When Inclusion Is Just Another Word for Control
Bridgette Hamstead
Inclusion is a word that gets used a lot. Schools use it. Workplaces use it. Nonprofits and government agencies use it. It shows up in mission statements, training modules, and public campaigns. It is usually presented as a universal good, something that all institutions should strive for. But for many autistic people and other neurodivergent individuals, inclusion as it is commonly practiced does not feel like safety or belonging. It feels like surveillance. It feels like containment. And often, it feels like control.
Too often, inclusion does not mean changing systems to accommodate neurodivergent needs. It means asking neurodivergent people to adapt to systems that remain rigid and unchanged. The message is not "we will meet you where you are" but rather "we will let you be here as long as you learn to act like us." From classrooms to offices, inclusion is frequently contingent on compliance. You can be part of the group, but only if you do not rock the boat. You can join the team, but only if you keep your differences quiet. You can speak up, but only in ways that do not make others uncomfortable.
This form of conditional inclusion is rooted in control, not care. It prioritizes the comfort of the dominant group over the autonomy of the marginalized. In schools, inclusion often looks like placing autistic students in general education classrooms without adjusting teaching methods, sensory environments, or communication expectations. The student is expected to tolerate the setting, regulate their behavior, and perform participation in a way that makes the teacher's job easier. When they cannot, they are seen as disruptive or noncompliant rather than unsupported. The focus is not on what the student needs to thrive, but on what the institution needs to maintain order.
In workplaces, inclusion is often performative. Employers promote diversity initiatives, host awareness events, or celebrate Neurodiversity Week, but they rarely examine the structural barriers that make the workplace inaccessible in the first place. Autistic employees are encouraged to disclose their diagnoses, but once they do, they are expected to work harder to "fit in." Accommodations are grudgingly granted, if at all. Feedback is filtered through neurotypical standards of professionalism. There is little room for different communication styles, sensory needs, or pacing. The underlying expectation remains the same: adapt or be excluded.
Even in therapeutic and medical settings, inclusion can function as a mechanism of control. Autistic clients are welcomed into services as long as they are willing to be changed. Goals are framed around becoming more typical, reducing behaviors, or improving social skills in ways that center neurotypical norms. Autonomy is overlooked in favor of compliance. Expressions of distress are pathologized instead of explored. The therapeutic alliance becomes less about support and more about correction. Care becomes conditional.
This pattern reveals a deeper truth about how inclusion is often understood and implemented. It is not grounded in a commitment to equity or justice. It is grounded in assimilation. Inclusion, in this model, becomes a strategy to preserve the status quo while appearing progressive. It allows institutions to claim they are inclusive without making meaningful changes to their structures, cultures, or expectations. It offers visibility without voice, access without power, and presence without agency.
For autistic people, the cost of this kind of inclusion is high. It requires constant masking, emotional labor, and self-suppression. It demands that we hide our stimming, censor our communication, and ignore our sensory discomfort in order to make others comfortable. It tells us that we can be here, but only if we leave parts of ourselves at the door. Over time, this conditional belonging takes a toll on our mental and physical health. It reinforces the idea that our needs are burdensome, our presence is disruptive, and our full selves are too much.
True inclusion cannot coexist with control. It cannot require conformity. It must begin with a recognition that different ways of thinking, feeling, moving, and existing are not problems to be solved but expressions of human diversity. It must be rooted in consent, not compliance. It must prioritize access, not assimilation. And it must shift the burden of change away from individuals and onto the systems that have historically excluded them.
This means reimagining what inclusion really looks like. It means asking not how autistic people can adapt to existing environments, but how those environments can transform to support and celebrate neurodivergent ways of being. It means designing classrooms, workplaces, and public spaces with flexibility, sensory awareness, and communication diversity built in from the start. It means trusting autistic people to define our own needs and lead our own advocacy. It means moving from awareness to action, from presence to power, from tolerance to justice.
Inclusion should not be a soft form of control. It should be an act of liberation. When we use the language of care to enforce compliance, we are not including people. We are managing them. And that is not equity. That is erasure. Autistic people deserve more than access to spaces where we are only valued for our ability to mimic neurotypical norms. We deserve to exist fully, visibly, and without apology. Inclusion must mean freedom. Otherwise, it is just another way to say no.
How to Make Inclusion Real (Not Conditional)
Redesign the environment, not the individual
Inclusion should not rely on autistic people adapting to inaccessible spaces. Change the environment to meet diverse needs instead of expecting conformity.Prioritize consent over compliance
Support should be offered with respect for autonomy. Inclusion is not about making people follow rules to be accepted—it’s about making sure everyone has agency.Honor communication differences
Neurodivergent communication is valid, even if it looks or sounds different. Make space for alternative forms of expression rather than correcting or suppressing them.Respect sensory needs without judgment
Don’t dismiss or minimize sensory accommodations. Lighting, sound, movement, and touch all matter—design with this in mind.Let autistic people lead
Center the voices and expertise of autistic people in inclusion efforts. We know what we need. Ask us, include us, and trust us.Stop rewarding masking
Masking often leads to burnout and disconnection. Create environments where people don’t have to hide who they are in order to be accepted.Measure inclusion by access and agency, not appearances
True inclusion is not about how well someone fits in—it’s about how freely they can be themselves without penalty.Reject "fixing" as a goal
Support should be about helping someone live fully, not about making them look or act more neurotypical.Reevaluate what professionalism, participation, and success look like
Make space for different timelines, expressions, and ways of showing up. Inclusion fails when it only accommodates those who can mimic the norm.If inclusion requires us to change who we are, it’s not inclusion
It’s control. And we deserve better.
Real inclusion begins when we stop expecting neurodivergent people to shrink, perform, or conform in order to be accepted. It requires an honest reckoning with the ways that control is disguised as care and how systems reward compliance over authenticity. If autistic people must abandon core parts of who we are to be considered worthy of support, then what is being offered is not inclusion at all. True belonging is only possible when environments are transformed, not when individuals are molded to fit them. Until we shift from managing difference to respecting it, inclusion will remain a promise unmet, and the people it claims to serve will continue to carry the cost.