The perfect time

There is a sentence I would not have believed twenty years ago.

There has never been a better time to be a Black surgeon in the UK.

I don't write that lightly, and I don't write it as a celebration. It does not mean bias has disappeared, or that scrutiny has softened, or that every system is now fair. It isn't perfect. Anyone who has trained through the last two decades knows how far from perfect it is.

But the direction has changed.

And direction matters, because when the direction shifts, opportunity begins to widen long before anything resembling parity arrives.

There was a time when being the only Black face in theatre felt normal.

Normal, but heavy.

You carried more than your caseload. You carried how you were perceived. Whatever you did, well or badly, seemed to count for more than just you. You were a sample of one, and people drew conclusions from small samples.

Something has shifted since then.

You are not always the only one in the room anymore. Medical school cohorts look different. Training rotations look different. Consultant appointments are beginning to change. The data on diversity is no longer something discussed quietly in corridors. It is published, examined and argued over.

That visibility changes what feels possible. When you see someone who looks like you working at consultant level, something recalibrates. The role stops feeling like an aspiration and starts feeling like a destination.

The way we survive has changed too.

For a long time, resilience was something you built alone. You took the comment on the chin. You absorbed the remark that wasn't quite a remark. You told yourself to work harder, and you did.

Now the support is organised. There is mentorship with structure behind it. There is advocacy. There are people you can call who understand your context without needing it explained from the beginning.

I have seen that change from the inside. I founded a network for Black surgeons, and I co-lead a mentoring programme for Black trainees. Neither would have been easy to imagine when I started out. What were once quiet conversations between two Black trainees in the corner of a conference have become organised spaces for growth.

What those spaces offer is more than reassurance. They allow you to strategise using collective experience. A problem that feels unique when you face it alone has usually been faced before by someone else in the room. Someone has sat that exam, prepared for that interview, handled that conversation or found a way through that department. When those experiences are shared, you don't have to learn everything the hard way. You can borrow a map that someone else drew at their own expense.

But a safe space only works if you use it.

You only benefit if you embrace the opportunity it provides. That means turning up. Asking the question you'd rather not ask. Admitting you're struggling before the struggle becomes a crisis. Letting someone see your plan before it's finished. A network cannot help someone who keeps it at arm's length, and the value tends to go to those willing to be open inside it.

And networks compound. When one person progresses, they reach back. When two progress, they begin to build infrastructure. That is how momentum gathers.

But the most important change isn't who is in the room, or who you can call.

It is something harder to measure, and it is the reason I believe what I wrote at the start of this chapter.