Hidden Inclusion
Over the past decade, the language of “lived experience” has become increasingly prominent in funding, policy and corporate spaces. Funders reference it in strategies, charities highlight it in applications, employers cite it in diversity statements, and government reports acknowledge its importance. This shift is positive and overdue. However, there remains a gap that is rarely examined closely: the space between valuing lived experience as narrative and embedding it meaningfully within systems, leadership and decision-making.
In many settings, what is welcomed is the story rather than the structural insight that comes with it. There is a difference between inviting someone to speak about their experience and backing them to shape strategy because of it. Lived experience can be celebrated in theory while remaining peripheral in practice. It may be quoted, consulted or showcased, but not always resourced or positioned to influence direction. This distinction is subtle, but significant.
Inclusion often carries an unspoken expectation: credibility must look familiar. It must be expressed in recognised language, align with established frameworks and arrive neatly packaged. Yet lived experience, particularly when it intersects with trauma, neurodivergence or non-linear work histories, rarely arrives in a tidy form. It can be complex and uneven. It can carry insight that does not fit neatly within pre-existing categories or traditional career pathways.
Some build careers inside institutions, supported by salaries, training budgets and professional networks. Others build from necessity, outside formal structures, without back-office support or financial buffers. Both may be doing strategic and socially valuable work, but they are not perceived equally. The former is often described as innovative leadership; the latter can be seen as risky, inconsistent or difficult to categorise. This is where inclusion can become selective rather than systemic, shaped by comfort as much as by principle.
There is also a paradox in how funding operates. Support may exist for those receiving services, but individuals building platforms, initiatives or enterprises from lived experience can find themselves ineligible because they are no longer considered participants. If you build something in response to exclusion, you can fall between categories: not institutional enough to be seen as credible, not vulnerable enough to qualify for support, not polished enough to reassure decision-makers. That grey space is rarely discussed, yet it is where many lived-experience leaders operate. It is also where much quiet innovation happens.
Another dimension that is often overlooked is the role of structure. For some people, particularly those who are neurodivergent, external structure is not merely helpful; it is enabling. Routine, defined roles, clear expectations and administrative containment create the conditions in which strengths can flourish. Without these, capability can be misread as inconsistency. With them, contribution becomes visible and sustainable. Structure is not control; it is scaffolding.
This matters in a workforce increasingly mediated by digital systems and AI-driven recruitment tools. If employment systems assume linear careers, uninterrupted histories and polished self-presentation, they risk filtering out those whose contribution does not follow conventional patterns. Technology may increase efficiency, but without intentional design it can also amplify bias and narrow definitions of credibility. Automated systems tend to reward similarity and penalise deviation. When those systems are trained on historical patterns, they risk replicating historical exclusions.
From the outside, someone may appear included: running an initiative, speaking publicly, connected to networks and conversations. Internally, they may be carrying disproportionate structural load without institutional backing, absorbing financial and cognitive risk that others do not see. I think of this as hidden inclusion: visible participation without sustainable support. It can look like progress, while remaining precarious.
As conversations intensify around later-life employment, economic inactivity and AI reshaping recruitment, this issue becomes more urgent. We risk building new systems that quietly harden old exclusions while believing we are modernising. Inclusion that remains performative or surface-level will not withstand the pressures of technological acceleration and labour market change.
If lived experience is to move beyond storytelling, it must be recognised as expertise. That means backing lived-experience leaders into strategic roles, funding infrastructure rather than one-off participation, designing recruitment systems with non-linear careers in mind and understanding that credibility does not always arrive polished. It also means accepting that insight gained through adversity can inform governance and design, not just empathy.
Inclusion is not only about representation; it is about power, structure and sustainability. It requires institutions to examine not just who is invited into the room, but who is supported once inside it, and who is trusted to shape what happens next.
The question is not whether we value lived experience. The question is whether we are prepared to design around it, invest in it and allow it to influence the systems we build. Until then, hidden inclusion will remain the norm: people doing the work, carrying the risk, generating the insight, while the systems that could support them remain designed for someone else