Yesterday was my first day back from an approved medical leave (FMLA).
I walked in braced for awkwardness, the usual underhanded comments, maybe some catch-up meetings, maybe the slow, cautious re-entry that every HR policy pretends it supports.
Instead, I was immediately terminated.
No explanation. No conversation. Just a handoff to HR and a wall of refusal from leadership, like I was simply a problem they could delete from the system.
I’m sure it had nothing to do with the well-documented complaint I submitted for ongoing bullying and disability discrimination only weeks prior to my leave.
But I digress.
If you’re neurodivergent, you may recognize the vibe: the suddenness, the vagueness, the strategic silence. The part where you start replaying every email you’ve ever sent, every devious comment from your boss, every seven-day work week you pushed through without support, hunting for that secret rule you broke that no one told you existed.
Let’s be clear: This isn’t rare. It’s patterned.
When you’re autistic, the workplace often punishes the symptoms, not the work.
A lot of discrimination doesn’t look like cartoon villain behavior. It looks like:
-being labeled “not a culture fit” after you ask for clarity.
-being “coached” on tone and socialization, rather than performance.
-being criticized for communication differences that were previously tolerated (until you disclosed, or needed support).
-being denied accommodations that would cost nothing, but require extensive, lengthy back-and-forth conversations with a 3rd party company not meant to help you. Then you’re blamed for struggling without them.
-being managed out through “constructive termination” after requesting medical leave or documenting mistreatment.
It’s like death by one-thousand paper cuts…until it’s not paper cuts anymore. Until it’s a door, shutting you out for existing differently.
The numbers tell the same story (even when people don’t)
Employment outcomes for autistic people are consistently bleak – not because we lack ability, but because workplaces are often built like obstacle courses with invisible rules.
One major U.S. report on young adults found that only 58% of autistic young adults worked at any point in the years after high school, and nearly 42% never worked for pay at all during their early 20s.
And discrimination is not hypothetical. In a UK survey cited by the CIPD, 20% of neurodivergent employees reported harassment or discrimination at work because of neurodivergence.
Even beyond autism-specific stats, the broader disability employment gap is stubborn. In the U.S., BLS reported an employment-population ratio of 22.7% for people with a disability in 2024 (their measure across the full working-age population they track).
Different datasets measure different things (employment rate vs. “ever worked,” etc.), but the theme is depressingly consistent:
Workplaces are still not designed for us to survive, let alone thrive.
So what do you do if this happens to you?
This is not legal advice, just a practical “what I’d want someone to hand me” list.
- Write your timelines while it’s still fresh.
Dates. Names. What was said. What happened. Who witnessed it. Save it somewhere personal (not only on your work device). Include:- when you disclosed or requested accommodations.
- any denied accommodations.
- any performance accusations that were vague or new.
- any sudden policy enforcement that didn’t apply to others.
- any support offered to others that was not offered to you.
- the exact sequence of your termination day.
- Save everything you legally can.
Offer letters, job descriptions, performance reviews, HR emails, accommodations requests, doctor notes (if relevant), meeting invites, Teams messages, schedule changes…anything that shows shifting treatment. - Request your records in writing.
Ask for your termination letter, reason for termination with specific examples, and how they determined it. Keep it short and calm. The goal is a paper trail. - Know the clock might be running.
If you’re considering an EEOC charge (U.S.), the EEOC generally requires filing within 180 days, extended to 300 days in many places if a state or local agency also enforces similar laws.
That doesn’t mean you must file, but you do want to avoid accidentally timing yourself out while you’re in shock. - Get support that doesn’t gaslight you.
A trusted friend to help organize documents. An employment attorney consult. A disability advocacy organization. An organization, like The NeuroEquity Project, established to improve inclusivity in the workplace and support neurodivergent professionals. A therapist who understands autistic burnout and workplace trauma.
Because the hardest part of this experience isn’t only the job loss.
It’s the way systems can make you doubt reality.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “I’m next.”
Hear this: you’re not paranoid for noticing patterns. You’re not “too sensitive” for reacting to mistreatment. And you’re not broken because a workplace didn’t know or care to know what to do with a brain like yours.
You are living in a world that still confuses difference with defect.
And my stubborn, raging hope is that telling the truth in public makes it harder for this to keep happening in private.
In Part 2, I’m naming these demons properly: ableism, adverse employment action, disparate treatment, retaliation, constructive discharge, and failure to engage in the interactive process (that thing HR pretends is a real process). I’ll break down the pattern that shows up over and over when neurodivergent persons disclose, request accommodations, or take medical leave: retaliation dressed up as “accountability,” sudden performance concerns that materialize like a ghost the minute you need support, and procedural opacity, a clinical term for “we refuse to explain ourselves and hope you get tired and disappear.”
I’ll also translate the euphemisms (e.g., “culture fit,” “communication issues,” “professionalism,” “performance concerns,” etc.) into what they often function as for autistic and other neurodivergent employees: a socially acceptable way to punish difference and disability. And I’ll include a documentation checklist that assumes you’re exhausted, overstimulated, and one more vague insult from your supervisor from launching your laptop into the sun.
Until then, I’m doing what an autistic person does best: collecting evidence, connecting the dots, and refusing to be quietly erased.
XO
Emily
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