Last Friday I was invited by Protect Black Women and HewardMills to a Round Table discussion about AI inclusivity and creativity and its impact on Black and Brown women, as well as marginalised communities as a whole.
Protect Black Women is a grassroots organisation dedicated to amplifying the voices, rights, and well-being of Black women. Rooted in principles of empowerment, justice, and solidarity, the mission is to be part of an empathetic, empowering support system for Black women facing racial trauma, misogynoir, discrimination, and adversity. Through advocacy, education, and collaborative initiatives, Protect Black Women champions the dignity and resilience of Black women. It was founded in March 2024 by Dyann Heward-Mills, Foluke Taylor, and Christine Fostvedt-Mills. I’ve been involved with PBW since its inception and serve on the steering committee.
I was honoured to be invited among so many wonderful, talented women who are either experts in AI or leaders in their respective fields.
AI is my passion. I’ve been in the field since 2002, when I fell in love with a robotics demo at the University of Birmingham and decided to pursue a bachelor’s degree in Artificial Intelligence and Computer Science. The possibilities for using AI for good felt endless, from search and rescue robots in disaster zones to medical technology that could save lives. I genuinely believed it would change the world. I’ve spoken in depth about my journey as a Brown female founder in my five-part blog series.
But from the very beginning, starting at age 18, I encountered a lot of sexism and racism. It began even earlier, really, as a girl who loved maths, science, and tech, I was often made to feel like an anomaly. At university, it became even more pronounced. I was one of only four women on the AICS course, and just two of us were women of colour, both from South Asian backgrounds.
I was constantly made to feel like I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough, and didn’t belong, even though my grades said otherwise. I wasn’t alone in this experience; other women on the course felt it too. That constant undermining began to erode my self-esteem. I became hyper-aware of myself, always trying to justify or prove my worth to lecturers who were gatekeepers of knowledge and held power over opportunities like project supervision.
I had dreams of doing a PhD and becoming a world-class roboticist. But by the time I left university, my spirit was broken, and I no longer wanted to stay in academia. At the time, there weren’t many AI jobs in the UK, most were in the US or Japan, and almost entirely in academia or R&D. So I became a software engineer. That world, too, was riddled with sexism and racial bias. Female developers were rare, and Brown or Black female developers even rarer. I was paid less than my male peers, despite often outperforming them. One colleague even told me, “Women can’t code. You should do something else.”
These challenges didn’t deter me. In 2019, I co-founded my startup, Astronomical AI, with an oncologist, finally able to channel AI toward something good: building a tool for lung cancer diagnosis and treatment. I had hoped that society had progressed since I started my career, and that things would be easier. I was wrong.
As a brown female founder, I faced so many barriers. Multiple studies have shown that ethnic minority and female founders receive far less funding than white male counterparts. And even when conversations finally turn to “funding women,” the specific challenges faced by women of colour are often left out, as if our experiences are a footnote rather than central to the conversation. The intersection of race and gender is routinely overlooked, which means the systemic barriers we face remain unacknowledged and unaddressed.
When I pitched my startup, I was spoken over, interrogated, and dismissed before I even had the chance to fully explain my idea, only for some investors to backtrack once they finally heard me out. I’ve been told my startup carries “assumed risk due to family connections,” simply because I have a common Pakistani surname, as if that alone could imply nepotism.
So when I was asked to be an expert speaker at the round table, I was excited, but also anxious. I spent two days writing six pages of notes, because I’ve internalised the habit of questioning my expertise. I didn’t sleep well. My nervous system was on high alert.
Before the discussion began, we were given a tour of Parliament. Walking around really helped calm my mind. It also gave me a chance to meet the other speakers and get to know them a little before the round table started.
When we arrived at the meeting room, I noticed myself hesitating, gravitating more towards the audience seating than the table itself. Dyann gently said, “Femma, you’re up here.” So I took my place at the table, laid my six pages of notes face down, and exhaled.
In the lead-up to the event, I’d received a lot of support and encouragement from friends and family. I’m also currently training to be a therapist, and I have bi-weekly supervision. My supervisor, a South Asian woman, is always in my corner, reminding me to step into my power. I carried those words with me, alongside the love and care from those who believe in me.
When the round table began, something shifted. The anxiety fell away. I didn’t even need the notes, they stayed face down. Because I am an expert. I have been doing this for decades. I spoke about bias and its impact on marginalised communities. I shared my personal experiences, and I talked about the environmental and human costs of AI especially for data labelling workers from underpaid and under-resourced communities, who are exposed to trauma with little support. I talked about how these systems not only extract labour but often destroy the very communities they rely on.
For the first time in over 20 years, I felt truly seen and heard. I didn’t feel like an imposter. I felt powerful. I believed in myself as an expert. I felt pride in what I had contributed. And that’s not something I’ve ever really allowed myself to feel. It’s sad, isn’t it? That as women, especially women of colour, we’re expected to give endlessly with little acknowledgement, and even self-acknowledgement is often seen as boastful.
But on that day, I allowed myself to feel it. And I felt so much love and gratitude for every woman in the room, especially the PBW founders, and Dawn Butler MP and Dianne Abbott MP, for creating a space where our voices could not only be heard, but held. It’s incredible what can happen when Black and Brown women are given space to thrive and create.
Afterwards, so many people came up to me to say how much they resonated with what I shared, that it had impact and meaning. We ended the day with a lovely dinner, a chance to relax and wind down. And when it was all over, I felt emotional, full of gratitude for the space, the opportunity, and the sisterhood.
Foluke’s mantra since the beginning of PBW has been (to paraphrase), “Protect Black Women isn’t just for Black women. When we protect Black women, we protect everyone.” I never truly knew what that meant until Friday.
And in the spirit of everything I’ve shared of being seen, heard, and taking up space I also want to mention something I’ve quietly worked on. I recently configured a GPT designed to centre the voices, experiences, and wisdom of marginalised communities. It’s intended as an educational tool, a space for reflection, unlearning, and moving beyond dominant, colonial frameworks of knowledge. If you’re curious, feel free to explore it: Beyond the Colonial Mind GPT
#ProtectBlackWomen #AI #WomenInTech #Inclusion #WomenOfColour #BiasInAI #Leadership #RepresentationMatters #Vulnerability #FounderLife #InclusionInTech #WomenInSTEM