That’s why something like period education can’t just be for girls. When we open up these conversations to everyone, we break down the walls that misinformation and stigma build. We help Gen Z boys, and everyone else, see that understanding periods isn’t about taking something away from one group – it’s about building empathy and respect for all. The more we use marketing to make these topics accessible and relatable to everyone, the closer we get to a world where nobody feels left out or misunderstood.

Enjoy these three powerful videos below. Each one not only underscores why period education should be for everyone, but also shows how thoughtful marketing and storytelling can open hearts and minds.

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If you haven’t seen them before (or recently), here they are again:

“The Talk” depicted Black parents preparing their children for the biases they might face, while “The Look” illustrated the subtle and overt prejudices experienced by Black men in daily life.

These ads did more than raise awareness; they sparked national conversations and challenged viewers to see the world through a different lens. Now, as we find ourselves in a climate where DEI initiatives are increasingly under attack, the lessons from these ads are more relevant – and urgent – than ever.

The Lesson: Courage and Consistency Matter Most

Seven years later, the landscape has changed. Across North America, some companies are scaling back or abandoning DEI commitments in response to political and cultural backlash. In this environment, P&G’s campaigns remind us that true leadership means standing firm in your values – even when it’s unpopular or difficult. As mentioned above, at the time of release, these campaigns were loudly criticized by many, but P&G stood their ground, setting the standard for what it means to be a courageous brand.

The real test for brands is whether they will continue to act on their values when the social and political winds shift. Consumers and communities are watching to see if brands will back up their words with sustained, transparent action – especially when it comes to supporting marginalized groups.

The Enduring Impact

P&G’s willingness to address tough topics in their advertising wasn’t just a marketing move; it was a statement of principle. Their example shows that brands have the power – and the responsibility – to foster empathy, challenge injustice, and drive meaningful change, even when it’s not the easy path.

As some companies retreat from DEI, P&G’s legacy stands as a challenge: Will your brand continue to prioritize equity and inclusion, or will you let fear dictate your actions?

What Brands Must Remember

In today’s anti-DEI climate, the lesson is clear: Brand values are only real if they endure through adversity. Authenticity, transparency, and courage are more important than ever for brands that want to make a positive impact.

The work of building a more just and inclusive society is ongoing. The conversations sparked by “The Talk” and “The Look” are still needed – and so is the leadership of brands willing to stand up for what’s right, no matter the climate.

In a time of backlash, will your brand choose courage, or comfort?

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The post Seven Years Later: What P&G’s “The Talk” and “The Look” Continue to Teach Us About Brand Courage appeared first on AndHumanity.

Our name “AndHumanity” correlates with our foundational and philosophical belief in the potential of the Marketing and Communications industry. The thing is, as marketers, communicators, content creators etc. we have this magical opportunity at our fingertips; we are often tasked to make things out of nothing – a blank canvas to write, illustrate, photograph, and just create. But with this magical opportunity, comes a responsibility. Billions and billions of people see the content our industry creates, and we believe that – as a whole – we need to use this opportunity (and privilege) to shift perceptions for the better. What we create can shape people’s perceptions of themselves, each other, and beyond. So, we have to portray the world as we actually see in front of us – beyond the surface – with all the nuances, flaws, and true depth that we as humans have, which is not always the case in the media.

With all that said, beyond all the business implications of inclusive marketing and communications work, we believe in our industry’s responsibility to humanity. Thus, “AndHumanity”.

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So when I started digging into the history of Coca-Cola and its relationship with Black communities, I found myself deeply conflicted.

Coca-Cola was originally only sold at lunch counters through soda fountains, spaces that were strictly segregated. These were places Black folks weren’t allowed to enter, let alone sit and enjoy a drink. That made Coca-Cola easy to control and preserve as a “white” beverage. But once bottling became widespread and Coke could be accessed by anyone, things changed, especially in the eyes of those trying to maintain racial hierarchies.

At that time, Coca-Cola still contained cocaine (yes, actual cocaine. The soda was positioned as medication, a health elixir and ‘safe’ enough for babies…because it would stop them from crying). And while that wasn’t initially seen as a problem, the idea of Black people having easy access to a cocaine-laced beverage caused panic, not because of health concerns, but because of racist fears around Black bodies and drug use. That fear led Coke to quietly remove the cocaine from its formula. Not because it was dangerous for everyone, but because the combination of cocaine and Black folks was perceived as too “dangerous” to allow.

From there, Coca-Cola doubled down. The brand actively excluded Black consumers from its marketing and discouraged their visibility as Coke drinkers, worried that the image of Black people enjoying their soda would devalue what had once been a symbol of white exclusivity.

Meanwhile, Pepsi took a completely different approach. In the 1940s, Edward F. Boyd led an all-Black sales team at Pepsi to specifically reach out to Black communities. This wasn’t performative, it was a real effort to acknowledge, respect, and market to a group that had been ignored or actively shut out. Pepsi’s ads featured confident, successful Black folks at a time when that kind of representation was virtually unheard of.

It made a lasting difference. Pepsi built loyalty, trust, and community, while Coca-Cola tried to maintain distance and control.

So here I am, full circle. A Diet Coke drinker sitting with this complicated history. It’s hard not to feel a mix of loyalty and discomfort. This story reminds me that even the most everyday choices, what we drink, what we support, can have deep roots.

And so here we are today, with Coke, Costco, and Apple taking visible steps to stand on the right side of history, and Target, Walmart, and Pepsi making choices that have landed them elsewhere. Brands are symbols that hold value, but it’s the people behind the brand who speak those values into existence.

Marketers, where do you stand?

Sources:

• The Story Coca-Cola Tries to Hide from You | One Mic History (YouTube)
• A Brief History of Racist Soft Drinks | The Atlantic

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The post The People Behind the Pop | DEI, Marketing, and My Cola Brand Story appeared first on AndHumanity.

Enjoy these 3 powerful films below that will likely tug on your heart strings and hopefully shift your perceptions in a positive way.

Note: For video descriptions and further context, please click the LinkedIn icon on the bottom right of each video and read the full details of each post.

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And then Beyoncé does what only Beyoncé can do—she redefines the moment. She releases a country album, standing tall in a genre that loves its traditions but forgets its roots. The Grammys take notice. She wins Album of the Year.

And just like that, the country music purists and the gatekeepers of belonging collectively clutch their pearls. How dare she? They say she isn’t country. That it’s an insult. That she doesn’t belong in their space, a space built from the sounds of Black artists whose credit were stolen, erased, or buried.

The discomfort isn’t about the music. It’s about control.

And then Kendrick Lamar steps up.

Five Grammy wins for a diss track.

A diss track? In their space? How dare he?

His performance unfolds like a story. His words hit hard. His symbolism is precise. His delivery? Too much for some. Too Black. Too unapologetic. They mumble in frustration—I can’t even understand what he’s saying. As if understanding has ever been the goal. As if their inability to hear should silence the message.

It’s too raw, too real, too urgent. They call it a disgrace.

And yet, Kendrick isn’t performing for their approval. He’s performing because the truth demands to be heard. And when truth and art collide, there is nothing more powerful.

How dare he exist?

Serena Williams, the greatest to ever hold a racket, wins gold at the Olympics. And to celebrate, she does the Crip Walk. A dance born from the streets, from culture, from identity. A dance that moves with history.

The tennis world is up in arms. The backlash is swift. How dare she bring that into their pristine, white-linen-clad world of tennis? The same world that never wanted her there in the first place.

Fast forward, and the same move shows up at the Super Bowl. This time, it’s “disrespectful.” Because when it comes from us, when it’s ours, when it holds the weight of meaning—they demand we erase it. Water it down. Make it palatable.

And when we don’t? When we refuse?

How dare we exist?

The rules are clear, aren’t they? They always have been.

You can be exceptional, but not too exceptional.
You can succeed, but not that way.
You can break barriers, but don’t break the wrong ones.
You can celebrate, but only on their terms.
You can be Black—but only the kind of Black they are comfortable with.

We see it in everything.

DEI was once a commitment to making space, to breaking down barriers. Now, some use it as a slur. A target. The first thing on the chopping block. The very idea of inclusion is too much.

Being “woke” once meant awareness, consciousness, understanding the world around you. Now, it’s a dirty word. A weaponized insult. A way to dismiss those who demand more. Remove those who refuse to take the ‘blue pill’.

The backlash is loud. The dismantling, strategic. They tell us diversity has gone too far—as if there was ever a moment in history where it was enough.

Black people are forever being told we do not belong.

We don’t follow the rules.
We are a blight.
We are a threat.
We are incompetent.
We are liars when we speak of discrimination.
We are not to be believed when we say, This is what’s happening to us.

HOW DARE YOU EXIST.

Well, we do.

We exist.

And we have earned our place—not that we should have to. But we have, over and over again.

The discomfort—anger, outrage, pearl-clutching—isn’t about fairness, quality, or tradition. It’s a reflection. A mirror. A fear of losing control. A fear of being exposed for what they truly believe:

That they deserve everything. Without challenge. Without competition. Without question.

So what do we do?

We keep going.
We keep winning.
We keep creating.
We keep showing up.
We keep celebrating.
We keep living.

And we do it all without apology.

So, to those who keep asking:

How dare we exist?

Watch us.

We exist.
We thrive.
We lead.
We win.

And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

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Years later, when I was 19, I found myself in a situation that eerily mirrored my grandmother’s. My fiancé, in a jealous rage, grabbed me and threw me over a table. I landed hard on the ground, and as I lay there, dazed and hurt, he stood over me, blaming me for making him angry. The worst part was that this happened in public. People saw, but no one stepped in to help. No one asked if I was okay. After it was over, I walked home, a two-hour and twenty-minute walk, with so many emotions competing for top spot inside me—anger, sadness, confusion—but mostly, a fierce commitment that I would never let this happen again. 

In that moment, I realized that domestic violence is not just something that happens to “other people.” It can and does happen to many of us, regardless of where we’re from or how strong we think we are. It’s insidious, creeping into our lives in ways that often feel familiar, even normal. And, unfortunately in the West Indian culture, this issue is hidden, not talked about yet generationally accepted. 

The statistics are concerning: 1 in 3 West Indian women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. It’s an epidemic rooted in the culture of colonial male dominance, where patriarchy and misogyny are passed down and ‘understood’. Too often, women are told that if a man hits you, it’s your fault. That you did something to provoke him. From a young age, we are conditioned to be silent, to bear the burden quietly, to hide our bruises and our pain so as not to become the topic of rumours and shame.

My grandmother’s story wasn’t unique. Her missing teeth were part of a long line of whispered stories, of women who were taught to endure rather than speak out. And for so long, I carried that silence too. But the truth is, domestic violence thrives in that silence. The culture of whispers, the quiet suffering, the unspoken shame—it all feeds into a system that allows abuse to continue unchecked.

We need to break that cycle. To the women reading this, especially my West Indian sisters, I want you to know that you are not alone. Whether you’ve experienced abuse or are watching someone you love go through it, your voice matters. Your story matters. We can’t let shame or fear keep us silent. 

Breaking the stigma of DV is not easy but breaking the wheel of generational trauma is our responsibility. We deserve better and demand better—for ourselves, for our grandmothers, for our daughters, for our nieces and nephews, sons and brothers. Ending domestic violence starts with acknowledging it is not your fault, you are not the problem and you did not deserve any of it. Physical, psychological, and emotional abuse – is ABUSE. Start by trusting yourself. Questioning whether they had a bad day, or you said or did something to deserve it – trust yourself to know when that voice inside of you is screaming ‘MAKE IT STOP!’ Next, consider speaking to a trusted friend, colleague, therapist, counselor, or relative. You may not be as alone as you may think. The burden of secrecy weighs heavy, lighten the burden. Wishing all those who read this and if this resonates with you – you are not alone.

November is Domestic Violence Awareness Month in Canada.

 Find family violence resources and services in your area

Fostering Violence Prevention and Well-Being for Black Women, Families and Communities

Sheryl Johnson  – she her pronouns – Born and continue to reside on the stolen territories of Treaty 13. Racialized dark-skinned settler of West Indian and Eastern European heritage. Proud to be the granddaughter of Gran Gran and Da Da pictured.

The post Unspoken Scars: The Hidden Truths of West Indian Women and Domestic Abuse appeared first on AndHumanity.

Written by Sydney McNeill (they/them), a queer, multiply neurodivergent white (Scottish/Norwegian ancestry) settler who’se grateful to enjoy life on Treaty 6 Territory in Amiskwaciwâskahikan (Edmonton). Sydney is a parent, a student, a creative, and an enthusiastic admirer of bees. 

As a queer person, I really appreciate the progression of National Coming Out Day. In 1988, the date was established to encourage individuals to share their 2SLGBTQIA+ identities. While visibility and authenticity are vitally important, we often put too much pressure on the individual and too little accountability on societal or systemic barriers. Celebrating authenticity is one half of the equation. The other half is driving progress so that others can be authentic, too. 

Luckily, National Coming Out Day has progressed (and will continue to progress) to honour the complexities of 2SLGBQTIA+ identity. While the occasion does and should celebrate 2SLGBTQIA+ people living our lives authentically, it also promotes awareness and advocacy around the barriers to coming out. It offers a chance to celebrate progress and drive change. How might brands and organizations participate beyond hollow encouragements urging 2SLGBTQIA+ people to be themselves? How might you actually make this possible? 

The ability to come out requires privilege and safety. Don’t just invite us or encourage us to come out. Share that you’re committed to making it possible and safe for us to come out and what tangible things you’re doing.

— 

National Coming Out Day is also a deeply personal occasion. What coming out means to each 2SLGBTQIA+ person is different. Whether and to what extent the term “coming out” accurately describes the experience of living authentically varies. National Coming Out Day is an invitation to amplify 2SLGBTQIA+ voices. It’s a chance to honour individual stories and acknowledge a diversity of experiences. Visibility is important, and existing alone is a form of activism. Inviting us to share can help us know we’re not alone, celebrate where we are, and see that change is possible. 

Sydney’s story: The complexity of coming out late. 

I was one of those people who didn’t think change was possible, who didn’t see a way to be myself. I was somewhere around 30. My first child was 4 and I was newly pregnant with my second. I’d been with my (now ex-)husband for almost a decade. 

One day, on the drive to pick my daughter up from daycare, I spoke the words, “I’m gay,” out loud to myself in traffic at a red light. I’d been wondering if I was for years. When the words tumbled out, unprompted and urgent, I knew they were true. And I wished they weren’t. A little voice in my head said, it’s too late. It whispered, you’re a terrible person – you’ve lied to yourself and everyone else.

Late in life coming out is difficult. It’s not like I was new to being queer. In my younger years, I was out as bi, and I had a lot of queer friends. And, in my mid-twenties, I’d come out as non-binary. I’d been to my fair share of queer events and gay bars. I’d been with people of various genders. I was comfortable in my queerness. But, for the past decade or so, I’d both chosen and felt confined to a life cemented in heteronormative norms.  I knew who I was in many ways, and I loved so much of myself and my life. At the same time, the life I was living wasn’t authentic to who I was, and I didn’t see changing it as a possibility. I was unhappy.

I agonized over that for a long time. My husband and I weren’t right for each other (for this reason and many others); it’s difficult to tell someone that, especially when they don’t want to hear it. My children knew one house and one family; I didn’t want to uproot their lives. There’s a lot of imposed societal shame that comes with restructuring a family; I didn’t want people to judge or dislike me. I had this picture of what queer partnership looked like; I feared it was some impossible ideal. I cried a lot. I struggled a lot. I wavered. At my lowest, I spent all of my energy convincing myself to stay alive. Was I a terrible person? Would I ruin my children’s lives? Would my husband let me leave or retaliate when I did? Would friends and family hate me? I felt lost in many ways. There were so many questions I couldn’t know the answer to. So, as I usually do when I’m lost, I did a lot of therapy. And, ultimately, I started making the choices I needed to make to live authentically. 

This post would turn into a novel if I tried to tell my whole story, but I’ll share some updates about where I am today, approximately three years since I said those words definitively to myself. 

Was it messy? Of course it was. Growth is uncomfortable. I had (and am probably still having) a million identity crises. Separation and co-parenting are hard and complicated, and there are challenges that come with them. I lost some friends and family. I constantly have to remind myself that not knowing or feeling safe to be myself didn’t mean I was being intentionally deceptive. I have days where I feel defeated, guilty, sad, angry, and afraid.

Was it worth it? Of course it was. I changed my family structure! I co-parent as well as I can with my ex! I take up space in my own life! I’m confident and secure and happy! My children are thriving! They see so much more of me – my joy and the increased capacity I have for love! I have a more fulsome sense of community! And that picture of queer partnership I thought only existed in my mind? It’s real! I had feelings for someone, I told them, and they felt the same! We combined our families! I feel safe and supported and loved unconditionally every day! What beautiful gifts.

My latest coming out didn’t look like grandiose statements. It wasn’t announcing myself to each and every person in my life. I didn’t post about it on social media. Coming out was just me living the way I wanted to. Openly, unapologetically. Even though it was hard. Even though it was scary and uncertain. Even though people felt and said things about it. I led with my values and I trusted myself. I feel grateful that I had both the courage and the privilege to do that. 

Why am I sharing this with you today? Because I had to scrounge the corners of the internet to find stories like mine. And I couldn’t have done this without knowing there were others who did, and who came out happier on the other side. That’s significant. That’s life-changing. 

Brands and organizations can share their platforms. You can make space for us to talk about experiences – truthfully. Authenticity is complex, and we need to hold space for the full story. Our identities aren’t tokens to hold up in palatable, celebratory ways as an indicator of how progressive a brand is. Our stories are our own. And by offering us platforms to tell them authentically, you’re making space for expression and connection. Making a difference can be as easy as inviting someone else to speak. 

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Content warning: transphobic comments and invalidation of non-binary identities. 

Often, I review forms or surveys where we ask questions around self-identification. This is a standard practice that we use when seeking feedback of any kind from both clients and the public. One of the questions we ask is, How would you describe your gender identity today? The response option is a self-describe open text field.

I love the opportunity to phrase project and market research questions this way because I know how meaningful it would be to me if I saw options like this more. I’m all too familiar with that sinking feeling when I’m asked about my gender and only provided binary “male”/”female” options or offered the marginally more inclusive “other” selection. (Forcing people to identify as “other” is pretty effective symbolism for how we quite literally other those with less privilege.)

Anyway, in reviewing these responses, I often admire the depth, vulnerability, and intention with which people describe themselves. Gender non-conforming and cisgender respondents alike use this space to reflect on what gender means to them and the words that feel most accurate and authentic to them. What a beautiful thing to be given space to describe who you are and what it means to you outside of a “select one” list of categories. 

What I don’t love, however, are the handful of responses that use this open answer space to take a cisnormative and cissexist stance on gender. I’m talking about responses like:

“There are only two genders. Find god.”

“I’m not mentally ill.”

“I was born male, I’m a man. You don’t get to pick your gender.”

One skill I’ve built working in justice, equity, diversity and inclusion – and existing in the world as a queer-in-every-way, neurodivergent, disabled person – is approaching divisive perspectives from a place of curiosity, education, and humour. I know who I am, I know the validity of my intersectional identities, and I know I – and every single other equity-deserving person on this planet – deserve the same respect, acceptance, and dignity that those with more privilege enjoy. I know the importance of finding joy, laughter, connection, and optimism in the face of hate and hardship. I know I’m more than someone’s bad opinion. I know those bad opinions stem from fear and insecurity and hurt. I know compassion helps mend fear and insecurity and hurt. I don’t accept or condone discrimination, and I believe in the power of holding people optimistically accountable and in people’s capacity for change. So, where I have the energy and I feel safe to, I often invite people to reflect on what’s making them resistant to anothers’ existence or lived experience and to nurture that part of themselves.

Today, let’s pretend these anonymous form responses are people, sitting in front of me, a non-binary person. What would I like to say to them? 

“There are only two genders. Find god.”

There’s actually a lot of evidence that there are more than two genders. What I won’t do is put a long list of natural species having more than two genders in front of you. Nor an inventory of the many cultures predating Eurocentrism, many of which are still thriving today, that accept and respect the existence of more than two genders. And, while I’m personally agnostic, I also won’t share the diverse religious spaces and conversations I’ve been welcomed into and respected as my authentic self within. What I will tell you is that I exist, that I don’t exist in the male/female binary, and by that fact alone, there are more than two genders. There are more than two genders, because there are people whose identities fall outside of two genders. 

What I know both personally and through my work is that denial is a presentation of fear. What are you feeling apprehensive about or resistant to? And why? What part of gender beyond cisgender men and cisgender women makes you uneasy? Were you raised to believe that a core part of who you are lies in the traits and experiences associated with your gender? Do you find comfort in gender roles because you understand what you’re supposed to do and how you’re supposed to be? Do you associate gender (the extent to which one identifies as a man, woman, both, or neither) with sexuality (your sexual feelings, thoughts, attractions, or behaviors toward others)? Does the existence of expansive genders ever make you feel insecure about or ashamed of your sexuality? Is your worth or purpose at all attached to how well you express yourself within the constraints of “man” and “woman”? Do you see one gender (or the traits associated with it) as bad or lesser than? Many of us have been raised with and defined by gender constructs that shape how we understand ourselves, our purpose, and our worth. It makes sense that you’re uncomfortable. How could you be less so?

“I’m not mentally ill.”

I mean, I am, but it has nothing to do with my gender identity. Let’s start there. Can you share with me what’s wrong with mental illness? An estimated quarter of us (I suspect more, given the social stigma around mental illness) will experience it in our lifetimes. Have you been taught that this very human experience is something to be ashamed of? Have you suppressed it or ignored your own mental health? If so, have you thought about showing yourself more compassion? Might you then have more capacity to extend that compassion to others? There’s nothing wrong with experiencing mental illness. 

Gender non-conformity and mental illness do have a proven link. Have you considered the research around mental illness and gender nonconformity at all? Did you know that being gender non-conforming is associated with higher risk of depression and suicide? Did you know that this has absolutely nothing to do with how a person identifies? Did you know that this is directly related to experiencing transphobia and discrimination? Did you know that gender non-conforming people face extreme barriers in our society that can make thriving and even existing very hard? Did you know that comments like this can contribute to someone’s mental illness? Did you know that, by working to address transphobia – within yourself and the world at large – you can also directly contribute to better mental health outcomes for gender nonconforming people? Might it feel better for you to help someone rather than hurt them? 

“I was born a man, I’m a man. You don’t get to pick your gender.”

I’m so genuinely happy for you. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being cisgender. Many people identify with their sex assigned at birth, and that’s wonderful. How nice is it to know and feel comfortable in who you are? To have a label and an aspect of your identity that you feel secure and authentic in? Proud of? To show up as you? Don’t you think other individuals are just as worthy of that same comfort and security and authenticity and pride? 

If I told you that you weren’t a man, would that be true? How effective, then, do you think it is for you or anyone else to tell others how they’re allowed to realize or define their gender? Oh, the beauty that individuals are free to define and claim our own gender. That we’re not forever forced to define ourselves by and act in ways that society deems appropriate to one or two body parts that differentiate us at birth. That we’re increasingly free to be fluid in our gender – to shift and change. We come into ourselves and grow in many ways throughout our lives. Why not this one? 

–

International Non-Binary People’s Day is about raising awareness around non-binary identities and organizing to address the barriers society imposes on non-binary people. While there’s likely little to no chance I’ll change someone who’s actually set against my existence’s mind, I don’t think this is a futile exercise. There are little voices that say some version of these things within many of us. Even I, as a non-binary person, am continuously challenging my own shame. How could we live in the society we live in and not carry some internalized cissexism and cisnormativity? This Non-Binary People’s Day, I’m asking three things of you:

1. Show the uncomfortable part of yourself and others compassion. Society has spent a long time telling us what gender is, what it means, and how it defines our worth. What parts of gender diversity make you uncomfortable? What parts of the gender binary are hard for you to think or act outside of? Why? Offer those parts of yourself empathy rather than telling them to be quiet or locking them away. 
2. Challenge and dismantle these misconceptions through reflection and curiosity. Showing compassion to the parts of ourselves that uphold oppression doesn’t mean permitting unacceptable beliefs and behaviours. With compassion comes actionable awareness. When we’re honest and gentle with ourselves, we increase our self awareness and we have more capacity for change. 
3. Support non-binary joy! Whatever that looks like. Support a cause, join a protest, educate yourself, sign a petition, tell a gender non-conforming friend or family member you love them, advocate. For me, a large portion of my acknowledgement will be existing in ways that feel authentic and make me happy. Kissing my children, holding my partner tight, getting into nature, laughing, eating a good meal, doing the never ending work of showing myself the same compassion I’ve invited you to show yourself.

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