Navigating Neurotypical Expectations: An Autistic Critique of 'Emotional and Cultural Intelligence' courses in Business Education
My autistic daughter and I are currently attending the same university, Western Governors University (WGU). She’s in the undergraduate Business programme, whilst I’m pursuing a Masters in Education, specifically in the English Language Learners programme, which ties directly into my upcoming book. Whilst our academic journeys overlap, our experiences of navigating the institution are strikingly different. I have a formal diagnosis of ASD (Level 2), which grants me access to Disability Services, a vital support system that can make a world of difference for neurodivergent individuals. My daughter, however, has chosen not to pursue a formal diagnosis, which leaves her unable to access these same services, despite facing many of the same challenges I do.
This difference came into sharp focus when she enrolled in “D082 - Emotional and Cultural Intelligence,” a required course in her programme. On the surface, the course aims to build communication and self-awareness skills, qualities prized in the business world. Yet, from the perspective of an autistic person, it feels like another instance of neurotypical frameworks being imposed without any consideration for neurodiversity. The course promises to prepare students for the business environment, but it centres entirely on developing skills that align with neurotypical expectations. For my daughter, the emotional weight of confronting this course is palpable—how do you navigate a curriculum designed to teach you to conform, without acknowledging the inherent value of your own neurodivergent identity? As I look at her situation and reflect on my own experiences, I can’t help but see the dissonance between these ‘emotional intelligence’ goals and the genuine inclusion that neurodivergent individuals desperately need, both in education and the workplace.
The Corporate Framing of Emotional and Cultural Intelligence
The “D082 - Emotional and Cultural Intelligence” course, like many of its kind, presents emotional and cultural intelligence as key business skills for ‘employability,’ essential for success in a professional environment. The focus is clear: students must develop their ability to communicate effectively, manage emotions, and understand cultural differences, all to fit seamlessly into the corporate world. But for autistic individuals, the framing of these skills as transactional tools feels reductive and exclusionary. The course prioritises the needs of neurotypical business environments, teaching students how to perform emotional and cultural competence in ways that ultimately serve corporate goals, rather than fostering a genuine understanding of human diversity.
For my daughter, and others like her, this course becomes an exercise in ‘othering.’ The emphasis on conforming to neurotypical norms leaves no room for the rich emotional and cultural experiences of autistic people, who may process and express emotions differently, or whose cultural identity might be intertwined with their neurodivergent ways of thinking. Autistic individuals quickly realise that there are no ‘windows and mirrors’ for them in this curriculum—no reflection of their lived experiences, and no window through which neurotypical peers can gain a true understanding of neurodiversity. Instead, they are left feeling alienated by a course that not only ignores their needs but implicitly suggests that their emotional and cultural intelligence is deficient or in need of correction.
This transactional approach strips emotional and cultural intelligence of its deeper value. It transforms EI and CI into performative acts to meet business standards rather than opportunities to celebrate and accommodate the full spectrum of human difference. In doing so, it perpetuates the exclusion of neurodivergent individuals from meaningful participation, not only in education but in the professional world they are being prepared for.
Emotional Intelligence and Autism: A Misfit?
The concept of Emotional Intelligence (EI) is built on assumptions that align closely with neurotypical modes of emotional processing and expression, but these frameworks often do not account for the ways in which autistic individuals experience emotions. For those of us autistics, emotional expression is neither uniform nor easily read by neurotypical standards, which leads to a significant disconnect when we are expected to conform to EI models. The course materials, like in “D082,” are designed with the expectation that students can and should master these neurotypical emotional competencies, but this assumption ignores the diverse ways emotions manifest in autistic individuals. This disconnect is more than just frustrating—it is a form of exclusion that can cause significant emotional distress.
As I’ve previously written in my review of “The Ultimate Guide to Autistic Burnout,” systemic pressures force autistic individuals into masking—hiding or suppressing their true selves to blend in with a world not built for them. EI frameworks often reinforce this kind of masking by implicitly pathologising autistic communication styles. For example, an autistic person’s difficulty with typical eye contact or reading subtle social cues might be misinterpreted as a lack of emotional intelligence, when in reality, it is simply a different way of navigating social interactions. The pressure to ‘improve’ these behaviours feeds into the harmful stereotype that autistic individuals are emotionally deficient, reinforcing the notion that we must change to fit neurotypical norms.
The consequence of this pressure is that many autistic students, like my daughter, are left feeling inadequate in the classroom, constantly striving to meet standards that were never designed with them in mind. This can lead to emotional exhaustion and burnout, as they internalise the belief that their natural ways of processing and expressing emotions are inherently wrong or insufficient. The emotional labour required to mask these traits—whether in class discussions or social settings—adds to the mounting stress, contributing to the type of burnout I’ve previously highlighted.
Autistic individuals who must navigate these neurotypical definitions of ‘emotional competence’ for academic success often find themselves in an impossible bind. On one hand, the need to succeed academically forces them to conform to EI frameworks that are at odds with their authentic selves. On the other hand, this conformity is draining, creating a conflict between meeting external expectations and preserving one’s mental and emotional health. Without recognition or accommodation for this difference, autistic students face the grim reality that excelling in such courses may come at the cost of their well-being.
The Absence of Neurodiversity in Cultural Intelligence
Cultural Intelligence, as framed in courses like “D082,” is often touted as essential for success in diverse, globalised business environments. However, the definition of CI presented in such courses is typically narrow, focusing on understanding differences in national, ethnic, or linguistic backgrounds whilst completely overlooking neurodiverse cultures, communication styles, and experiences. The omission of neurodivergent perspectives is not just a gap—it is a failure to acknowledge an entire population that experiences the world in profoundly different ways. For autistic individuals like my daughter and me, this exclusion is both frustrating and alienating. CI, as it’s typically framed, isn’t about celebrating and accommodating diverse ways of thinking, but about teaching conformity to corporate culture.
In essence, the version of CI taught in business schools like WGU’s course is designed to train individuals to operate within the constraints of capitalism, which has a long history of commodifying cultural differences it deems ‘useful’ whilst erasing those it sees as ‘unproductive.’ For neurodivergent individuals, this means that the focus isn’t on highlighting or respecting our cultural differences—our unique communication styles, sensory needs, or cognitive patterns—but rather on how well we can suppress these differences to fit into a homogenised, neurotypical corporate culture. The message is clear: if you want to succeed, you must mask your neurodivergent traits and adopt the emotional and cultural behaviours that align with neurotypical expectations. It’s not about recognising or valuing our differences; it’s about moulding us into something palatable for the corporate machine.
This capitalist approach to CI reinforces a troubling cycle: those who can successfully adapt to neurotypical and corporate norms are deemed ‘productive’ and valuable, whilst those who cannot, or choose not to, are sidelined or even discarded. The emphasis on cultural intelligence in these settings is not about fostering a truly inclusive workplace but about training individuals to mask their cultural or neurodivergent identities to avoid disrupting the status quo. This forces autistic individuals to expend immense emotional and mental energy to ‘pass’ as neurotypical, contributing to the burnout and alienation that so many in the autistic community experience, especially in professional settings.
Ignoring neurodivergent perspectives in CI has real consequences in the workplace. When businesses fail to recognise neurodiversity as a valid form of cultural difference, they create environments where neurodivergent employees must constantly adapt, without any reciprocal effort from the organisation to accommodate their needs. This not only leads to a lack of psychological safety but also perpetuates the marginalisation of neurodivergent individuals, who are often seen as problems to be managed rather than assets to be valued. The workplace becomes another arena where autistic people are forced to mask, to suppress their true selves in order to survive in environments that do not welcome their natural ways of being.
To truly include neurodivergent people in the conversation about CI, business schools and workplaces alike must broaden their understanding of what cultural intelligence means. This means recognising that neurodiversity is not a deficit to be managed but a different cultural lens through which individuals engage with the world. Businesses must move beyond the simplistic notion that cultural differences are limited to nationality or ethnicity, and embrace the idea that neurodivergent ways of communicating, thinking, and interacting are equally valid and deserving of accommodation and respect. Only then can we begin to create workplaces where true inclusion—not just performative diversity—exists, and where neurodivergent individuals are valued for their contributions, not despite their differences, but because of them.
The Problem with Personality Tests
Personality tests are often introduced in educational and corporate settings as tools for ‘self-discovery’ or ‘team-building,’ but for autistic individuals, especially gestalt language processors like myself and my daughter, these tests are far from benign. In courses like “D082,” they are presented as ‘neutral’ assessments of personal traits, aimed at helping students understand themselves and their potential ‘fit’ within professional environments. However, these tests are deeply problematic for anyone who doesn’t conform to the rigid neurotypical categories they were designed around. For autistic individuals, they can evoke feelings of intense anxiety, confusion, and frustration—especially for those of us who process the world through gestalts and lack the necessary scripts to navigate the ambiguous, often abstract, questions that form the basis of these tests.
Historically, personality tests have roots in eugenics and white supremacist ideologies, where they were used to categorise people and determine their worth or societal ‘fitness.’ These tests aimed to filter out the ‘undesirable’ traits of individuals and, by extension, entire groups of people. Though modern tests may seem innocuous, their legacy remains. In corporate environments, they are still used as tools to sift through candidates and reinforce certain behavioural norms. These tests don’t just assess personality traits; they are built to determine whether you can adapt to the rigid neurotypical, capitalist structures that corporations favour. For those of us who don’t fit these molds—whether because of neurodivergence, cultural differences, or cognitive processing styles—personality tests can feel like a mechanism of exclusion, a way to keep the corporate culture ‘pure.’
As an autistic gestalt processor, I experience anxiety every time I encounter one of these tests. The questions rarely make sense to me in a way that allows for honest answers. Many of us process language differently; we rely on pre-formed gestalts, or mental scripts, to navigate social situations. These tests, however, require us to answer abstract, often nonsensical questions like “Do you prefer working in a team or alone?” or “Do you enjoy new challenges?” They force us to choose between options that don’t feel right and that we can’t fully process. There are no clear scripts to fall back on, and the pressure mounts as I find myself wondering which of the ‘wrong’ answers will make me seem like a better fit.
The emotional toll of this is immense. We are not only grappling with the dissonance of trying to answer questions that don’t align with how we think but also carrying the weight of knowing that the outcome of these tests could determine whether we get a job—whether we are seen as valuable or discardable. After filling out hundreds of applications and still not having a job, these tests become yet another reminder of how we don’t fit into the neatly defined boxes created by neurotypical society. The anxiety of not knowing how to answer, of not having the scripts, builds up into a constant background hum of uncertainty and stress. It’s not just the test itself—it’s the knowledge that failing to navigate it properly could result in another rejection.
The reductive nature of these tests forces autistic individuals, particularly gestalt language processors, to mask—to pretend to be something we’re not in order to ‘pass’ as neurotypical. It’s yet another form of emotional labour, requiring us to suppress our natural ways of being in order to conform to societal expectations. For neurotypicals, these tests may be just a formality, but for us, they are a barrier that feels insurmountable, a reminder that we are required to change ourselves to survive in environments that weren’t designed for us.
Corporations often use personality tests to maintain a certain ‘corporate culture,’ screening out those who might disrupt their carefully curated environments. For neurodivergent individuals, this means we are judged not on our skills, talents, or unique perspectives, but on how well we can perform neurotypicality. Personality tests ask us to conform, to fit into predefined categories that are fundamentally at odds with who we are. And when we fail to meet these expectations, we are seen as unfit, unemployable—just another rejection in a long line of failures to meet standards that were never meant for us.
The emotional burden these tests place on autistic individuals is immense. Not only do they force us to navigate ambiguous, anxiety-inducing questions, but they also reinforce the idea that our way of thinking, feeling, and being is inherently wrong. If we want to succeed, we must change. We must mask. We must fit into a system that doesn’t value our unique ways of processing the world. Personality tests, rather than being tools for understanding, become instruments of exclusion—yet another hurdle that neurodivergent individuals must overcome to survive in a world that demands conformity over authenticity.
In critiquing the use of personality tests, we must recognise their historical and philosophical roots in exclusionary practices and their ongoing use as gatekeepers to maintain neurotypical corporate environments. For autistic individuals, especially gestalt processors, they are not just frustrating—they are deeply damaging, reinforcing a message that we don’t belong. If businesses and educational institutions are serious about inclusion, they must move beyond these reductive assessments and embrace a wider understanding of human diversity, allowing space for all neurotypes to thrive.
The Lack of Support for Neurodiversity in Business Education
One of the most glaring omissions in courses like “D082 - Emotional and Cultural Intelligence” is the total lack of training or support for understanding and accommodating neurodivergence. Despite the course’s emphasis on building emotional and cultural awareness, it does so entirely through a neurotypical lens, leaving neurodivergent students—particularly autistic individuals—without the support they need to succeed. Having searched the current course catalogue for the term “autism,” I was met with zero results. It’s as if autism, and by extension, neurodivergence, has no place in the educational framework of business schools.
This absence of recognition in business education has serious implications for autistic students as they prepare to enter the workforce. Without any systemic understanding of neurodivergent communication styles or processing differences, these students are left to advocate for their own inclusion. The burden falls entirely on us to request accommodations, explain our needs, and justify why we deserve to be included in an environment that isn’t built with our differences in mind. This kind of advocacy, on top of managing coursework and navigating professional settings, is emotionally exhausting.
Instead of creating inclusive environments where neurodivergent individuals can thrive, courses like “D082” reinforce the expectation that we must conform to neurotypical standards. Without any instruction on how to support neurodivergent employees, these programs are preparing a future workforce that is ill-equipped to accommodate the rich diversity of neurotypes. True inclusion must involve recognising and addressing these differences, not pretending they don’t exist.
Power, Threat, and Meaning: A Deeper Critique
The Power Threat Meaning Framework (PTMF) offers a powerful lens through which to critique the model of emotional and cultural intelligence presented in courses like “D082.” The framework asks not “What’s wrong with you?” but “What has happened to you?”—a shift that fundamentally challenges the assumptions of these business courses, which frame emotional and cultural intelligence as neutral skills. In reality, these skills are deeply tied to power structures embedded in corporate environments, where neurotypical norms are prioritised, and neurodivergent individuals are often excluded. For autistic students, the course is not just another requirement; it becomes a lived reminder of how the professional world often operates—where inclusion is performative, and autonomy is eroded by the constant expectation to mask.
As my daughter sits through the course, the guiding question become, “What meaning should I make from a course that is designed to exclude me?” This emotional and cultural intelligence model isn’t about fostering understanding across diverse human experiences—it’s about ensuring conformity to corporate norms. Autistic individuals who encounter this framework might internalise harmful messages, believing that their way of processing the world is somehow deficient. The threat is clear: in a world that demands neurotypicality, our differences are seen as barriers to success, not assets.
The result is often masking—adopting neurotypical behaviours to fit in—at the cost of our mental and emotional well-being. This constant self-suppression leads to burnout, as we expend energy trying to meet standards that disregard our needs. Courses like “D082” don’t just fail to include us; they actively perpetuate a system that damages our autonomy and well-being by reinforcing these power imbalances.
Final thoughts …
Navigating a neurotypical course like “D082” as an autistic student is emotionally exhausting and deeply frustrating. The course, framed entirely around neurotypical norms, leaves neurodivergent individuals feeling excluded, reinforcing the harmful message that we must change to succeed. The emotional toll of trying to fit into a system that doesn’t accommodate our differences is immense, often leading to masking and burnout.
The path forward requires a more inclusive, neurodiversity-affirming approach in both business education and the workplace. Emotional and cultural intelligence must be rethought, embracing all neurotypes and fostering genuine inclusion, so that diversity is not just tolerated, but celebrated.