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Over the past three years as an educational developer specialising in anti‑racist pedagogy, I’ve guided instructors on how to build  classrooms. A brief hallway conversation recently reframed that work for me. A student confided that in one class, she had been put on the spot to share a story about her cultural heritage. Although proud of her roots, she felt exposed, anxious and unable to decline. I sensed her tension in the tremor of her voice, the slight shake of her body, and the way her hands tightened as she spoke. Then came the moment that stayed with me: she apologised for not saying more, for hesitating, for not being a “better” student, for fearing how her response might be judged by her instructor and classmates.

That moment revealed how easily we mistake personal storytelling for inclusion, placing an emotional burden on the students we intend to uplift. Instructors often invite quick “sound bites” or snapshot testimonies that showcase what Tara Yosso describes as “”, or what  and  call “cultural assets”. Those moments can surface language, worldviews, family histories or even community traumas such as forced migration or systemic oppression. Though presented as enriching moments, they can leave students feeling pressured to speak as stand-ins for entire communities. While these dynamics are often discussed in anti-racist pedagogy, they extend across many forms of marginalisation: students minoritised by gender identity, disability, immigration status or faith can all feel the weight of performing identity.

This extractive approach lands hardest on students already vulnerable to Claude Steele’s  or Gregory Walton and Geoffrey Cohen’s  conditions in which students feel unsafe and anticipate microaggressions. Under such pressures, the invitation to speak can trigger shame, anxiety or silence. When students are asked to educate peers without acknowledgement, their stories become “”: invisible, emotionally taxing and uncompensated. The risk extends further; students may fear being surveilled or penalised simply for offering perspectives that diverge from dominant classroom norms. And when they resist by choosing not to share, they may fear being labelled  accused of “overreacting”, or dismissed as unwilling to contribute. At its core, this practice echoes a colonial entitlement to extract knowledge for another’s benefit; treating cultural assets as “teaching tokens” (a prop to illustrate lessons). It reinforces the power imbalances we claim to dismantle and sidelines the authentic learning we profess to champion.

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Because these harms are systemic, they cannot be solved by individual instructors alone. Faculties and departments should include syllabus language that protects student choice, provide mandatory training in trauma and culturally informed facilitation, and recognise the extra labour faculty invest in supporting students. Teaching and learning centres can offer templates, scripts and consultations so that instructors are both prepared to design inclusive practices and equipped to respond with care and empathy when unplanned moments arise.

We can choose a different path. Grounding our teaching in culturally responsive, trauma-informed and consent-based practices shifts the focus from extracting stories to fostering dignity, agency and trust. This means designing classrooms where silence is not read as a deficiency, choice is honoured and learning does not rely on marginalised voices to provide representation.

Here are a few practical steps to start:

• Name your limits: try: “I’m not an expert on your experience, and I only know what you choose to share.”
• Set norms together in Week 1: include: “no forced storytelling”, “respect for silence”, and “shared confidentiality”.
• Validate silence as participation: make clear that opting out is a fully valid response.
• Frame personal prompts as choices: use phrases like: “If you’d like to share…” to signal that storytelling is always optional.
• Anticipate emotional impact: if personal stories emerge, be prepared for how these may trigger an emotional or physical response and that students may need support, both those sharing and those listening.
• Distribute the spotlight: if lived expertise is invited, avoid letting one student carry the weight alone.
• Acknowledge narrative as labour: recognise storytelling as meaningful work, credit it as participation or service learning or offer small tokens of appreciation.
• Invest in training: educators should engage in trauma-informed and anti-oppressive facilitation development.

Genuine inclusion isn’t about mining students’ most compelling anecdotes. It’s about centring agency, affirming identity and reducing harm. When we shift from “tell us your story” to “your story is welcome, if and when you want to share it”, we make learning reciprocal. That is how we turn pedagogical labour into a gift rather than a demand, and how we make classrooms sites of genuine belonging.

Aasiya Satia is a projects administrator in teaching and learning at McMaster University and a doctor of education (EdD) candidate in higher education leadership at Western University, Canada.

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