By: Mark Freund - Office Manager
Autism Awareness Month is over, which means I’m officially off script. No more monthly themes. No coordinated campaigns. No pressure to color inside the lines. Not that I ever did. I’m not great at staying inside the lines. I’m not even great at acknowledging that lines exist.
Now I just get to write what I want, when I want, because I’m the only one who knows how to update the website. There’s no editorial committee. There’s no approval pipeline. It’s just me, a half-empty Coke Zero, and my browser tabs that I absolutely will not close. Ever. I am the chaos. I am the webmaster. I am free.
For anyone new: I’m autistic, diagnosed in my late twenties. The kind of autistic that can spend six hours rebuilding a spreadsheet but will absolutely ignore a ringing phone on principle. I’m not a therapist, but I co-own Authenticity Counseling with my wife, who is. She’s the reason this place exists. I keep the backend from catching fire. That includes billing, tech, insurance, and general emotional air traffic control.
Also, this is still a part-time gig. I have a full-time job that involves minimal human contact and maximum spreadsheets. It’s the dream.
So now that we’ve established I’m not a professional blogger or licensed anything, unsupervised, and in possession of root access, let’s talk about DEI.
Diversity. Equity. Inclusion. If you work in a corporate environment, you’ve probably seen these letters printed across a banner at an all-hands meeting, sandwiched between some vague “culture values”.
This isn’t that.
What We Mean When We Say DEI
Let’s start by saying what it’s not: DEI, for us, is not a decorative label. It’s not a checklist. It’s not jargon. It’s not “We welcome everyone,” with an invisible asterisk that says, “as long as they act like us, talk like us, or make us feel comfortable.”
DEI, here, is about something much more practical. DEI, for us, means you can walk through the front door, be completely yourself, and not have to downplay, translate, or erase any part of your identity just to be allowed in. It means your identity doesn’t have to be translated into something more palatable before it’s valid.
We don’t see your identity as a liability to work around. We see it as part of your humanity. We believe your context matters (race, gender, disability, neurodivergence, trauma, orientation, culture) and we aren’t asking you to cut any of it out in order to fit into the therapeutic mold.
None of that is “extra.” It’s just human. If it affects how you move through the world, we care about it. If you’ve been carrying it quietly for years, you don’t have to anymore. That’s not fluff. That’s the baseline.
What It Actually Looks Like
You might be wondering what this means in actual day-to-day operations, aside from “we think big thoughts.” Fair question. Here’s what it looks like in practice:
Our intake forms don’t assume you’re straight, monogamous, or able-bodied.
Our therapists introduce themselves using names, pronouns, and sometimes pieces of their identity that shape how they work. They don’t pretend to be identity-neutral blank slates who were grown in a lab.
Our bios are written like humans, not robots trained on vague professional jargon and inspirational quotes.
Behind the scenes, we talk about power, privilege, systems, and access, about who is being left out and how we fix that.
It looks like accountability. Like slowing down when we need to. Like asking better questions and not getting defensive about the answers. It looks like effort. Sometimes awkward effort, but effort nonetheless.
Is it perfect? No. Is it supposed to be? Also no. That’s not the goal. The goal is to care more about the reality of our clients than the image of our practice. And to keep adjusting the system until it fits real people instead of expecting people to reshape themselves to fit the system.
It’s not perfect. We’re not perfect. But we are intentional. And we care more about lived experience than lip service.
What It Doesn’t Look Like
It’s not slapping a Pride flag on everything and calling it a day. It doesn’t look like a stock photo of a multiracial group of people laughing around a salad.
We don’t do “inclusivity theater.” We don’t say “we see you” and then treat your identity like a footnote. We don’t put marginalized people in the position of explaining everything while everyone else just nods and waits for the moment to pass.
We also don’t say things like “we don’t see color” because first of all, you should, and second of all, that’s not inclusive, it’s lazy. We see differences. We care about them. We design around them. That’s what makes this real.
If your version of DEI can be copied and pasted into any generic HR email and no one notices, it’s probably not working.
We don’t have a corporate inclusivity playbook. We just have people who show up like real humans and give a damn. People who know that holding space is great, but equity takes more than kind words.
What It Feels Like (Ideally)
This one’s a little harder to explain, but I’ll try.
When DEI is real, it should feel like being able to breathe out. It should feel like walking into therapy without having to rehearse your backstory in a way that makes it “digestible.”
You should be able to come in with your grief, your neurodivergence, your culture, your exhaustion, your burnout, your family dynamics, your trauma, your queerness, your religious beliefs, your questions, your quiet, your mess. And know you won’t be treated like a problem to solve.
It should feel like someone sat down, looked at the system you live in, and said, “Let’s work with that, not against it.”
And if you’re still figuring out who you are? That’s welcome too. No clarity required. No branding necessary.
Because DEI, the way we practice it, means you don’t have to perform to be accepted. You don’t have to be articulate, or agreeable, or even sure. You just have to show up and be you. (Yes, even the “stupid” parts. Especially the stupid parts. That’s where the gold is.)
TL;DR
DEI isn’t a slogan. It’s a maintenance plan. It’s not just values on a wall, it’s what happens when no one is watching. It’s not polished. It’s not always smooth. It’s not always comfortable. But it’s honest.
We’re not inclusive because it’s trendy. Not because it looks good on a brochure. Because it’s core to our ethics and our humanity. Because people deserve to feel seen, heard, respected, and safe. Not just in theory. In practice.
It’s what makes therapy real instead of performative. It’s what makes this place safe instead of just polite.
This isn’t a series. I have no idea what I’ll write next. I just know April is over, the theme month guardrails are gone, and this blog is now a semi-regular brain spill.
I’ll be back the next time I hyperfocus and forget that I don’t actually enjoy being emotionally sincere in public.
True as can be.