The Fight for Inclusion Isn’t Over - Even If It Feels Like We’re Losing Ground

I literally don’t know what to say.

To my clients. To my students. To my own children. To my nephews.

I cannot comprehend what is happening right now. The erasure of diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) efforts is unfolding at a speed I never imagined. Programs are being dismantled. Funding is disappearing. The trainings and initiatives that sought to create safer, more inclusive spaces are being wiped away under the guise of progress.

And I am heartbroken.

In the past few weeks, I have found myself in tears more times than I can count. My workshops; many of which fell under the DEI umbrella, have been canceled. The same organizations that once invited me to teach, to speak, to train, are now retreating in fear.

I look at the people I serve; my neurodivergent clients, my students, my own children, and I see the shift in their eyes. Eyes that once held hope and promise are now filled with fear and uncertainty.

Young neurodivergent professionals are questioning if they should disclose their diagnoses. College students are wondering if seeking accommodations will make them a target. Even my own children are asking if they need to hide parts of themselves to stay safe in this shifting landscape.

How do I answer them?

How do I tell them that 85% of college-educated Autistic adults were already under or unemployed even with the awareness and legal protections that existed before?

What happens when those safeguards disappear? When understanding is stripped away, when the services meant to support them are erased?

I have spent my time toggling between two states: rage-fueled defiance and a crushing sense of despair.

Do I fight? (That answer is always yes—thank my heritage for that.)

Do I toe the line and shrink into the background? (Never going to happen. I am about as compliant as a neurodivergent kid trying to line up the seam of a sock—it’s just not in my nature.)

But I won’t lie. This hurts.

I am watching former students—LGBTQ+, neurodivergent, disabled—reach out to me, terrified of what comes next. Some don’t even want to leave their homes. I see the weight of fear settle into their shoulders, and I don’t know how to respond.

All I can do is hold onto what remains.

I am beyond grateful for my practice and the incredible clients who trust me to help them navigate their journeys. I am grateful for the parents who hire me to support their neurodivergent children, ensuring they feel seen, valued, and capable.

And I am profoundly grateful for my students—the ones who show up, who engage, who bring their whole selves to the classroom, even when the world outside makes that feel impossible. Every class I teach is a space where they know—without a doubt—that their crazy, tattoo-loving, faux-hawk-wearing professor has their back. That in this room, in this space, they are safe. They are seen. They matter.

And I am equally grateful to the institutions that allow me the privilege of doing this work. For every administrator, department chair, and faculty member who sees the value in creating inclusive learning environments and who continues to extend me the opportunity to stand in front of a classroom—thank you.

This is not lost on me.

The classroom—the very place I once felt invisible, stupid, and unsupported—is now where I feel most at home. It is where I can fight the hardest to ensure that no one else has to feel what I once did.

I don’t know what will happen next.

But I do know this:

As long as I have breath in my lungs, as long as someone gives me the privilege of teaching, of speaking, of advocating—I will not stop.

And to the little girl inside me, the one who once felt unseen, I made you a promise in 2023 when I stepped fully into this work:

You will never be invisible again.

And neither will they.

I got you. I got them. And somehow, we will get through this.

For now, I will do what I do best—push boundaries, set examples, and use what I can: my voice, my pen, and my presence to make sure that we are seen, heard, and valued.

I may not hold political power. I don’t sit in boardrooms making policy or in government chambers drafting legislation. But I do have something just as powerful—the ability to speak truth, to write what must be said, and to hold space for those who feel like the world is closing in on them.

If you need support. If you have a story to share. Please reach out; I got you.