meetings more equitable.

At family gatherings, I’m the one making sure my quiet nephew gets asked about his interests, that my elderly aunt isn’t ignored in conversations, that dietary restrictions are accommodated without fanfare. It’s emotional labor that’s invisible until you stop doing it.

And sometimes I get tired of it. Sometimes I want to just show up and not be responsible for everyone else’s experience. But then I remember what it feels like to be overlooked, and I keep adjusting.

The Resistance You’ll Face

When you start practicing equity instead of equality, people notice. And not everyone likes it.

“Why does she get special treatment?” they ask when you accommodate someone’s specific needs.
“That’s not how we’ve always done it,” they say when you suggest changing systems that work for some but not others.
“You’re being too sensitive,” they claim when you point out patterns of exclusion.

The people who benefit from the current “equal” system will resist equitable changes because equity might mean they get less—less attention, less advantage, less of the assumption that their way is the right way.

I’ve been called “divisive” for pointing out that not everyone starts from the same place. “Reverse racist” for advocating for people of color who’ve been systematically excluded. “Too politically correct” for using inclusive language.

Let them be uncomfortable. Equity isn’t about making privileged people feel good about themselves. It’s about making sure everyone has what they need to thrive.

Equity in Self-Care

Funny thing about equity—once you start practicing it with others, you realize you need to practice it with yourself too. I spent decades giving myself the same rules, expectations, and standards regardless of what I was dealing with.

Bad mental health day? Same productivity expectations. Physical pain flare-up? Same social commitments. Emotional overwhelm? Same availability to everyone who needed me.

Equity with myself means adjusting my expectations based on my actual capacity, not my theoretical capacity. On days when grief is heavy, I do less. When my body hurts, I move differently. When I’m emotionally drained, I say no to things I’d normally say yes to.

This isn’t being lazy or making excuses. It’s recognizing that I don’t always start each day from the same internal place, so I shouldn’t hold myself to identical standards regardless of circumstances.

Some days I can handle a full schedule and multiple demands. Other days I need gentleness and space. Equity means giving myself what I need, not what I think I should need.

Teaching Equity to the Next Generation

My grandchildren are watching how we handle fairness, and I want them to understand equity from the beginning. When they complain that someone got “more” of something, we talk about why.

“Grandpa got a bigger piece of cake because he’s bigger and needs more food. You got extra time to finish your story because reading is harder for you right now. Your brother got to stay up later because he’s older and needs less sleep.”

I want them to understand that fair doesn’t always mean same. That caring about people means seeing their individual needs. That sometimes helping others get what they need means adjusting what you get.

It’s a harder lesson than “everyone gets the same,” but it’s a more truthful one. The world isn’t equitable by default. If we want equity, we have to create it intentionally.

The Long View of Equity

Equity isn’t a one-time adjustment. It’s an ongoing practice of paying attention, adjusting, advocating. It’s checking in regularly: Who’s being overlooked? What barriers exist that I can’t see? How can systems be adjusted to work better for everyone?

It means being willing to be uncomfortable, to have difficult conversations, to challenge the way things have “always been done.” It means accepting that some people will call you unfair for trying to make things actually fair.

But at 61, I’d rather be called unfair by people who’ve never lacked for fairness than continue participating in systems that consistently overlook those who need advocacy most.

Today’s Choice

Today, choose to be equitable, not just equal. Look for who’s been overlooked in your family, your workplace, your community. Notice who needs more support to reach the same starting line. Adjust your giving not based on sameness, but on need.

Listen for the voices that aren’t being heard. See the people who are working twice as hard for half the recognition. Pay attention to who’s struggling silently while others get all the attention.

It’s messier than equality, but it’s also more honest. And at 61, I’m interested in honest over easy. I’m interested in seeing people clearly instead of assuming everyone’s experience matches mine.

The dinner table is waiting. The workplace is watching. The family conversations need to happen. Whatever your version of equity looks like—making space, redistributing resources, amplifying quiet voices—do it.

Because equality assumes everyone starts from the same place. But equity recognizes the truth: we don’t. And until we do, fairness requires different responses to different needs. That’s not special treatment. That’s justice.