Building a culture of health
Health is a word that, far too often, we use with great ease and superficiality, reducing it almost exclusively to a clinical condition or, at most, to a state of physical and psychological well-being. Today, however, I increasingly realize that this definition is insufficient and, above all, reflects less and less the reality we live in — a context characterized by constant acceleration, widespread precarity, and permanent hyper-connectivity: elements that profoundly redefine our relationship with the body, the mind, and human connections.
Talking about health today means talking about dynamic balance. It is not a state to achieve and maintain, but a continuous process of adaptation. I am experiencing this firsthand: facing new personal challenges, rediscovering new forms of autonomy, and confronting new conditions — including managing significant hearing loss, accepting the need for hearing aids, and starting a new professional challenge — are not separate events, but interconnected dimensions that impact my well-being every day.
Hearing loss, in particular, has made it clear how health is not merely an individual matter, but a deeply relational one, especially when your profession is fundamentally based on interpersonal interaction and exchange. Hearing less often means participating less. It means struggling more to engage in conversations, social settings, and informal moments where relationships and opportunities are built. This is where a first fracture emerges: the divide between those who can fully access spaces — both physical and social — and those who must constantly negotiate their presence and, often, compromise with themselves.
In this sense, solitude and community are not opposites, but poles between which we constantly move. Solitude can be a restorative choice, but it becomes a risk factor and a source of stress when imposed by physical, cultural, or organizational barriers. At the same time, community becomes a determinant of health when it is truly inclusive — that is, when it takes responsibility for adapting to people, rather than expecting people to adapt to it.
Another crucial element is our relationship with technology. Screens keep us connected, yet often disembodied. Fragmented attention reduces the quality of relationships and, in my case, amplifies fatigue: reading lips during a meeting or video call, following multiple stimuli simultaneously, managing digital noise. The risk is losing touch with the body, with the signals it sends us, and with the limits it asks us to respect. In this context, promoting a culture of health requires a paradigm shift. It cannot become a performance (“I’m fine,” “I’m resilient”), nor a trend to display publicly. Instead, it should become a legitimate space for complexity, where vulnerability and competence can coexist.
As a DE&I professional, I still see too many organizations talking about well-being without questioning their own internal dynamics: workloads, leadership models, real accessibility. The most vulnerable people continue to encounter significant barriers to accessing healthcare and prevention. These barriers are not only economic or logistical, but also cultural: stigma, stereotypes, lack of representation. Being a person with a disability while also carrying other identity dimensions often means having to explain yourself, justify yourself, and adapt continuously. This, too, carries a cost for one’s health.
Building a culture of health today therefore means working on multiple levels: individual, organizational, and social. It means recognizing that there is no single correct way to be well, but rather multiple possible trajectories. And above all, it means shifting the focus from performance to sustainability.
In my own journey, I am learning that being “Un-Bre-ak-Able” does not mean never breaking. On the contrary, it means recognizing your fractures, moving through them, and continuously redefining your balance. It is there, in that imperfect and real space, that perhaps a more authentic form of health begins.