Allyship: The Self-Appointed Status Symbol 

Beyond the Buzzwords

At its core, allyship is a commitment.
A willingness to advocate for others, especially when it is uncomfortable, inconvenient, or requires real accountability. Allyship is defined by action, not intent.

Yet somewhere along the way, the word lost its clarity.

Much like privilege — the first instalment in this series — allyship has drifted from its original purpose. What once described active solidarity has become a self-appointed status symbol. A label people claim for themselves rather than a practice they consistently demonstrate. Something to call yourself, rather than something to live.

And that shift matters more than many realise.

Who decides who is an ally?

When can you call yourself one?
Who gets to self-define as an ally?
And what benefit does claiming allyship now seem to offer?

Originally, allyship existed as a way for marginalised people and communities to access support from those with greater power or privilege, particularly in environments where their voices were ignored, dismissed, or misunderstood. An ally was often someone positioned to challenge bias, expose inconsistency, and call out discrimination from within the system itself.

One of the most widely referenced definitions comes from Nicole Asong Nfonoyim-Hara, Director of Diversity Programs at the Mayo Clinic, who describes allyship as:

“When a person of privilege works in solidarity and partnership with a marginalized group of people to help take down the systems that challenge that group’s basic rights, equal access, and ability to thrive in our society.”

This definition is explicit. Allyship is work. It is relational. It is systemic. And it carries responsibility.

From solidarity to symbolism

Over time, however, allyship has increasingly been reduced to optics.

The term gained particular visibility within LGBTQIA+ spaces — rainbow flags in bios, lanyards at work, statements of support during Pride month. In principle, visibility matters. But too often, these gestures became a substitute for action rather than a signal of it.

Performative allyship thrives on image:

I’m an ally because I wear the badge.
I’m an ally because I posted once.
I’m an ally — therefore I’m exempt from scrutiny.

But allyship was never meant to be symbolic. It was meant to be vocal. The definition itself is clear: actively supporting and advocating for. Actively is the operative word.

So the uncomfortable questions remain:
How many people actually speak up?
How many challenge bias when it costs them social capital, influence, or comfort?
How many truly understand the discrimination they claim to oppose?

Where have all the allies gone?

You can be an ally to any marginalised community — disabled people, ethnic minorities, LGBTQIA+ individuals, women, working-class communities. Yet allyship has become so diluted that the word itself now feels tired. Hollow. Overused.

And now, in the midst of the EDI backlash as budgets are stripped, roles are cut, and people are pushed out, demoted, or quietly sidelined — a familiar question resurfaces:

Where have all the allies gone?

When the work became risky rather than reputationally rewarding, many disappeared. That tells us something vital.

Allyship that only exists when it is convenient was never allyship at all.

From support to excuse

Allyship has shifted from a word associated with support to one increasingly used as an excuse. Alongside this comes another uncomfortable question: what is the benefit of being an ally?

Too often, allyship is invoked to deflect accountability. Harmful language or problematic humour is brushed off with, “But I’m an ally.” When being an ally becomes part of someone’s identity rather than an ongoing practice, it can be used to excuse poor behaviour rather than challenge it.

Research into performative allyship — defined as ally behaviour driven primarily by personal motivation and self-interest, expressed through low-cost, highly visible actions that avoid risk and fail to challenge existing power structures or the status quo — shows that such displays frequently fail to challenge structural inequality and can even negatively impact marginalised groups’ wellbeing. Genuine allyship, in contrast, requires sustained effort, accountability, and risk — not just public signalling.

As a result, allyship has become an increasingly resisted term. Much like privilege, it now risks triggering disengagement rather than reflection. In leadership spaces, it can prompt an eye-roll or a quiet sense of here we go again.

And, frankly, it is not hard to understand why.

The term has been overused, misused, and misunderstood. Its meaning diluted by repetition, its impact weakened by the gap between language and behaviour.

The cost of being real

The reality is simple: being a real ally is hard.

And before asking “what is the benefit to me?”, a more honest question must come first: are you actually willing to be one?

Can you speak up in rooms where others cannot?
Can you challenge the majority when doing so puts your comfort, reputation, or progression at risk?

Evidence (Moser, Wiley & Branscombe (2025)) consistently shows a clear divide between low-risk and high-risk ally behaviours.
Low-risk actions — badges, statements, social posts — are socially rewarded.
High-risk actions — challenging leadership decisions, calling out discriminatory behaviour, redistributing power or resources — are not rewarded, they are more likely to be punished.

This is precisely why performative allyship thrives: it offers moral credit without consequence.

The same research shows that willingness to act as an ally declines sharply when:

• social standing is threatened
• conflict with peers or leaders is likely
• organisational protection is absent

In simple terms, many people support equality — until it costs them something.

This helps explain why, during moments of EDI backlash so many once visible allies quietly disappear. What we are witnessing is not the absence of allyship, but the exposure of how conditional it has become.

A final question

So ask yourself honestly: are you an ally — or are you attached to the image of one?

Why do you want to be an ally?
What does that responsibility require in practice?
What does it cost you — and what are you willing to risk?

Allyship that exists only when it is safe, visible, and rewarded is not allyship at all.
It is self-promotion dressed up as principle.