They’ve got you busy fighting a gender war to keep you from fighting a class war.

Behind the scenes of the speech I almost didn't give

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I don’t get nervous before speeches.

I’ve spoken in front of 50,000 people. I’ve had a speaking slot between Bill Gates and Warren Buffett. I asked Donald Trump the question about childcare that was heard round the world.

And still—something about this one got to me.

The night before my commencement address at Harvey Mudd, I was sick. Not metaphorically. Like, actually physically sick. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I had a pit in my stomach that wouldn’t go away.

It surprised me. Because I usually love giving commencement speeches. It’s a huge honor—standing in front of the next generation and trying to leave them with something that will stick. Something they might carry with them when everything else fades.

But this one felt different. Because after one of my recent speeches, I walked away wondering if I’d made a mistake.

I’d felt unwelcome. There was a chill. A quiet discomfort around what I had to say. As if saying the quiet part out loud was breaking some sort of unspoken rule.

So the night before the Harvey Mudd speech, some part of me hesitated. Would it be the same? Would I give another bold speech only to be met with blank stares and tight smiles?

And yet—I knew I couldn’t play it safe.

I didn’t come to Mudd to deliver a sanitized sound bite. These students deserved better. They came to Mudd to change the world. The least I could do was meet them with some truth.

I wrote this big, bold speech about how we’re being distracted—deliberately—from the real problems we face. That we’ve been sold a zero-sum story about gender and race and power, when the truth is that disconnection is what’s keeping us stuck. That some very powerful people want to keep us divided—because when we’re divided, we don’t organize. We don’t demand better. We just point fingers at one another and call it a day. (You can watch the full speech here).

Before the ceremony, the college president pulled me aside and said, “I read your speech.”

I braced myself.

I thought: “here we go. They’re going to ask me to change it.”

But instead she said. “It’s a bold speech.” And then she smiled.

I could’ve cried. It was the first signal that maybe this wouldn’t be like the last time.

And it wasn’t.

A lot of the students were with me.

I told them, “They’ve got you busy fighting a gender war to keep you from fighting a class war."

There was a pause. A beat of silence—like they were processing, deciding.

And then they clapped.

They clapped because it made them pause.

Later, someone sent me a video of the audience. There’s a moment where I say something about how real power comes from connection—and you can see a student in the front row nodding, slowly but firmly, like: yes. That.

It reminded me of something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately: bravery isn’t a solo act.

It takes courage to get up and speak your truth. But it also takes courage to listen—especially when you’re not sure you agree. To clap, even when it’s complicated. To stand, even when it’s not easy.

And I saw that bravery in the audience, too.

Not everyone loved the speech. I could feel that. There were parents and donors and administrators who probably thought, “Too much.” But even they stood.

They didn’t have to agree. But they stood anyway.

And I’m choosing to believe that’s a kind of bravery too.

So this wasn’t just a story about me being brave enough to give the speech.

It was a story about being met with grace. About being heard. About what can happen when you show up with honesty—and your audience does, too.

I walked away from Harvey Mudd feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time after giving a commencement speech: hope.

Hope that boldness doesn’t have to mean isolation. That the space for honesty is still there—if we make it. That sometimes, in the right room, saying the hard thing can still bring people closer.

And that’s what I’ll carry with me.

So thank you, Harvey Mudd.

For making space.

For meeting courage with courage.

And for reminding me that even in moments of fear, we can still be brave—together.

Sincerely,

Reshma

P.S. You can watch the full speech here. And if you’re more of a reader, you can check out an excerpt in Time here.

And if you’re enjoying my Substack, please consider forwarding it to a friend.

The best weekend.