Some people wear inclusion like a badge—polished, visible, and easy to remove when the moment passes. They talk about acceptance, understanding, and neurodiversity when the spotlight is on, when it earns them praise, or when it involves someone close to them—like their child. But what happens when inclusion isn’t just a concept, but a person sitting quietly at the next desk? What happens when it’s me?
I’ve seen firsthand what happens when people perform empathy for applause but deny it in practice. When their social mask says “I support,” but their behavior says, “Not you.” When they advocate for autism awareness publicly, but mock, marginalize, or gaslight those of us who live it quietly every day—without an audience.
It’s always interesting—how some people only embrace inclusion when it’s convenient. When it earns them praise. When it aligns with their personal lives. When their child is on the spectrum, they speak about awareness and acceptance with passion. But when a coworker is neurodivergent, that same passion vanishes. Replaced with sarcasm, gaslighting, or exclusion.
I work with two people like that.
They perform inclusion when it gives them social capital—when there’s an audience, or when their advocacy paints them as enlightened, loving, or progressive. But when it comes to actual, day-to-day behavior toward people like me, people who live neurodivergence daily, their masks drop.
Suddenly, silence is “attitude.”
Boundaries are “coldness.”
Stimming or sensory needs are “weird.”
And my very existence becomes a problem to manage instead of a person to understand.
It’s hypocrisy. And it hurts.
Because what they really want isn’t inclusion—it’s applause. They want the benefits of being seen as allies, without the discomfort of actually making space for neurodivergent people in real life. Especially in places where it might cost them socially to stand up or show compassion.
Performative Inclusion Looks Like This:
- Talking about autism when it’s their child, but invalidating your needs at work.
- Sharing awareness posts on social media, but rolling their eyes at your silence or sensitivity.
- Claiming to be trauma-informed, but mocking you behind your back.
- Preaching acceptance, but only when it benefits their image.
The Reality:
Allyship isn’t just talking about inclusion when it makes you look good. It’s showing up with empathy when no one’s watching. It’s making space. It’s checking your bias. It’s believing someone else’s experience even when it doesn’t mirror your own.
If you can advocate for your autistic child, but can’t offer basic kindness to your neurodivergent coworker—you’re not advocating. You’re performing.
I live this daily.
It’s not a trend for me.
It’s not a talking point.
It’s my nervous system. My energy. My masking. My reality.
I don’t get to clock out of it when it’s inconvenient.
So please don’t claim inclusion if you only mean it for some. Inclusion that’s not extended to those you work with, talk to, or share space with—isn’t inclusion. It’s a costume.
And eventually, all masks fall.
My Voice Unchained 