Neurodivergent Employees Face Microaggressions Every Day—Now It’s Illegal

Let’s talk about the weaponisation of the sigh.

It’s quiet. It’s subtle. It’s rarely documented. But when you’re neurodivergent, and especially when you’ve spent your entire adult life trying to hold yourself together in an environment built for someone else’s brain, that little passive-aggressive breath can hit like a slap.

A UK employment tribunal recently ruled in favour of a man with ADHD who was repeatedly sighed at by his manager. Not shouted at. Not mocked. Just... sighed at. A lot. The tribunal found that the manager’s behaviour amounted to disability discrimination. And if you’ve ever been on the receiving end of that kind of constant, low-level contempt, you’ll understand why this matters.

I’ve lived that reality. I’ve been sighed at in meetings when I asked questions. I’ve had the eye rolls. The heavy silences. The "just breathe louder than normal and he'll get the point" treatment. And I cannot tell you the amount of emotional damage it did, because I’m still tallying it. I didn’t know I was neurodivergent at the time. I just knew I was constantly overwhelmed, constantly apologising, constantly getting things wrong. I thought I was broken. And the sighing confirmed it. Every time.

See, sighing isn’t neutral. Not when it’s aimed at someone who’s struggling. Not when it’s used as a stand-in for saying, “You’re too much,” or “Why are you like this?” or “Can you just be easier to manage?” Because that’s what it’s really saying, isn’t it? It’s social punishment without accountability. It’s emotional feedback without the decency of words.

And it’s always deniable. That’s the trick. When you bring it up, if you dare to, they say things like “I didn’t mean anything by it,” or “You’re being sensitive.” And maybe you start to believe them. Maybe you start to wonder if you’re imagining things. Maybe you try even harder to “be normal,” whatever that means. You mask harder. You smile more. You go quiet. You try not to ask for help. You sit in your chair, totally still, trying not to be an inconvenience.

And eventually, you burn out. That’s how it goes.

For years I thought burnout came from the workload. But that’s only half the story. The real burnout comes from having to emotionally babysit other people’s reactions to your existence. It’s the constant double-checking, self-monitoring, over-correcting. It’s not the job. It’s the performance. The emotional labour of not triggering that sigh again.

The man in the tribunal had ADHD, like me. His timekeeping wasn’t great. He got distracted. He didn’t always stay glued to his desk. It was classic neurodivergent behaviour, and rather than try to understand what he needed, his manager got irritated. The kind of irritation that doesn’t scream. It breathes. Loudly. Over and over. Until the message is clear: you’re not wanted here.

Eventually, the man went off with work-related stress. He never came back.

This is why I campaign. Not for performative “neurodiversity celebration weeks” or vague policy statements. But for real, gritty, day-to-day change. Because the sighs matter. The rolled eyes matter. The tone matters. The tiny expressions of disapproval that never get written up, never make it to HR, never trigger a report, but slowly dismantle someone’s sense of worth.

If you work in HR or management and you’re serious about inclusion, this is what I want you to hear. It’s not enough to avoid obvious discrimination. You need to tackle the subtle stuff. The stuff you think no one notices. Because trust me, we do. We’ve been noticing since childhood.

The sighs, the side glances, the tired tone. They all add up. They all erode. And they’re not harmless.

They’re just quiet.

Until someone breaks.