The culture of tech companies cannot change if women aren't in

Host: The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the streets still glistened — every puddle a mirror of the city’s light. From the twelfth-floor office window, the skyline looked like a circuit board — towers glowing, humming, alive. Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed too, sterile and white. Desks stretched like dominoes, monitors flickering, chairs empty.

Host: Only two people remained. Jack, tall, sleeves rolled, standing before a whiteboard filled with half-erased diagrams and fading dreams; and Jeeny, sitting cross-legged on a desk, her dark hair untied, typing furiously into a laptop that had long overheated. The clock read 11:47 p.m.

Host: The world outside was winding down, but this office — this machine of ambition — never slept.

Jeeny: (without looking up) “Reshma Saujani once said, ‘The culture of tech companies cannot change if women aren’t in the room.’ You ever think about that, Jack? Like… what happens when the room never makes space for you?”

Jack: (leaning against the whiteboard, arms crossed) “I think about it. I just don’t think the room cares about anyone’s feelings. Tech’s built on merit, not presence. If you’re good enough, you’ll be in the room.”

Jeeny: (closing her laptop, sharply) “That’s the lie, Jack. The ‘meritocracy’ myth. You think the room is neutral — but the walls are built by people who all look the same. How can you win a game when you didn’t get to write the rules?”

Host: Her voice cut through the sterile quiet like a blade — soft, but sharp enough to draw blood.

Jack: “I’m not saying it’s perfect. But every time you start dividing by gender, race, whatever — you turn it into politics. And then the mission gets lost. Innovation dies in the noise.”

Jeeny: “Innovation dies in exclusion. You think silence builds better code? The whole system’s designed to reward those already comfortable speaking. You can’t design for everyone when half of ‘everyone’ isn’t even in the room to speak for themselves.”

Host: Jack sighed, pressing his palms against the edge of the whiteboard. Behind him, half-erased equations looked like constellations — logic pretending to be order.

Jack: “You make it sound like some conspiracy. It’s not evil — it’s inertia. Guys hire people who remind them of themselves. It’s not hate. It’s habit.”

Jeeny: “And habit is the architecture of injustice, Jack. It’s not about hate — it’s about blindness. When you fill a room with sameness, you don’t notice what’s missing. You just call it normal.”

Host: The AC unit hummed louder, like it was trying to drown them out. The office felt colder.

Jack: “But don’t you think competence should matter more than representation? If we start caring about who’s in the room instead of what they can do, we risk lowering the bar.”

Jeeny: (standing up, fierce now) “Lowering the bar? No — widening the door. You act like inclusion is charity. It’s not. It’s evolution. If women weren’t capable, they wouldn’t have to fight this hard just to exist in these spaces.”

Host: Jack turned toward the window, his reflection merging with the skyline’s glow — a man surrounded by light, yet shadowed by his own logic.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Force diversity? Mandate equality? You can’t legislate belonging.”

Jeeny: “No — but you can invite it. You can listen. That’s how culture changes. Not from code or policies, but from people who stop pretending they don’t see the imbalance. You know, when Ada Lovelace wrote the first algorithm, she didn’t have a room. She had an idea. And a society that ignored her for a hundred years. The least we can do now is open the damn door.”

Host: The lights flickered. Somewhere below, the city rumbled — a truck, a late train, a heartbeat. Jeeny’s words hung in the air, raw and steady.

Jack: (quietly) “You think I don’t get it? You think I haven’t seen bias? I’ve watched brilliant women get passed over for louder men. I’ve seen it. But part of me wonders — if the system’s this broken, why keep trying to fix it from within?”

Jeeny: “Because walking away doesn’t change the room — it just keeps it empty. Every woman who stays, who speaks, who builds — changes its shape a little. That’s how revolutions happen in modern times: not in the streets, but in boardrooms, labs, and Slack channels.”

Host: The clock hit midnight. The digital seconds blinked silently, almost judgmental.

Jack: “You talk like the room is alive — like it breathes, listens, evolves. But what if it doesn’t? What if it’s just walls and policies and profit margins?”

Jeeny: “Then we make it alive. That’s what culture is, Jack — the soul of a system. And souls only change when they’re challenged.”

Host: Her words came out softer now — not as a fight, but as a truth. Jack looked at her — the dark circles under her eyes, the fire still burning there, refusing to dim. He realized she wasn’t arguing to win; she was arguing to be heard.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You really think presence can change everything?”

Jeeny: “Presence is the beginning of everything. Look around. This room — every product, every logo, every line of code — was shaped by the people who sat here. If women aren’t in the room, then half of humanity’s perspective is missing from the design.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted to the whiteboard — to the sketches of a new app interface they’d been building. He noticed, for the first time, how all the avatars were male by default. How every prototype assumed a certain voice, tone, hand. He hadn’t even realized.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I’ve been blind.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You weren’t blind. Just looking through a window instead of a mirror.”

Host: The city outside pulsed brighter now, rain reflecting the lights into a shimmering mosaic. The two of them stood there — equal, different, necessary.

Jack: “You know, I think Saujani had it right. The room doesn’t change when we talk about it. It changes when someone refuses to leave.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then stay, Jack. But when you’re in that room — don’t speak for us. Speak with us.”

Host: Jack nodded, a slow, thoughtful nod — the kind that doesn’t end an argument, but transforms it into understanding.

Host: In the reflection of the window, they stood side by side — two outlines against a city that never stopped coding its future.

Host: And beneath the endless glow of servers and skyscrapers, the truth felt simple yet seismic:

Host: A room isn’t defined by its walls — but by who’s brave enough to enter it.

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving only the soft hum of the city. The whiteboard’s faint marker lines glowed like constellations — traces of a new world being written, one voice at a time.