Inclusion Shouldn’t Hurt: When DEI Work Is Just More Labor for Marginalized People

Bridgette Hamstead

Across workplaces, schools, and nonprofit spaces, the language of diversity, equity, and inclusion is everywhere. DEI statements are posted on websites. Initiatives are launched. Committees are formed. Trainings are offered. These efforts are often framed as progress, and in many cases, they are well-intentioned. But when you look beneath the surface of many DEI programs, especially those that claim to support neurodivergent people, a troubling pattern emerges. The people doing the hardest, most emotionally taxing work of creating inclusive systems are often the very individuals those systems have historically excluded.

For neurodivergent employees, especially those who are openly autistic, ADHD, or otherwise nonconforming, the burden of inclusion work can be immense. We are expected to educate, advocate, soothe discomfort, and translate our lived experiences into digestible action items for people in power. We are asked to sit on panels, give feedback, correct language, attend listening sessions, and serve on DEI committees that are often underfunded and undervalued. Sometimes we are not paid at all. Sometimes we are paid far less than our expertise deserves. Always, we are expected to be patient and grateful, even when the emotional toll is high and the structural changes remain minimal.

This kind of labor is not just invisible. It is extractive. When neurodivergent people are invited into DEI conversations, it is often after harm has already occurred. A public mistake was made, a backlash unfolded, or someone finally realized there were no autistic or ADHD people at the table. We are then asked to fix the problem, to explain what went wrong, and to help repair trust without the power or authority to make real decisions. We are expected to represent a whole spectrum of experiences, even when we are still navigating our own trauma and exhaustion. We are expected to stay calm in the face of ableist comments. We are expected to educate others while protecting ourselves from further harm. And we are expected to do all of this without disrupting the comfort of those who caused the harm in the first place.

The emotional labor of inclusion work is rarely acknowledged. Neurodivergent people are asked to explain our needs and then expected to justify them. We are praised for our vulnerability, but punished if we express anger. We are encouraged to advocate for ourselves, but told we are too intense, too negative, too much when we speak plainly about injustice. The demand for professionalism often becomes a demand for politeness. Advocacy that is direct or emotionally honest is labeled as unprofessional or divisive. In many cases, the very people doing inclusion work are also masking their distress, managing sensory overload, and navigating burnout behind the scenes. This is not inclusion. This is performance under pressure.

Another issue is that DEI work is often siloed. It is treated as a separate task, rather than a core responsibility of leadership. Neurodivergent employees are asked to do this work on top of their regular duties, often without formal recognition or support. They are expected to give feedback during meetings, mentor newer staff, represent the organization at public events, and help revise policy—all while still being measured by productivity standards that ignore the extra labor they are performing. When they inevitably burn out or step back, they are seen as unreliable rather than overburdened. The system absorbs their contributions and continues on, without having changed in any meaningful way.

This dynamic is especially harmful in organizations that pride themselves on being progressive or inclusive. The disconnect between the public image and the internal reality can be jarring. Neurodivergent staff are expected to uphold the reputation of the organization while quietly carrying the weight of its unexamined ableism. They are expected to believe in the mission even when they are not protected by it. When they raise concerns, they are told that change takes time, that people are doing their best, that they should be patient. Meanwhile, their energy is spent, their capacity depleted, and their trust eroded.

True inclusion cannot be built on the unpaid or underpaid labor of marginalized people. Neurodivergent staff should not be the only ones responsible for making neurodivergent inclusion happen. That work must be resourced. It must be supported by leadership. It must be embedded into the structure of the organization, not tacked on as an afterthought or delegated to those already carrying the heaviest load. DEI efforts must be shaped by the people most impacted, but they cannot be carried solely by them. Without accountability and redistribution of power, inclusion becomes another word for exploitation.

To move beyond performative inclusion, organizations must be willing to do the hard, internal work of change. That means examining how policies, practices, and expectations are built around neurotypical norms. It means investing in training that is created by and for neurodivergent people, not just imported from generic templates. It means compensating neurodivergent consultants and staff fairly, respecting their time, and centering their expertise without diluting it to make others comfortable. It means creating feedback systems that do not punish honesty. It means sharing decision-making power, not just collecting input.

Inclusion should not hurt. It should not rely on the labor of those already struggling to stay afloat in systems that were not built for them. If your inclusion efforts leave your neurodivergent staff more exhausted, more isolated, or more burned out than before, then they are not inclusive at all. They are extraction in disguise.

Real inclusion demands more than optics, statements, and surface-level gestures. It requires a fundamental redistribution of labor, attention, and authority. It means recognizing that the people most impacted by exclusion should not also be responsible for fixing the systems that harmed them. Until organizations are willing to shift not just their language but their structures, inclusion will remain a performance rather than a practice. The cost of that failure is not abstract. It is measured in burnout, attrition, and the quiet disappearance of the very people these efforts claim to center. Inclusion must become a shared responsibility, not a task assigned to the already overburdened. Anything less is exploitation dressed as progress.