Employment and I have had an interesting relationship—one that could best be described as “complicated,” in the way social media labels dysfunctional partnerships. Statistically speaking, I’m in the minority. According to the National Autistic Society, only 16% of autistic adults are in full-time paid employment. While I’ve technically been part of that small percentage, it’s never been a smooth ride. My experience has been more of a survival strategy than a sustainable path—navigating a system not built with minds like mine in mind.

The numbers surrounding neurodivergence are striking. Neuroscientist Nicole A. Tetreault, in her book Insight into a Bright Mind, lays out some eye-opening statistics: Around 10% of children are identified as gifted, 9.4% have ADHD, 1.69% of the population is autistic, up to 10% have dyslexia, and somewhere between 4-20% are dysgraphic. Taken together, these various neurotypes account for almost 40% of the population. And when you factor in the overlap—because neurodivergence doesn’t like to exist in neat little boxes—a conservative estimate suggests that about 20% of people fall outside of neuronormative expectations.

So, if neurodivergence is this common, why is employment such a barrier? Why do workplaces seem so ill-equipped to integrate minds that process, structure, and engage with the world differently? More importantly, why do so many of us end up feeling like we have to contort ourselves into impossible shapes just to fit?

For me, the answer has never been about ability. It has always been about environment. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a mismatched environment is a slow, grinding force—one that can erode even the most passionate, capable person down to a shell of their potential.

Looking back at my career trajectory, I can’t help but acknowledge that it has been anything but conventional. In a world where only about 16% of autistic adults are employed, my journey has defied odds—not necessarily because of an inherent ability to navigate professional spaces, but because of a blend of discipline, privilege, and sheer determination.

Several factors contributed to my ability to stay employed: my disciplined background as a gymnast, which ingrained a relentless work ethic; the unwavering support of my family, who gave me the scaffolding to push forward; my intellectual giftedness, which allowed me to adapt and learn quickly; and, perhaps most crucially, my adeptness at masking. In many ways, I became a shape-shifter, learning the unspoken rules of workplace culture and adjusting accordingly.

Yet, despite these advantages, I have often found myself restless in my professional life, sensing a gnawing dissonance between my capabilities and the roles I occupied. My jobs—while meaningful in their own ways—rarely engaged me at the level I craved. They were often driven by necessity, a means to provide for my family and meet financial obligations rather than a pathway to personal fulfillment.

Hospitality became the backbone of my career, a field where I could lean into structure and rhythm. While the social dynamics were always a challenge, the operational flow of restaurants made sense to me. There was a process, a system, a predictability I could rely on. And so, in every role I took on, I sought to carve out meaning, to find a way to contribute with purpose. Because if I was going to pour my energy into something, it had to matter.

Working in restaurants was a paradox. On one hand, the social dynamics often felt like an unsolvable puzzle, a complex dance of small talk, unspoken hierarchies, and interpersonal nuances that didn’t always make sense to me. On the other hand, the structured routines, clear roles, and process-driven nature of the job provided a level of predictability I could thrive in.

Despite the social challenges, I excelled in restaurant operations. The efficiency of the workflow, the logic behind inventory management, the rhythm of service—I could see the patterns and optimize them. And I did. I worked my way up the ranks of restaurant management, not just because I was competent, but because I had a deep desire to have a voice in how things were run. I quickly became fluent in the language of management, but I never fully conformed to the way things had always been done.

My methods often deviated from my peers. I worked faster, I prioritized quality, but most of all, I valued fairness—something that wasn’t always inherent in traditional management structures. In my early years as a server and bartender, I had experienced firsthand the fallout of poor leadership: favoritism, inefficiency, and disempowered staff who felt disposable. I knew I could do better.

When I eventually stepped into management, my mission became clear: to build a system that was both efficient and equitable. I wanted an organizational structure where people felt valued, where their input mattered, and where decisions weren’t dictated from the top down but made with a sense of collective responsibility.