Americans love to hold up free speech like a trophy, something uniquely ours. Yet in practice, it has always been more about power than principle, about who holds the microphone. And these debates around speech never really end; they just change sides. Not long ago, conservatives railed against what they called “cancel culture.” Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube seemed to them like biased gatekeepers, silencing vaccine skeptics or right-wing voices while giving progressives the run of the digital playground. Today the script has flipped. Late-night comedians are punished for being “too woke,” and television hosts get booted for mocking the administration.
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Now add something new to the mix: a microphone that talks back. We live in a world where a few typed words can summon a coherent essay, report, or song from a chatbot. As chatbots generate more of what we read and hear, the boundaries of authorship start to blur.

This may not matter when AI output is benign, but when speech veers into hate or libel, the stakes rise quickly. Legal scholars are already debating whether AI output qualifies as “speech” under the First Amendment. Some argue that because models lack intent, their words do not meet the definition. Others point to Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which protects platforms like Facebook and Twitter from liability for what users post. The logic: the telephone company isn’t responsible for what you say over the line. They are conduits, not publishers. But AI complicates that neat division. If social media is the telephone, AI is closer to television: it doesn’t just transmit content, it produces it.

In some ways it mirrors the guns-versus-shooters debate. Firearms manufacturers argue they can’t be held responsible for what people do with their products. A gun is just a tool, they say. Harm only comes from the person pulling the trigger. But here the analogy breaks down. AI is not a static tool but an active and dynamic participant. Therefore, culpability becomes murky. Imagine you tell an AI assistant: “Make a joke to my coworker about their outfit today.” You expect something snarky, but the AI spits out a racist or sexist message. And because it is integrated with your Slack account, it auto-posts the message without you previewing it. The next day, you’re facing a lawsuit.

Who’s accountable here? You for writing the prompt, the AI for choosing the words, or the company for not catching the error (firms engage in ‘red teaming’ precisely to avoid these mistakes). In that moment, the answer is overshadowed by the fact that the words are out in the world, attached to you, whether you authored them or not. The gap between “joke” and “hate speech” is the backdrop for every free speech debate: where we draw the lines of what’s acceptable, what’s offensive, what’s punishable. In the past, those lines were drawn around human speakers. Now the “speaker” may be a machine no one fully controls. That shifts the fight over what can be said, and by whom, into new territory.

Which brings us to the question at the heart of it: does AI have free speech? Maybe not in the constitutional sense. But free speech has never been only about words on a page; it’s about agency and accountability. When a comedian makes a joke, we know who to credit or blame. When a columnist writes an op-ed, we know where to send the letters. But with AI, the accountability frays, which means that our debates about speech can’t ignore the fact that machines are now participants, not just tools.

One thing’s for sure. The culture wars over free speech aren’t going away. One side will always claim to be silenced; the other will claim to be protecting society—and someone’s dinner will always be gross. But soon, the argument won’t just be left versus right, woke versus anti-woke, comedians versus politicians. It might come down to something more mundane: you, your co-worker, and a chatbot. So maybe the question isn’t whether AI has free speech, but how we’ll interpret our own words when they come back to us—reflected or refracted by voices that are not our own.

The annual conference hosted by the Center for Applied Research and Innovation in Supply Chain-Africa (CARISCA) redrew that map for me. I have attended the past two summers, in Ghana then Nigeria. What stands out is this: at CARISCA, sustainability is not a track. It is the organizing logic. It is embedded in every conversation. From food systems to health care distribution, from clean energy to rural manufacturing, it’s not a topic. It’s the context.

​A Different Starting Point
There’s a reason for this emphasis. The countries represented at CARISCA are building out systems of production, transportation, and consumption under radically different constraints than the West faced during its industrial rise. The U.S. and Europe industrialized before climate risk was widely understood or regulated. By contrast, these nations inherited a global climate problem and are trying to grow while navigating the fallout of that legacy.

This is the challenge of a ‘just transition’, defined by the United Nations as ensuring that no one is left or pushed behind in the global transition to environmental sustainability. It is more than a policy idea. It is a quiet tension running through this conference. Many of the countries represented at CARISCA are developing under rules and timelines set elsewhere, and they must do so without the tools earlier industrializers used to build wealth and infrastructure.

Yet imbalance is not the focus at CARISCA. Sustainability does not operate as a constraint. It functions as a design principle, a vehicle for ingenuity. That does not make the work easier, but it does make it more urgent. Perhaps that is why sessions are not about abstract climate targets or ESG signaling. They are practical. How can rural clinics receive temperature-sensitive medications on time? How can agricultural distribution networks protect farmers and land? Which energy solutions can power the grid where coal-fired electricity is thin? These conversations go beyond supply chain optimization. They are about survival.

From Mine to Factory to Market
Against that backdrop, one idea that surfaced repeatedly at CARISCA is the progression from mine to factory to market. For decades, many African nations have exported raw materials (e.g., cocoa, gold, oil, lithium) only to import back the finished goods at a premium. Value creation was externalized, extraction internalized, and the gains rarely returned to the source.
The current question is how to hold more of that value. Moving to factory here means refining, processing, and assembly near the source so that capabilities, jobs, and tax bases grow at home. The final leap to market means not only producing for others, but building a robust domestic market, with cross-border trade and local brands. It’s not just an economic aspiration. It’s a reimagining of power and participation in global systems.

Of course, progress is not linear. Countries and sectors will move at different speeds and in different orders. The mine-to-market arc offers a useful way to think about industrial sovereignty: reclaiming steps in the value chain that were outsourced or denied and designing safeguards into the process rather than retrofitting them later. The focus of a just transition is not growth for growth’s sake but the quality of that growth. Upgrading the value chain should translate into community participation, meaningful work, and environmental stewardship. Sustainable development is not about catching up. It’s about building differently from the start.

Here is the takeaway I brought home: if sustainability is the unifying theme at CARISCA, why shouldn’t it be elsewhere? Our academic conferences should be shaped by the same questions: who benefits, who bears the cost, how do we achieve it, and over what time horizons? That stance would reshape our questions and metrics by treating resilience and equity as design inputs, not side notes, and by treating externalities as performance, not as an appendix. The researchers at CARISCA already work within that reality. If we are serious about sustainability, it cannot be relegated to a conference track. It needs to be the lens, not the lane.

A lot of attention has been rightly paid to the hotline’s removal. But I can’t stop thinking about that missing letter. Because what it reveals is harder to headline. In so many modern culture wars, the political right at least pretends to offer a rationale, but in this case, there was no attempt to justify or explain the decision.

Consider recent examples. When same-sex marriage was being debated, conservative groups claimed it threatened the sanctity of traditional marriages. Faulty logic, yes. But it was logic of a kind. With DEI, the argument is that merit is being sacrificed, that white people are being passed over, that diversity compromises excellence. The data says otherwise, but it’s a claim someone could debate. The same applies for immigration. Appeals to public safety and economic strain peddle fear not facts, but they are at least still framed as policy.

What’s happening to transgender people, especially youth, is different. There’s no argument, just silent erasure. For instance, a recent Supreme Court ruling lets parents opt their children out of lessons that conflict with their religious views. That means books with transgender characters can be skipped. Not challenged, not debated, just skipped. It’s a quiet way to not just pass down values, but to shield the next generation from seeing the world as it is.

This is the omission bias in action. The Trolley Problem is the classic example, but essentially, we’re more likely to excuse damage done by inaction than by action. If the Administration had issued a press release attacking transgender youth, it might have made headlines. But removing a letter? Most people won’t notice.

Eliminating funding was a policy decision. Deleting the “T” was a value statement. It is part of a broader political effort to make transgender people disappear; first from sports, then from schools, now from law, and if they get their way, from language itself. And the most dissonant part of all this? Many of the people behind it act in the name of faith. They believe a God they’ve never seen but not the human being standing right in front of them.
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But transgender people are here, regardless of what acronyms a federal agency decides to acknowledge. We choose whether to accept the silence. The best way to counteract the omission bias is with deliberate action. For every person who refuses to acknowledge someone’s humanity, there must be two who affirm it without hesitation. In moments like this, allyship is more than a gesture, it’s a responsibility.

Out of more than 510,000 college athletes, NCAA president Charlie Baker could name “fewer than ten” who are openly trans in women’s events—about 0.002 percent of the talent pool. Even if you add every out trans college athlete from the last decade, Outsports can tally only 45 names. Yet 33 state legislatures, a presidential executive order, and the NCAA’s brand-new “birth-certificate” rule are devoted to “saving women’s sports.” The math doesn’t add up, so what’s really going on?

This is a case of zero-sum thinking— the reflex to see someone else’s gain as your loss. When an edge is new and highly visible—say, a gender marker on the roster—the brain’s threat detector lights up. That’s why banning nine athletes can feel more urgent than understanding why girls drop out of sports at twice the rate of boys. We’ve engineered demand for a problem that barely exists, and the fallout is ugly: adults bullying children and even cisgender athletes scrutinized for appearing ‘too fast’ or ‘too strong’.

Zero-sum bias explains the whiplash between celebration and condemnation: Michael Phelps’s 6-foot-7 wingspan and low lactic-acid make him a swimming legend, not a rule breaker. Eero Mäntyranta’s rare gene let him carry up to 50% more oxygen and ski into Olympic history; the International Olympic Committee didn’t ban him from the games. We celebrate some of nature’s approved advantages, pathologize others, and call it fairness.

The thing is, the playing field has never been level—tilted by biology, bank account, and circumstance. Two high schoolers with vastly different aptitudes sit for the same SAT. Teachers stamp one as “gifted” and the other as "average." A 6′4″ freshman dunks over a 5′5″ senior. Coaches call it “upside.” Nearly two-thirds of Harvard undergrads come from the richest fifth of U.S. families. We call it “privilege.” We don’t hold congressional hearings to level household income, IQ, or height. We shrug it off, call it life, and teach our kids resilience. Only for trans athletes in sports do we demand perfect parity.

Trans rights are women’s rights, and if we truly cared about expanding women’s sport, our first move would be to redirect money: women’s teams still receive a fraction of Division I athletic budgets. Next, we’d dismantle the pay-to-play pipeline where steep club fees shut out thousands of low-income girls long before college recruiting. We’d also stick with evidence-based eligibility rules (e.g., the former Olympic testosterone policy) rather than broad birth-certificate bans. At the same time, we would safeguard athletes’ privacy by ending invasive “proof-of-gender” exams that humiliate both cis and trans competitors. The real inequities stem from how we allocate resources, not from who is standing on the starting line.

So back to the question: “Would I want my hypothetical daughter to compete against a trans woman?” Absolutely—because taking your mark in that race provides two lessons. First, you are going to face tough, even unfair competition. Life offers no custom-height rims or income-adjusted SATs. Real confidence comes from racing a strong field—winning, losing, and returning stronger. Second, competing side-by-side is an invitation to trade fear and ignorance for understanding and empathy. Trans children are at higher risk of depression and suicide; a handshake at the finish line may mean more than any medal.

​In a recent interview, Elon Musk claimed that empathy is “killing Western civilization.” He’s not alone. A growing number of pastors and pundits, especially in far-right Christian circles, are beginning to warn their flocks that empathy is a kind of moral corruption—a gateway to misplaced compassion and liberal decay. Empathy, they say, makes you soft.

But empathy isn’t softness, it’s strength, rooted in emotional intelligence. I teach it to my students not just because it leads to better relationships, but because it is what employers are looking for in new hires. Why? Because if you understand your employee, you build loyalty. If you understand your customer, you build trust. In sales, it closes deals. In diplomacy, it prevents war. In democracy, it allows us to coexist.

So why the backlash? To me, there is one commonality among the anti-empathy voices: they are all in positions of power. Empathy only feels dangerous if you’ve never needed it. If you’re comfortably seated atop the social or economic hierarchy, empathy is an inconvenience. It shatters the illusion that your opinion is the only one that matters.

When immigrants arrive at the border, empathy asks us to imagine the journey that brought them here—the violence they fled, the risks they took. When someone is wrongfully deported, empathy asks us to reconsider that decision (due process literally provides ‘the opportunity to be heard’). Without empathy, we stop seeing people. We start seeing problems. Albert Bandura calls this moral disengagement, a sort of psychological lubricant that makes it easier to ignore or justify harmful policies. Empathy introduces a friction that forces us to imagine how those policies affect everyone, not just ourselves or personal network.

Even something like tariffs reflects a lack of empathy. Critics point to poor economic strategy or shortsighted thinking, but they also reveal a complete disregard for the real people affected--farmers, manufacturers, small businesses, consumers—not to mention our global reputation.

When empathy is labeled a sin or weakness, what’s really at stake is our human decency. Empathy threatens systems of power and privilege because it implores us to care. If you can convince enough people that caring is wrong, that understanding is un-American and anti-Christian, then you can keep the power where it is—which is exactly the point. But, contrary to Musk’s opinion, empathy doesn’t destroy civilizations. It builds them. It has been a keystone of every civil justice movement we now celebrate—abolition, suffrage, civil rights. Contrary to some conservative Christians, empathy does not mean “never having to say no.” It is not pity or sympathy. It’s consideration in the literal sense, which I would argue, is the connective tissue of a functioning society.

As policies increasingly disregard those without influence, empathy should not just be defended, it should be championed. We should strive to practice it—and just as importantly, to notice when it’s missing, call out its absence, and choose leaders who reflect it. Because in the end, the fate of our shared future may come down to one simple question: Do we still want to understand one another—or not?

This piece was originally published on AL.com on February 13, 2025.

Last March, Alabama passed Senate Bill 129, effectively eliminating DEI programs in schools and institutions across the state. At the time, I wrote an op-ed explaining how this would negatively impact my classroom—not because I was leading formal DEI trainings, but because it would stifle important conversations. Given the similar backgrounds of my students, open dialogue was often the only way to engage with perspectives different from their own. But with the vague language of the law, I worried that these exchanges could be interpreted as “trainings.” So, I stopped them.

Fast forward to January 2025 and any ambiguity is gone. SB 129 was a warm-up act compared to the Executive Order, Ending Radical and Wasteful Government DEI Programs and Preferencing, which cast a wider net and struck a more ominous tone.

Since then, I’ve noticed a growing hesitancy in higher education circles to discuss anything that might fall under the DEI umbrella. People weigh their words carefully, not just for those in the room but for external stakeholders, policymakers, and even potential whistleblowers emboldened by the executive order. This phenomenon aligns with the Spiral of Silence Theory, the idea that when people perceive a topic as controversial or risky, they are less likely to speak about it for fear of backlash. As fewer voices engage, the silence reinforces the perception that the topic is off-limits, even if many still believe in its importance.

But the silence does not reflect reality. Sure, the DEI acronym has become politically toxic, but its components are not. Research has consistently shown the benefits of diverse groups of people, from Francis Galton’s famous wisdom of the crowds experiment in 1906, to more contemporary research on firm and team performance. More importantly, diversity isn’t just a corporate initiative or an academic talking point, it’s an undeniable reality of the world my students will navigate. Equity, too, is not a radical idea. At its core, it means ensuring that people can secure the resources they need. It does not advocate for equal outcomes, just a fair shot. Proponents of recent anti-DEI measures argue that merit alone should determine opportunity, but this position assumes a level playing field that plainly does not exist.

And inclusion? It is the belief that people should have the chance to participate. What we are really talking about is accessibility. Consider how many policies and technologies have been implemented—without controversy—to remove barriers for those who might otherwise be excluded. Everything from wheelchair ramps to eyeglasses, from medications to closed captioning. These initiatives reflect the very essence of DEI: recognizing the diversity of human experiences, addressing structural barriers to equity, and fostering inclusion by expanding access. As someone who now reads movies, I am personally grateful that Netflix provides a DEI-driven service for me.

Yet, when these principles are applied to race and gender, they are viewed as ideological wedges rather than foundational values. This is critical because, as the Spiral of Silence suggests, as fewer people engage in these exchanges, the more socially and professionally risky they seem. This is the paradox we now face, and it is especially urgent in academia. The very institutions tasked with preparing students for the interconnected global workforce must tiptoe around the concepts that will shape their success within it.
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So where do we go from here? I don’t have an answer. But I know two things: 1) learning does not thrive in silence, and 2) the purpose of higher education is not simply to transmit information. A college classroom is at its best when it challenges assumptions, broadens perspectives, and equips students for the real world. These outcomes require diversity—of backgrounds, thought, and lived experiences. This is not a personal philosophy; it’s how students become the thoughtful, well-rounded professionals that organizations want to hire. If we begin muting conversations around DEI, we don’t just lose words, we lose what makes education transformative in the first place.

But as I reflect on the election results, I don’t think empathy is what’s missing. The answer, I believe, lies in understanding the hot-cold empathy gap. Think about the last time you went grocery shopping on an empty stomach. That junk food that leapt into your cart was induced by impulsive cravings—a “hot state.” Later, when you were satiated and relaxed—a “cold state”—you wondered what came over you. This same dynamic plays out in politics. Human emotions are not fixed; we shift between calm, collected states and intense, reactive states. The challenge is that empathy, inherently state-dependent, often fails to account for these shifts. In a cold state, we imagine responding to stress with logic and composure, but in a hot state, we behave differently. (When you are starving, your usual diet goes out the window). Campaigns that evoke visceral emotions push voters into hot states where rational appeals and promises of gradual progress lose their resonance. This disconnect explains why emotionally charged messages often overpower logical, measured arguments in shaping voter behavior.
 
About ninety-percent of US counties shifted red from the last election, so it is clear that the country’s resting pulse is high. Donald Trump capitalized on this hot-state politics. By amplifying grievances and stoking fear about immigration, economic decline, and cultural change, he moved voters into a heightened emotional state. This strategy tapped into deep-seated resentment and a desire for security, to preserve identity, and assert control in an uncertain world. This seemed to appeal to young men in particular. Meanwhile, the Democratic campaign leaned on cold-state reasoning, promising stability and incremental change, a calm, ordered “we are not going back” rhetoric. While logical, this approach failed to address the simmering frustrations that had been building for years, leaving Democrats disconnected from voters seeking immediate emotional validation.
 
Ironically, Trump also performed well with voters who Democrats assumed would be in a hot state but were, in fact, cold. For instance, he secured record-high support among Latino voters, despite running a campaign centered on mass deportation. Even among Puerto Ricans, who might have been expected to recoil after the “floating island of garbage” remarks, he performed surprisingly well. Why? Many of these voters, now removed from the immediate struggles of recent immigrants, were in a cold state. For them, Trump’s economic message was more relevant than his inflammatory speech; those “poisoning the blood of our country” now referred to somebody else, and therefore lost its sting.
 
So where does this leave the disillusioned citizen? Ezra Klein urged Democrats to respond with curiosity, but Democrats have been the party of curiosity. From listening to conservative radio in rural Alabama to dissecting New York Times election podcasts, much of the last eight years of my life has been spent trying to understand Trump voters. I put myself in their shoes, trying to make sense of rationale ranging from misunderstood views on tariffs to podcast bromances to “he just speaks his mind,” to “If a fellow felon can become President, that makes my prospects better.” The thing is, I can empathize with those viewpoints. I get why a convict becoming the President would give hope to someone with a criminal record. The real obstacle for Democrats wasn’t lack of empathy, it was the volatility of the emotional state of the voting public.
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Of course, we must acknowledge the broader context. Dissatisfaction with the status quo—fueled by COVID and inflation—meant that nearly every incumbent government worldwide faced similar struggles. Perhaps the 2024 election was inevitable. But that doesn’t diminish the lesson. Empathy is not just about understanding others’ feelings but recognizing the emotional states that influence their actions. To move forward, political campaigns must address voters’ fears and frustrations while offering a vision of hope and long-term progress. For citizens, fostering empathy means engaging with opposing views in good faith, striving to understand not only what people believe but why they feel the way they do. Though divisions run deep, building a resilient democracy starts with a shared commitment to listen, understand, and bridge the emotional divides that shape our decisions.

The part I couldn’t shake was “a peaceful and quiet life.” If this is truly what evangelical Christians want, then why are their views so often made public? Harvey insists that the church is not getting more political, rather “politics is getting more spiritual.” In his view, politics are now trespassing into areas traditionally discussed and decided by the church. This has led to a public discourse where gender, sexuality, and family structures have become political battlegrounds with evangelical voices leading the charge.

Anyone who has followed politics over the last 8 weeks (or 8 years) would agree that Donald Trump lives the opposite of a “quiet and peaceful life.” Harvey’s defense is that his congregation supports the platform, not the person, but this justification offers a moral loophole. As long as a candidate champions certain values you agree with, all other values—and personal transgressions—can be overlooked. We’ve seen this alignment in action for a long time. Trump was first elected as “a symbolic defense of the United States’ perceived Christian heritage,” next he followed through on a promise to overturn Roe v. Wade, then he leaned into masculinity and an anti-immigrant rhetoric, and started thumping his own Bible, and most recently he has weaponized some of their deepest fears (e.g., transgender people).
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Pastor Harvey’s quote concisely encapsulates the paradox that is the overwhelming support for Trump by white Christians. In one breath, he speaks of peace and quiet; in the next, he defends a movement that persistently targets those who would likely be met with Jesus’s compassion and empathy. Trump only amplifies the chaos that evangelical churches claim to wish to avoid. True peace and quiet would mean letting others live authentically and without judgment. It would mean not turning personal matters into political ones, platforms into pulpits, or faith into a shield for exclusion. If the church truly values peace, the quietest—and perhaps the most Christian—vote would be for a candidate who is only vocal in her advocacy for inclusion, progress, and the welfare of the entire country.

Ranking who has a greater stake in something isn’t just complicated—it threatens the very foundation of fairness. In my marketing class, we discuss stakeholder theory, which suggests that organizations should consider the interests of all parties who affect—or are affected by—an organizational decision. To illustrate the concept, I ask my students to identify the stakeholders of Auburn University. They begin with the obvious: students, faculty, staff, alumni. When I encourage them to dig deeper, they start listing parents, local and state government, media outlets, apparel manufacturers, donors, and companies that hire Auburn graduates. Eventually I push them to come up with local construction firms, the nearby Kia auto plant, Mama Goldberg’s Deli, and Chick-Fil-A. By that point, the lesson is clear: stakeholders extend far beyond the obvious players.

Next I ask them to rank these stakeholders in order of who has the greatest to least stake in Auburn. I’ve never seen two lists that match because it is impossible to say who has a bigger stake in something. This is precisely where JD Vance’s argument falls apart. Our individual contributions to society are interconnected and overlapping—you can’t tease them apart. But one thing is certain: if having children gives people a unique stake in the country, then surely raising and caring for those children does too. 

We even have an expression for this: “It takes a village to raise a child.” It is, therefore, hypocritical to support childbearing while ignoring childcaring. But that sentiment was conspicuously absent from his narrative (though he later suggested that “maybe grandma and grandpa wants to help out a little bit more).” In truth, it doesn’t just take a village to raise a child—it takes a village (family, friends, communities, institutions) to care for a person throughout their entire life. This is where we fall short. A society signals how much it values people’s work by how it compensates them. The average hourly wage for caregivers in the United States is $16.11 with childcare workers making considerably less at $13.42. (Those numbers fall to $12.90 and $11.00 here in Alabama). Care work, social services, and education are all clearly undervalued—despite being fundamental to the future we claim to care about. If we want daycare providers to feel invested in the future, we need to show that we’re invested in theirs.

A final problematic implication of Vance’s comment is that people only care about their own progeny, as if a person’s stake in the future is limited to their biological offspring. That’s not the reality I see, and I don’t think it is the kind of world most people want to live in. When you base “stakeholding” on biology, it reinforces the generational wealth and inequality gaps that already divide us. The goal, I hope, is to improve the future for everyone.

Having a stake in that kind of future can take many forms. It might mean dedicating your life to healthcare, education, or humanitarian work. It could be acting as one of the 100 million adult caregivers in the U.S. It may involve working to address climate change or volunteering in your community. It could be any number of things we all do because we are invested in the future. And, of course, like my mom and dad, it can mean raising seven kids. This isn’t about diminishing the importance of families or having children. It’s about understanding that the stakes are collective, not individual, and that if we belittle the villagers, we risk losing the village.

If that is your birthday, you are also of the [in]famous Millennial generation, which spans from 1981 to 1996. Popular culture loves to poke fun at Millennials. They have famously ruined industries like cable and wine, products like yogurt and fabric softener, institutions like higher education, marriage and religion, long-held American dreams like homeownership, and the economy at large. All of this in the endless pursuit of best avocado toast and lattes. These rebukes are sometimes sarcastic but often genuine, and almost always from older age cohorts.
 
With a birthday in January 1981, technically I am a Millennial. However, most people think of Millennials as thirty-somethings, and there is an even smaller subset born in 1990-1991, who would be about 32-33-years-old right now. Known as Peak Millennials, these individuals have disproportionately experienced, and because of their size, contributed economic hardships. This has occurred for two reasons. First, they represent a significant spike in the population, now comprising the largest age group in the United States, and like releasing a bend in a hose, their full force is now upon us. Second, global crises (e.g., The Great Recession, COVID-19) have coincided with their major life events more than other cohorts. Taken together, Peak Millennials have fundamentally altered societal norms and expectations. Life stages that were supposed to be lock-step (e.g., go to college, get married, start a family) have shifted or changed altogether, leaving older generations scratching their heads and younger ones biting their nails.
 
The existential problem currently tracking with Peak Millennials is climate change, and to me, this is where the inequity exists. Half of all human pollution has occurred since 1989, or right before this cohort was born. That means that the generation least responsible for causing the crisis will be the one both living through the worst of it and expected to fix it. The idea is not entirely new. In fact, Richard Nixon noted a similar environmental injustice in his 1970 State of the Union address: “young Americans […], more than we, will reap the grim consequences of our failure to act on programs which are needed now if we are to prevent disaster later.”
 
The challenge is that while younger people tend to be more concerned about climate change, they are largely not in the positions of power to put that concern into action. This is true in business and policy. While the median American is 38-years-old, the average CEO is 59 while the average age in the U.S. House of Representatives is 58, the U.S. Senate is 64, and as is well-documented, both our current and next President will be 80-somethings. I am not suggesting that a Peak Millennial run for President (our Constitution does not allow it), and obviously experience is important—but so is youth. I’ve written about the Flynn Effect before, but essentially it shows that human intelligence steadily increases over time, meaning that each generation is more capable than the last. If the worst effects of climate change lie ahead, the answer is not to put an upper age limit on corporate and public offices; indeed we need wisdom at the decision-making table. In my opinion, we also need to support Millennials as they navigate an economically-skewed landscape. Things like student loan forgiveness and trade school incentives, a wealth or capital gains tax, and tax breaks for non-traditional family units are just a few ways to help level the playing field. The more young people not worried about next month’s rent, the more young people who could focus on  mitigating climate change.
 
The optimist in me thinks the fact that Greta Thunberg (age 21) and Joe Biden (age 81) are two of the biggest climate activists is a good thing. There is a clear benefit to diversity of thought, background, age, and expertise. Imagine a world of intergenerational cooperation where the experience and wisdom of older generations are complemented by the innovation and urgency of younger ones. This collaboration would prioritize sustainable policies to develop climate resilience, as well as invest in education to prepare subsequent generations to take up the mantle.
 
There is an old proverb that says, “A society becomes great when old people plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.” If you subscribe to that logic, our society is already great in many respects. However, it is also good to plant trees in whose shade you may someday sit. Peak Millennials face unprecedented challenges, but they also have the potential to plant a lot of hypothetical trees—if we give them a chance. By working together across generations and prioritizing long-term sustainability, we can create a future where both proverbs hold true.