The cost of fitting in

I didn’t struggle with engineering. I struggled with the system around it.

I’m autistic. I also have ADHD. I was diagnosed in my mid-twenties, just as my career in engineering was beginning, and for a long time I thought the answer was to work harder, mask better, and push through. I thought if I could just find the right company, the right team, the right role, I’d finally feel like I belonged.

Instead, I kept finding myself in environments that made me feel like I was either too much or not enough.

On paper, I looked like I should fit engineering perfectly. I studied Chemical Engineering and then Petroleum Engineering, then moved into the energy industry in Aberdeen, working across a range of different scopes, teams and companies. But there was a common thread: however competent I was, the culture rarely felt built for people like me.

For a long time, I didn’t know why.

Where it started to feel wrong

I noticed that things other people seemed to take in their stride often felt much harder for me – meetings where I had to facilitate, present, listen, process, respond and take notes in real time; open-plan offices with constant noise, interruptions and fluorescent lighting; social expectations around small talk and networking.

Trying to fit in often meant hiding how much effort everything took.

I pushed myself into social situations because that’s what a “normal” engineer was meant to do. I went offshore despite the anxiety that came with unpredictability, sensory overload and lack of routine. Over time, I learned to shrink parts of myself – to dull my curiosity, rein in my enthusiasm, and “dumb myself down” to seem more acceptable.

Gender added another layer.

As a woman, and as an autistic woman, I wasn’t only navigating neurodivergence, but expectations around being warm, easy-going, and socially fluent.

Engineering often has more space for the stereotype of the intense, unconventional man than for a woman who communicates differently or doesn’t perform sociability in the expected way.

There is a long-standing culture in engineering shaped by toughness, self-reliance and relentless focus. Engineers Without Borders UK has described how rigid masculine norms have shaped the field for decades, creating a culture that can feel isolating for those who do not fit it. I felt that.

Clarity, and then reality

The lead-up to my diagnosis came through burnout, anxiety and a workplace situation that spiralled badly. I had a panic response while mobilising offshore, followed by months of miscommunication and misunderstanding. I was treated as a problem to be managed rather than a person to be understood. 

That experience led me to seek help from a psychologist, and what I thought was “I need support coping better” quickly turned into “you’re dealing with undiagnosed ADHD”. A year later, I was diagnosed with autism too.

That wasn’t a neat moment of clarity. It was shock, relief, grief, anger, validation and confusion all at once.

Suddenly, so much of my life made sense – school, university, friendships, work, burnout, the all-or-nothing way I moved through the world. Those diagnoses made me re-evaluate the environments I had been trying so hard to succeed in. They gave me language for things I had spent years blaming myself for, and helped me see that many of those struggles were not personal failings, but the result of systems that didn’t understand or support me.

But even after diagnosis, support was not guaranteed.

I had already learned to mask – too well. I worked longer, over-prepared, and forced myself through things that were costing me more than anyone could see. I went home and collapsed. I lost energy for friends, hobbies and normal life. I kept trying to prove I was capable enough to deserve support, not realising that the better you get at compensating, the less people believe you need help.

I was praised by managers and directors for my work. So when I asked for help, I was told there wasn’t really a problem. One manager said to me: “I don’t see you as being ADHD or autistic… I don’t even see you as a woman… I just see you as a strong, competent engineer.” It was intended as reassurance, but it landed as complete erasure.

There’s this idea that competence cancels out disability. But performing well does not mean support is unnecessary – it often means the support is long overdue.

I’ve experienced reasonable adjustments being ignored or pushed back on, inappropriate comments about autistic traits, and being challenged not on my work but on things like my communication style or the way I walk. These things can sound small in isolation, but they accumulate.

It wasn’t just me

Over time, those experiences started to add up – and I began to realise they weren’t just happening to me. I was hearing versions of the same story again and again.

Estimates suggest that around one in five engineers are neurodivergent. Yet many still describe environments that don’t recognise or support how they work.

– Neurodiversity in engineering and technology report, Institution of Engineering and Technology (2022)

In 2023, I conducted my own survey on neurodiversity at work in the energy industry and presented the results at the SPE Topsides UK Conference. Only 26% of respondents felt the industry accepted neurodiversity. Many described poor awareness, limited support, fear around disclosure, and neurodiversity being treated as the least important aspect of diversity.

Seeing the same patterns of misunderstanding, lack of support, and fear of discrimination reflected not just in my own experience, but in the data and in other people’s stories, changed how I thought about my own path.

I originally trained as a coach because I wanted tools to help myself – to understand my brain and stop burning out. But the more I learned about neurodiversity, employers’ legal responsibilities, workplace adjustments, and the gap between policy and practice, the more I saw how many other people were carrying the same confusion and exhaustion I had – and the more I realised I couldn’t keep doing two jobs: my actual engineering role, and the invisible labour of trying to advocate and survive in environments that didn’t want to change. 

So I made the decision to step away.

Not because autistic people can’t be engineers – we can. And not because I wasn’t good at my job – I was. But because I reached a point where I could no longer keep sacrificing my health just to keep trying to fit into environments that were never designed to support how I work.

Now I run my own coaching and consulting business. I support ADHD and Autistic adults to understand themselves, move past self-blame, and build ways of working that actually fit their brains. I also work with organisations, helping them to improve neuroinclusion through practical, day-to-day changes that make work more sustainable for everyone.

I do this because I don’t want anyone else to have to go through what I did.

A design problem

So, to anyone reading this: if everything feels harder than it looks, there’s probably a reason. If you’re constantly working harder than everyone else just to keep up, masking how you think, or feeling like everything takes more effort than it “should”, it’s worth asking whether the environment is actually working for you. Getting curious about how your brain works can change everything.

And to organisations: train your managers, properly. Self-advocacy only works if the person on the other side has the knowledge, confidence and willingness to respond well. Believing people when they tell you what they need – and acting on it – matters. So does making inclusion proactive, rather than relying on neurodivergent individuals to carry the responsibility for change.

This is bigger than any one person or workplace.

Engineering likes solving problems. It likes building better systems. So we should be able to face this honestly: if a profession attracts neurodivergent minds but keeps exhausting them, that is not a people problem. It is a design problem.

And design problems can be solved.

 

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A note from Engineers Without Borders UK

Engineering needs neurodivergent minds.

Rhiannon’s story highlights where the sector is falling short, but also where change is possible. By rethinking how we design workplaces, teams and cultures, we can create an engineering profession where people can contribute and thrive. If engineering is to meet the needs of all people, it must reflect the diversity of the communities it serves.

That’s the future we’re working towards.