The NeuroEquity Project

Back when work was human, I didn’t need “accommodations.”

My early roles weren’t “corporate.” They were smaller teams, closer dynamics, fewer layers of bureaucracy, and most importantly, people who watched what helped me succeed and adjusted in real time.

I didn’t have to use the phrase “reasonable accommodation.” I didn’t have to disclose a diagnosis. I didn’t have to build a case file to justify my own nervous system. Support then was just…normal human teamwork.

Here’s what that looked like:

If I needed uninterrupted time to focus on completing a report, and the office was a revolving door of visitors, we would trade off. My coworker would cover an hour while I worked in a quiet space. No drama. No HR. No formal request. No “performance concern.” Just a practical solution to a practical problem.

And that’s the thing: in environments built on trust and flexibility, the “problem” never becomes a problem.

It wasn’t until I entered a true corporate role that I experienced discrimination for the first time. And it wasn’t subtle.

The First Time I Learned the Rule: Disclosure Has Consequences

When I entered a corporate role, things were fine…until they weren’t. I disclosed. I used the words “reasonable accommodation.” And I wasn’t referred to HR, wasn’t guided through any process, wasn’t offered a conversation. I was simply told “no.”

That experience taught me something important: sometimes the moment you advocate for yourself is the moment you become disposable.

Then I Found the Company That Looked Perfect on Paper

My next company felt like it was designed for someone like me. Their first core value? “Be a Good Human.” They had employee resource groups, including a monthly “neuroinclusive” meeting for neurodivergent employees.

On paper, it looked like safety. In reality, it was branding.

The organizer referred to disabilities as “superpowers.” Meetings held no real conversations about workplace barriers, sensory issues, or the specific ways workplaces can be hostile to autistic people, especially autistic women. It was positivity-only. No difficult conversations, friction, or problem-solving. I stopped attending.

Because when support spaces refuse to acknowledge problems, they stop being support spaces. They become a display case.

I can’t speak to intent. I can only describe the way it felt, which was a front-facing version of inclusion that wasn’t built to handle the reality of disability.

The Interrogation

I disclosed my autism. I didn’t get curiosity or support. Instead, I was interrogated – drilled with questions I doubt would be asked if my disability were more visible.

Not “what helps you do your best work?” Not “how can we make this sustainable?”
Interrogation.

So I did employees are told to do. I formally requested reasonable accommodations.

Frustratingly, I was forced to request very basic things that should never require paperwork, such as receiving direct communication from my supervisor. I requested the option to occasionally work remotely because the office environment was objectively rough for me: crowded, chaotic, constant physical bumping into people, no private space, and nowhere quiet to recover.

Then the process turned into a maze perfectly designed to exhaust me.

The Accommodation Gauntlet

There was never a discussion with my supervisor. No interactive conversation with HR. No meeting where we explored options.

Instead, the company used a third-party vendor to approve accommodations, and that vendor denied my updated diagnostic paperwork and recommendations that were only months old.

They demanded more and more throughout the process, while I drowned in work under an unsupportive supervisor.

I had to explain the need for each accommodation repeatedly, as if I was re-submitting my humanity for approval. The kicker? Those explanations were fully provided in the paperwork I submitted.

Then they claimed, multiple times, that they weren’t receiving the paperwork from my doctor, requiring me to make additional appointments and resend materials already that had already been sent.

Eventually, the request was denied.

That’s the part that people who say, “just request accommodations!” don’t understand. Some systems aren’t designed to accommodate. They’re designed to create a paper trail that makes denial look procedural instead of personal.

The Moment That Made My Stomach Drop

After making the requests, especially the one involving occasional remote work due to the sensory and physical chaos of the office, something changed.

A coworker informed me that they updated the job description of an open, identical position to add that the work environment is open with constant noises, bright lights, and distractions. There is no mention of accommodations. No statement encouraging applicants with disabilities to apply. No acknowledgement that a workplace can be noisy and still be accessible with the appropriate support.

Instead, it reads to me: Autistic people need not apply.

And I remember thinking: “So instead of making the environment workable, you’re advertising that it’s unworkable?”

Even if the intention was different, intention doesn’t matter when the impact is the same. In that moment, I knew I was not welcome. I knew that autistic women aren’t welcome. It was written there in black and white.

What I Wish “Neuroinclusion” Actually Meant

If a company says “Be a Good Human,” I expect them to treat disability as a normal part of humanity, not a compliance nuisance.

If a company has a “neuroinclusive” ERG, I expect it to be more than motivational slogans and toxic positivity. I expect it to include:

• Honest discussions of workplace barriers
• Real strategies and policy changes
• Leadership accountability
• Support that doesn’t require masking or cheerleading

Because “superpowers” is a cute word until you’re drowning.

Neurodivergent employees don’t need a pep talk; we need systems that don’t punish us for having needs.

And autistic women, especially those who are competent, high-performing, and deeply exhausted, deserve better than being branded as an inclusion success story while quietly pushed out the moment we ask for real support.

These experiences are not rare. They’re common and patterned. Corporate systems reward ambiguity and punish needs.

Founding The NeuroEquity Project

In the midst of these two experiences, I founded The NeuroEquity Project, a nonprofit dedicated to building inclusive workplaces that actually work for neurodivergent professionals.

Because I’m tired of “inclusion” that collapses the moment it becomes inconvenient.

I’m taking everything I’ve lived through, every denial, every hoop, every “be positive,” every “but you don’t look autistic” interaction that couldn’t tolerate the word struggle, and turning it into a blueprint for doing better. Not prettier or more marketable.

Better.

If your culture can’t survive accommodation requests, it isn’t inclusive. It’s selective.

And I’m done letting “selective” hide behind corporate values posters.