Sharing Without Hierarchy

Power Without a Ladder

Reflection

For almost ten years, I’ve been working toward no hierarchy at my free community dinner.

I love the principle.

It suits me.

It matches what I believe about dignity, contribution, and shared life.

In the early days, no hierarchy was said often. Volunteers named it regularly. It sounded right. It sounded generous.

But in practice, it was often enforced by those who already held power — the ones who spoke most confidently, who set the tone, who decided what counted as acceptable. The principle itself became a way of holding authority, rather than releasing it.

That contradiction taught me something early:

you can speak the language of equality and still dominate the room.

Eventually, I became the coordinator — and over time, the sole coordinator — largely because of how that power was being misused. The structure didn’t collapse into hierarchy because I wanted control; it did so because the absence of clarity was being filled by informal authority.

When I practiced no hierarchy from that position, it became something different. Not an ideal, but a discipline.

I learned how difficult it is not to hold onto power once you have it.

I learned how hard it is to do anything without it.

And I learned that power itself isn’t the problem.

The problem is what power replaces when connection is thin.

When people disengage, power rushes in to fill the gap.

When participation drops, coordination hardens.

When responsibility concentrates, pressure follows.

There are times when I feel that pressure acutely. When one person becomes the operator, the organiser, the decision-holder. In those moments, the energy required just to keep things going makes it harder to articulate what no hierarchy actually means — and why it matters.

But I’ve also seen this:

when people are invited into understanding, not just tasks, power loosens.

When connection deepens, authority becomes lighter.

When engagement grows, hierarchy stops being the default solution.

No hierarchy doesn’t mean the absence of leadership.

It means leadership that stays in relationship.

It means power that remains visible, accountable, and shareable.

What I’m still learning is how to speak about this clearly — not as an ideology, but as an invitation. Because this work doesn’t need less power. It needs more people willing to carry it together.

Moving Between Circles

Reflection

I’ve been paying attention to the language I use when I talk about what I see forming around me.

Often, the word mutual aid is used to describe everything that looks generous or communal. But what I’m noticing is more layered than that.

Mutual aid has a shape.

It relies on reciprocity, shared responsibility, and people recognising one another as contributors rather than recipients. It works best when people can give and receive freely — when support flows in more than one direction.

But not everyone I work alongside is in that circle.

Some people are inside a different one.

They are inside the circle of care.

Care doesn’t require reciprocity.

It doesn’t assume capacity.

It responds to vulnerability, instability, or exhaustion without asking what can be offered in return.

I’ve learned to place people carefully. Not to fix them in position, but to notice where they are right now.

When I expect mutual aid from someone who is only able to receive care, something fractures. Pressure replaces trust. Dignity becomes conditional.

And when I keep someone inside the circle of care longer than necessary, I risk holding them there — protecting them from the very agency they are ready to reclaim.

The work, I’m learning, is not deciding where people belong.

It’s allowing movement.

People move between circles as their lives change.

They step into mutual aid when capacity grows.

They step back into care when life narrows.

What matters is not the label, but the freedom to move — without being shamed for needing care, and without being prevented from contributing when the moment arrives.

Mutual aid fails when it becomes a requirement.

Care fails when it becomes a cage.

The practice I’m trying to hold is this:

to keep both circles open, and to let people cross their edges in their own time.

Mutual Aid: A Starting Point

Mutual Aid — Reflections from Practice

Mutual aid, as it has been lived here, is not a program or a model. It is a series of encounters — shaped by presence, effort, and relationship.

These reflections come from moments where care emerged quietly: remembering someone, making time, showing up consistently, and allowing exchange rather than one-way support. They notice how dignity is often communicated through small, intentional acts — and how restraint, reliability, and respect can matter more than scale.

This is not a guide to doing more, but an invitation to notice how care is experienced when it is particular, relational, and grounded in mutual recognition.

Read Mutual Aid reflections

We Don’t Start With Solutions — We Start by Sitting Down

Care often begins before anything is given. Mutual aid starts by slowing down, listening, and allowing a person to be encountered without being treated as a problem to solve.

When One Thing Is Enough

Some of the most meaningful moments came from doing one thing intentionally — remembering someone, showing up, and allowing a small exchange rather than one-way support.

Remembering Is a Form of Care

Being remembered without being prompted carries weight. Mutual aid sometimes begins with recall — a name, a story, or a moment — acted on with quiet intention.

Consistency Builds Trust More Than Generosity

Trust grew through reliability rather than scale. Turning up on time, following through, and staying steady shaped care more deeply than big or occasional gestures.

Exchange, Not Charity

When support only flows one way, distance can grow. Mutual aid creates space for reciprocity — small exchanges that restore balance and affirm dignity on both sides.

Professionalism Is Not Cold — It’s Respect

Clear communication, boundaries, and follow-through can be acts of care. Professionalism often signals safety and seriousness, especially where trust has been fragile.

Care That Doesn’t Overwhelm

More is not always better. Thoughtful, restrained care can feel safer than abundance, especially for people who have lived with instability or unmet promises.

Making Time Is Making a Statement

Finding real time — not spare time — communicates worth. Mutual aid often involves rearranging our lives slightly to say: you are not an interruption.

The Quiet Work of Acknowledgement

Sometimes nothing material changes, yet something shifts. A conversation, a thank you, or simple recognition can quietly reshape how care is experienced.

Mutual Aid Is Relational, Not Transactional

This work unfolds through relationship, not outcomes. Mutual aid grows slowly, shaped by attentiveness, patience, and the willingness to remain present without guarantees.

See More Mutual Aid reflections