The Silent Shame of Food Allergies: Beyond Accommodation to True Inclusion
There’s a moment at every event when the room seems to pause, just for a second, as a server asks, ‘Who has the allergy at this table?’ It’s a question that feels less like a logistical inquiry and more like a spotlight, shining uncomfortably on someone’s medical condition. I’ve been that person, and let me tell you, it’s not just about the food—it’s about the unspoken message that follows.
Personally, I think what makes this particularly fascinating is how a simple act of accommodation can inadvertently become a form of exclusion. Take my bell pepper allergy, for instance. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s enough to make me the subject of a whispered announcement or the recipient of a plate set apart from the rest. That plate, marked with my name, is a symbol of something much bigger: the work I have to do to belong.
What many people don’t realize is that this kind of accommodation, while well-intentioned, often highlights the very difference it’s trying to address. It’s like saying, ‘We’ve made space for you, but you’re still not quite part of the group.’ In my opinion, this is where the real issue lies. Accommodation is necessary, but it’s not enough. It’s a bandaid on a problem that requires a complete redesign of how we think about inclusion.
One thing that immediately stands out is the contrast between being accommodated and being included. Last year, I attended a fundraiser where the caterer removed bell peppers from the entire menu. No one knew why, and no one cared. I didn’t have to explain myself, navigate a buffet, or wait for my special plate. I just ate. What this really suggests is that true inclusion isn’t about making exceptions—it’s about creating an environment where exceptions aren’t needed.
If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about food allergies. It’s about the millions of people who navigate dietary restrictions every day: Muslims, Jews, vegans, diabetics, and more. We’re not a niche group; we’re a significant portion of every room, quietly managing our needs while trying to fit in. What this raises is a deeper question: Why do we design spaces that force people to perform their own inclusion?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the psychological weight of that labelled plate. It’s not just a plate—it’s a reminder that you’re different, that you’re an inconvenience, that you’re not fully part of the experience. I’ve seen plates left unclaimed, names exposed, medical conditions announced to anyone who walks by. It’s a small thing, but it speaks volumes about how we treat difference.
From my perspective, the solution isn’t just about better accommodation; it’s about a shift in mindset. Inclusion isn’t about making room for differences—it’s about designing spaces where differences don’t need to be accommodated because they’re already accounted for. That fundraiser I attended? It wasn’t just a meal; it was a masterclass in how to make everyone feel like they belong without anyone having to lift a finger.
This raises a deeper question: What would the world look like if we approached every event, every menu, every space with this kind of intentionality? Imagine a world where no one has to disclose their medical condition, where no one has to explain themselves, where no one has to feel like they’re on the periphery. That’s the kind of world I want to live in.
In my opinion, the labelled plate is a metaphor for how we handle difference in society. We try to help, but we often end up highlighting the very thing we’re trying to accommodate. True inclusion, on the other hand, makes the work of belonging invisible. It’s not about special treatment—it’s about universal design.
What this really suggests is that inclusion isn’t just a nice-to-have; it’s a necessity. It’s about recognizing that everyone deserves to feel like they belong, not just that they’re tolerated. Personally, I think this is a lesson we can all take to heart, whether we’re planning a dinner party or designing public policy.
So, the next time you see a labelled plate, think about what it represents. Think about the person who has to walk across the room to claim it, the person who has to explain themselves, the person who has to perform their own inclusion. And then, think about how we can do better. Because true inclusion isn’t about making exceptions—it’s about creating a world where exceptions aren’t needed.
Bliss, indeed.
