Inclusion for Whom? Navigating 'Inclusive' Activities as an Autistic Person
As an autistic person, stepping into a meeting room that begins with so-called “inclusion activities” or ice breakers often feels like walking into a space designed with everyone but me in mind. These activities, intended to foster connection and a sense of belonging, frequently have the opposite effect. Instead of feeling included, I’m pushed into choosing from arbitrary categories—whether it's a “direction” or “personality type”—that don’t account for my way of processing or interacting with the world. The categories tend to be built on neurotypical assumptions about how people relate to each other, and in trying to participate, it feels like I’m being forced into a box that simply doesn’t exist for me.
When I’m asked to pick a direction that best represents how I work (see above), I don’t see myself in any of them. My brain works holistically, processing deeply and looking for patterns, but the options tend to reflect more linear or traditional ways of thinking. The end result? Alienation. Instead of fostering inclusivity, these activities underscore how different I am from the group, creating an acute sense of not belonging. They’re supposed to bring the team together, yet for those of us whose cognitive styles fall outside the neurotypical framework, they only reinforce how much of an outsider we are. It’s not just awkward; it’s genuinely exhausting.
This frustration isn’t limited to ice breakers—it reflects a broader issue in how educational systems and inclusion initiatives approach neurodiversity. Take the CLEE equity statement, which beautifully outlines a vision of educational equity. But when you’re autistic, you can’t help but be skeptical. They speak about “unleashing the unlimited potential of every child,” but what about neurodiverse students? Sure, disabilities are mentioned, but in reality, most classrooms feel like they were designed for neurotypical students, with just a few accommodations sprinkled in for diversity’s sake.
The idea of “safe, transparent, courageous environments” is great in theory, but what counts as “safe” for the neurotypical majority can be overwhelming and exclusionary for someone like me. Group work, for instance, is often framed as the holy grail of inclusion, yet for many autistic people, it’s just a recipe for overstimulation and frustration. Until systems, from classrooms to meeting spaces, truly account for all ways of thinking and interacting, “inclusion” remains a lofty ideal that doesn’t always include everyone.
When the CLEE Compass Model is Thrust Upon You
So you begin the meeting. The facilitator mentions an “inclusion activity” meant to get to know members of the team. Out comes the CLEE Compass Model worksheets. Ah, the CLEE Compass Model. Because obviously, when you boil down human interaction into just four neat little boxes, it’s totally going to capture the entire spectrum of human experience, right? Let’s take a sarcastic stroll through the model (shown in the above graphic), shall we?
North: “Let’s Just Do It! (Why bother thinking things through?)”
Ah, yes. North—the heroes of the room. Because who needs careful thought or planning when you can just do? Plans are for suckers. Dive in headfirst, make all the decisions without asking questions, and hey, if it all goes wrong, at least you got there quickly. Why waste time on considering anyone else’s perspective when action is clearly the only thing that matters?
East: “Big Picture, but Details? Nah!”
Welcome to the land of visionary thinking where no one bothers with the pesky details. Who needs those, am I right? East folks are here to gaze into the horizon like philosophical gurus, speculating wildly about possibilities. Never mind if the bridge collapses because no one checked the blueprints—at least we had a nice vision of where the bridge could have gone.
West: “But Wait! I Have 6,000 Questions!”
Meet West, your friendly neighborhood detail-obsessed micromanager. They won’t start anything without a ten-page essay outlining the exact steps, the purpose, and the ingredients for success. Spontaneity? Never heard of it. And heaven forbid anyone moves forward without answering every single one of their questions in triplicate. But, hey, they’re making sure your hypothetical house is earthquake-proof, even if you never end up building it.
South: “Can We Just Hug It Out?”
Ah, South. The overly touchy-feely direction no one ever chooses. Because, you know, making sure everyone’s emotions are validated and every single voice is heard? Clearly an impediment to getting anything done. Who needs feelings when you could just bulldoze through? In fact, why bother caring about inclusion or emotional safety at all? South is that quiet corner everyone avoids because, obviously, feelings and relationships are just so last century.
Where’s the Direction for Neurodiverse People? Oh Right, There Isn’t One!
Because clearly, we fit so easily into these categories, don’t we? Maybe there’s a hidden “Northeast” for people who need time to process but also see patterns? Or maybe a “Southwest” for people who can’t stand the overwhelming sensory noise of a chaotic room and just want some peace to think? Oh wait, no, we’re just supposed to quietly pick the corner we most vaguely align with and try not to make it weird. After all, emotional regulation and unique processing needs are totally unnecessary, right? Good luck fitting into these tidy neurotypical boxes!
So, thanks CLEE, for making sure absolutely no one feels excluded—unless you think, process, or interact in any way that’s not on this magical compass.
The Right to Opt Out
For many autistic individuals, the freedom to opt out of inclusion activities designed without us in mind is essential for true inclusion. When “inclusion” activities fail to account for neurodiverse needs—whether by ignoring sensory sensitivities, overlooking processing differences, or enforcing participation in uncomfortable social dynamics—being forced to engage can actually amplify feelings of isolation rather than fostering connection.
The reality is, inclusion can’t be a one-size-fits-all approach. Activities that work for neurotypical participants may cause sensory overload or anxiety for others. In these cases, offering the freedom to opt out is not about rejecting inclusion; it’s about honoring individual differences and recognising that real inclusion allows for diverse ways of participating—or not participating—without judgment.
Many “team-building” or “ice breaker” activities, for example, rely on fast-paced interaction, small talk, or abstract personality categorisations that can feel completely alien to an autistic brain. Forcing someone into these activities under the guise of inclusion denies their need for autonomy and creates environments that prioritise uniform participation over meaningful engagement. The option to respectfully opt out, or engage in alternative ways, empowers individuals to manage their comfort levels without being stigmatised for doing so.
True inclusion must involve acknowledging that sometimes participation in these activities is more exclusionary than inclusive for neurodiverse people. This includes recognising the right to say, “No, this isn’t for me,” whilst still valuing their contributions to the broader group. This shift not only promotes genuine respect for neurodiverse experiences but also creates spaces where individuals feel safe and seen on their own terms. Inclusion, by definition, should offer multiple paths to participation—or non-participation—based on individual needs.
Final thoughts …
For many of us, so-called “inclusion activities” often achieve the opposite of their intended goal. Instead of creating spaces where we feel connected, these activities frequently leave us feeling excluded, overwhelmed, and misunderstood. The fast pace, unspoken social expectations, and arbitrary categories often used in ice breakers can be exhausting for those of us who process information differently or need more time to adjust to new environments. It’s as if these activities were designed with everyone in mind—except us.
What’s most frustrating is the lack of flexibility in these environments. When opting out isn’t presented as a legitimate choice, it reinforces the notion that inclusion is only available on neurotypical terms. Real inclusion should mean respecting the diverse ways in which we engage—or don’t engage—with social situations. Allowing the freedom to opt out of activities that aren’t designed with our needs in mind is not about rejecting inclusion; it’s about ensuring that inclusion is authentic, respectful, and adaptable to everyone’s needs, including neurodiverse individuals. True inclusion recognises that participation comes in many forms, and sometimes the most inclusive act is allowing space for difference … and, ICTYMI, school’s back in session and so are professional development sessions for teachers …