I live with a chronic neurological condition that doesn’t make headlines or draw sympathy, but it changes everything. Some mornings I rise with hope. Other days, I rise through pain.

For years, I’ve been called driven. A country girl with ambition and focus. The one who always knows what she wants. Young, darker-skinned, and learning that in a city where your family name and connections open doors, your credentials alone aren’t always enough. But when the symptoms worsened, and I asked for simple accommodations like working from home on difficult days, my voice was minimised. Not refused outright, but slowly faded through missed meetings, delayed replies, and empty promises.

My brain works differently too. I process information in ways that don’t always align with traditional expectations. I need quiet spaces to think deeply, clear communication rather than subtext, and time to recharge after intense social interactions. In the office, I might seem too direct or miss unspoken cues that others navigate effortlessly. These aren’t flaws, they’re just different ways of being human. But in workplaces that prize conformity over authenticity, different becomes difficult.

The challenges compound when leadership becomes passive. I’ve watched people in power care more about appearances than the people they’re meant to lead. And I’ve felt the weight of not just illness, but invisibility — the compound burden of being seen as both too much and not enough, depending on which part of my identity is inconvenient that day.

So I wrote. Not to complain, but to make it clear: this isn’t just about me. It’s about people like me. Those who come from less, who fight through more, and are still treated as disposable the moment their bodies say “rest” or their minds ask for understanding.

I was told by a therapist (no less) that I complain too much about work. That hurt deeply. But it also made something clear. When you’re young and darker-skinned and advocating for yourself, “complaining” becomes the label for speaking your truth. When you think differently, asking for what you need becomes “being difficult”. If I don’t speak, who will?

This is a call to those in power. Adapt your systems. Rethink your policies. Include care, not as an afterthought, but as a foundation. Understand that the people who need accommodations aren’t broken; they’re human beings navigating a world designed without them in mind.

And this is a call to those silently enduring. You don’t have to wait until you break to be heard. Your voice matters. Your needs are valid. Your different ways of moving through the world aren’t deficits to hide but strengths to honour.

We deserve space. To live, to work, to be exactly as we are. I’m holding that space now, not just for myself, but for all of us trying to survive systems that weren’t built with us in mind. For the young ones questioning if they belong. For the darker-skinned women fighting to be heard. For the neurodivergent minds seeking understanding. For those of us who are from the unknown and are still fighting to be seen as more than our limitations, more than our accommodations, more than the sum of what makes us different.

The revolution isn’t asking permission for what we need. The revolution is in building workplaces where asking isn’t necessary. Where inclusion lives in the foundation, not in the footnotes.

Aya Campbell tells the story of a young woman navigating chronic illness and emotional health in a demanding work culture, and advocates for compassion, better policy, and the courage to speak out, not just for ourselves, but for those who remain silent.