What Running Events Gets Wrong About Inclusion (And What I Learned From a Conference That Got It Right)

I've spent years running events — conferences, workshops, professional gatherings of all kinds. In that time, I've thought carefully about who gets the microphone. Age. Gender. Ethnicity. Background. Experience level. I've worked to make sure the people on stage reflect the people in the room, and the people the room should be welcoming.

But there's a whole dimension of inclusion I'd never once considered. Not even close.

That changed when I attended The Digital Picnic's Comeback Conference.

From the moment I arrived, something felt different — but it took me a while to name it. There were headphones available at the door. Beanbags alongside regular chairs. A quiet room set aside from the main space. And in the centre of every table: a collection of fidgets. Squishy frogs, slinkys, spinners, textured rings.

My first instinct, honestly? Mild curiosity. That's a nice touch.

By the end of the day, it was something much bigger than a touch.

Somewhere during the keynotes, I realised I'd been keeping my own hands busy the entire time. Without thinking about it, I'd picked up a squishy frog and hadn't put it down. I was more focused, more present, and more engaged than I typically am sitting in a conference chair trying to look attentive.

That's when it hit me: this isn't a novelty. This is design. Intentional, thoughtful design that recognises how differently people's brains work — and creates an environment where more of them can actually thrive.

We talk a lot about neurodiversity, but what does it actually look like in a room full of professionals trying to absorb information?

For people on the spicy scale (those with ADHD, autism, sensory processing differences, anxiety, and the many overlapping combinations in between) a standard conference setup can be genuinely overwhelming or actively exclusionary. The fluorescent lights. The expectation of stillness. The noise levels between sessions. The inability to move or fidget without drawing stares. The one seating option that may or may not work for your body or your brain.

We design events for a default human that doesn't really exist — and in doing so, we quietly tell a significant portion of our audience that this space wasn't quite made for them.

I'm also writing this as the mum of a recently diagnosed AuDHD child. What The Digital Picnic team created so naturally at their conference is something we've been actively building into our home life over the past months. The tools, the accommodations, the understanding that one environment genuinely cannot suit all brains.

What struck me at the Comeback Conference was seeing those same principles applied so seamlessly to a professional context. Not as a special accommodation. Not as something set apart or apologised for. Just... part of how the space was designed. Normalised. Included.

Cherie Clonan and the TDP team didn't create a "neurodiversity-friendly" conference. They created a better conference. Full stop.

I left with a list that I'm already working through:

Sensory options at every table. Fidgets aren't childish. They're tools. Providing them signals that this room understands how people actually focus.

A quiet space. Not a back room with a chair in it — a genuinely considered space where someone can decompress, work, or simply exist without sensory input for a few minutes.

Seating variety. Not everyone does their best thinking in a standard conference chair. Where possible, offer options.

Clear communication in advance. Let attendees know what the environment will be like. Noise levels, lighting, layout. For someone who needs to plan their sensory capacity, this information matters enormously.

Slower transitions. The rushed shuffle between sessions is its own kind of stressful. A little more breathing room goes a long way.

Headphones, available and normalised. Whether someone uses them for sensory relief, to listen back to content, or simply to think — having them present removes the stigma of needing them.

Inclusion at events has for too long meant: who do we put on stage? That matters — it absolutely does. But true inclusion extends to every person in the room, and it asks a different question: can everyone here actually access this experience?

Neurodiversity affects roughly one in five people. That's a fifth of your audience who may be spending cognitive energy managing their environment rather than absorbing your content. A fifth of your speakers, your sponsors, your most engaged community members.

We can do better. And it turns out, doing better doesn't require a massive budget or an accessibility consultant — it requires curiosity, some squishy frogs, and the willingness to ask: who is this space really designed for?

Thank you, Cherie Clonan and the whole TDP team, for showing me what that looks like in practice. I won't be forgetting it.