Pride Month: What My Four-Year-Old Child Teaches Me About Inclusion

This Pride Month, as the world celebrates love in its truest forms, I find myself moved, not by a viral podcast or speech but by my four-year-old daughter's quiet, instinctive kindness. In her small, everyday choices, she's teaching me more about inclusion than I ever learned in all my years writing policies or facilitating workshops.

Even after almost a decade in the HR space, the words diversity and inclusion often felt like something confined to policy documents - bullet points in presentations, statements made in high-level meetings, and stamped "effective immediately." I understood their importance in theory, but I wasn't always sure how to live them.

I used to think inclusion was about making big declarations or having the perfect things to say. But Devika, my daughter, has completely turned that idea upside down.

Truth is, I didn't grow up with this vocabulary. No one talked about pronouns or body positivity when I was young. I'm still figuring it out as I go. I'm also trying to unlearn a few things along the way.

The kind of inclusion I want to teach her isn't coming from a handbook–It's unfolding in our kitchen conversations, playground decisions, and those random moments when she catches me completely off guard.

And sometimes, I get it wrong.

Like, when I said, "You'll look more like a girl if you grow your hair," or assumed that every family looks the same.

But then I correct myself. I apologise. Because I want her to see that grown-ups don't need to be perfect - they just need to be willing to grow.

So here's what I've learned about inclusion - not through a single powerful talk, but through the little ways Devika and I live and learn together.

My daughter is my teacher

The other day at bedtime, we were flipping through a picture book when she started telling me about a boy who had just moved into our apartment complex. "No one wanted him on their relay race team," she said. "So I asked him to run with me."

I asked why.

She shrugged. "He looked like he needed a friend."

That was it. No lecture about being an ally or doing the right thing. Just a gut instinct to include someone who needed it.

That's the version of inclusion I'm hoping sticks with her - not as a checklist, but as second nature.

What strikes me most is how naturally this comes to her. While I'm still learning the "right" words for these conversations, she's already living them.

A few weeks ago, we were at a café when she noticed someone in a stunning silk sari, with a soft beard, bald head, and the most beautiful nose ring. She stared - you know how kids do, with zero filter and then whispered, "Amma, boy or girl?"

There was a time I might have hurried her along, embarrassed. But not that day. I leaned in and said, "Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe something else. But definitely someone who looks happy. And eating chocolate cake."

She giggled. Cake, after all, is a universal language.

These moments stay with me because her curiosity isn't judgment - it's just wonder. And how I respond in those moments shapes not just what she knows, but how she sees the world.

Incusivity is second nature

Last Janmashtami, when Devika’s school announced that all girls would dress as Radha and boys as Krishna. She asked me, "Why can't I dress as Krishna too?"

I told her, "Of course you can." And then I followed up with her teacher because inclusion isn't just about letting someone feel different - it's about making sure they feel like they belong exactly as they are.

We spend so much time talking about inclusion in big, systemic ways, which obviously matters, don't get me wrong. But it also lives in these tiny, everyday choices: letting someone go ahead of you in line, asking the new kid if they want to sit with you at lunch, actually using the name someone tells you to use, not laughing when someone trips over their words.

These moments are the foundation - they're where inclusion becomes real, where it moves from concept to character.

I want Devika to look people in the eye. To speak up - not just when it's safe or popular - but when it's right. And more than anything, I want her to remember this: Everyone deserves to be seen. And she has the power to make someone feel that way.

Maybe, if we do this right, a child who sees someone in a sari with a beard won't need to ask any questions. They'll just admire the nose ring... or wonder what kind of cake they're eating.

Because inclusion isn't a finish line. It's a daily practice. It's noticing all the colours in front of us. And if we’re lucky, our children will grow up making it second nature.

Authored by Roshini Nair, Consultant, Lead, Talent Engagement, at Climate Asia. Views expressed by the author are their own.