My entire life has been the pursuit of an autistic-friendly lifestyle. After moving across multiple state lines, I moved to Salt Lake City to put down roots, build community and boulder at some breathtaking views. But how can I do that if I get rejected from every job after failing to mask appropriately in my interviews?
In one of my first jobs, I was told I needed to “seem more approachable” — code for masking my autistic traits so others wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. And I know I’m not alone.
According to a recent 2022-23 survey, only 17% of adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities, including autism, have a paid job in the community, while the majority are unemployed or struggling to find full-time work despite being qualified. Unemployment rates for neurodivergent adults in the U.S. can be as high as 30-40% and half of neurodivergent adults report discrimination during the hiring process. Interviews often reward personality more than competence, putting people like me at a systemic disadvantage.
Even in Salt Lake City, a place that prides itself on inclusivity, neurodivergent people are regularly left out of equity conversations. When I tried to understand our local employment landscape, I found a glaring void: Utah doesn’t even collect meaningful data on how neurodivergent individuals are progressing in the workforce. The state’s Division of Services for People with Disabilities (DSPD) offers an employment dashboard, but the data isn’t broken down by diagnosis. We don’t know how many of us are working, what industries we’re in or how many face barriers like I do.
This lack of data sends a message: If you’re not counted, you’re not included.
Utah’s recent policy decisions only deepen that exclusion. In January, state lawmakers voted against a proposal to require minimum wage for disabled workers. About 600 Utahns with a disability are still legally paid less than $7.25 an hour. In a state that prides upon economic growth, why are we so comfortable sidelining an entire community?
Without accommodations like flexible hours, sensory-friendly workspaces or alternative ways to communicate, neurodivergent people often face chronic unemployment and declining mental health. We’re constantly forced to choose between authenticity and acceptance — between being ourselves or being seen as “difficult.”
We mask. We hide our needs. We burn out.
But it doesn’t have to be this way.
Salt Lake City has the opportunity to lead where the state falls short. We can invest in skills-based hiring practices that assess a person’s ability and not their eye contact or skill at small talk. We can fund job coaching and occupational social work programs for autistic and neurodivergent job seekers. We can require that all organizations receive neurodiversity and disability bias training.
We can also demand data transparency. If Salt Lake City collected and published disaggregated employment data on neurodivergent people, we could finally see who’s being excluded and start doing something about it.
Neurodivergent people aren’t broken — we’re brilliant. When we’re supported, we bring hyperfocus, creative problem-solving and loyalty to our work. But we can’t contribute if we’re pushed out before we’ve even been given a fair shot.
I didn’t come to Salt Lake City just to survive. I came here to live — to work, to connect, to contribute. But I can’t do that in a system that expects me to hide my identity just to earn a living.
It’s time for workplaces and policymakers to stop asking neurodivergent people to change who we are. It’s time to change the systems that shut us out.
(Tehnyat J. Sohail) Tehnyat J. Sohail is an epidemiologist, researcher, social work graduate student and autistic advocate based in Salt Lake City.
Tehnyat J. Sohail is an epidemiologist, researcher, social work graduate student and autistic advocate based in Salt Lake City. She writes about neurodiversity, autism awareness and inclusive policy.
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