When Gregg Wallace cited his autism diagnosis after accusations of inappropriate workplace behaviour, the public reaction was swift—and split.
Some defended him, saying his explanation showed self-awareness. Others felt it was a deflection, a way to dodge responsibility while shielding himself with a medical label. After all, why on earth would autism make him think sexually charged behaviour towards women—dozens of them, just that we know of— was okay? This moment has reignited a bigger debate: when does a neurodivergence diagnosis explain behaviour, and when is it being used to excuse it?
Diagnosis doesn’t cancel out accountability.
Having a diagnosis—autism, ADHD, or otherwise—can help explain certain behaviours. It can offer much-needed context and help other people understand challenges that aren’t always visible. However, it doesn’t erase responsibility, especially in professional settings where there’s a power dynamic involved.
What frustrated many people about Wallace’s comments is the sense that the diagnosis was rolled out after the fact, almost as a shield. The concern isn’t about whether he’s autistic. It’s about whether he’s using that fact to avoid the kind of reflection and ownership that other people are held to (and rightfully so).
Timing changes everything.
There’s a big difference between disclosing a diagnosis early on, especially in a workplace context, and using it retroactively to explain poor conduct. When it only comes up after you’ve been called out, people are going to question your motives. In Wallace’s case, the diagnosis wasn’t something he had publicly tied to his workplace behaviour until accusations surfaced. That timing, for many, made it feel more like damage control than transparency.
People are wary of weaponised vulnerability.
We’re in a time when more people are opening up about mental health and neurodivergence, and that’s largely a good thing. But when public figures use personal challenges as a way to shut down criticism, it risks turning vulnerability into a defence strategy. This is where backlash often comes from. Not because people lack empathy, but because they see the emotional narrative being used to escape tough conversations rather than open them up.
It’s possible to be neurodivergent and still wrong.
Having autism doesn’t make someone immune to messing up. In fact, most neurodivergent people will tell you they’re constantly learning, adjusting, and holding themselves accountable, often more so than anyone realises. The problem is when someone implies their diagnosis means they couldn’t possibly have acted inappropriately. That’s not how neurodivergence works. Everyone is still responsible for how they behave, especially when it impacts other people.
Public figures set the tone, whether they mean to or not.
When someone with a platform uses their diagnosis to explain away alleged bad behaviour, it doesn’t just affect them. It shapes how the public talks about autism, ADHD, and other conditions. This is why the reaction has been so charged. People worry that Wallace’s comments might reinforce the harmful idea that neurodivergent people are difficult, inappropriate, or unaware, which isn’t fair or accurate.
Many autistic people have called it out, too.
One of the loudest criticisms hasn’t come from neurotypical observers. It’s come from autistic adults who feel that Wallace’s framing damages hard-won understanding. They say his comments feed into outdated stereotypes and make it harder for other people to be taken seriously. It’s a reminder that diagnoses don’t belong to one narrative. For many, being autistic means working harder to be understood, not using it as a reason for harm to go unchecked.
Empathy isn’t the same as exemption.
There’s a difference between offering someone empathy for their struggles and giving them a free pass to behave however they want. Most people are capable of holding both truths: that someone might genuinely find social interactions difficult, and also that they need to take accountability when things go wrong. The problem comes when empathy is used to shut down valid concerns or dismiss the experience of other people who’ve been affected. That’s when trust gets lost.
Workplace culture still matters.
Whatever someone’s neurological makeup, the workplace has expectations—respect, boundaries, and professionalism. These aren’t suspended just because someone finds social cues difficult or says the wrong thing occasionally. The goal isn’t to shame neurodivergence. It’s to recognise that everyone in a shared space has a right to feel safe and respected. Making space for difference also means holding space for consequences when lines are crossed.
Not all bad behaviour is a trait.
Sometimes, people conflate rudeness, arrogance, or dominance with neurodivergence, and that’s where things get murky. Traits like bluntness or awkwardness are not the same as creating an uncomfortable or toxic environment. When public figures blur those lines, it becomes harder to have honest conversations about what neurodivergence actually looks like, and what it doesn’t excuse.
The real damage? It makes honest disclosure harder for everyone else.
When people feel that diagnoses are being used as shields, it makes everyone else more cynical or suspicious of those who open up for the right reasons. It puts yet another barrier in front of those who need understanding, not side-eye. That’s what many people are reacting to—not the diagnosis itself, but the idea that it might be misused in a way that sets everyone else back. Especially those trying to advocate for themselves in far less forgiving environments.
