
Hero of the Year at the British Diversity Awards 2025. What it meant. And why it matters.
I’m going to say this once, then I’ll stop being awkward about it.
In March 2025, I won Hero of the Year at the British Diversity Awards.

It happened at the JW Marriott Grosvenor House in London on Wednesday 19 March 2025. The kind of venue where you half expect someone to tell you your shoes are “too loud”.
And the category. Hero of the Year, sponsored by Boots.
Now, I’m not the “look at me” type. I’m the “look at the work” type. But this one matters, because it shines a massive spotlight on something I’ve been banging on about for ages.
Inclusion needs to be felt, not just understood.
That’s why Inclusive Crew exists.
What the British Diversity Awards actually are
The British Diversity Awards are built to recognise people and organisations pushing for real change in diversity, equity and inclusion across the UK. 2025 was their fourth year.
This isn’t a random local do with a buffet and a sticky carpet. This is a big national awards night, with serious sponsors and serious names involved.
The official winners list for 2025 shows Hero of the Year (sponsored by Boots) as my category, and my name as the winner.
The night itself. Yes, it was a bit surreal
The event was hosted by Charlene White and Dr Ranj Singh.
There was a keynote from June Sarpong OBE, and a performance from Boney M. Which is honestly the most “what is my life” sentence I’ve ever written.
Other winners on the night included Christine McGuinness (Media Champion of the Year) and Kanya King (Lifetime Achievement).
Why I won. And why Inclusive Crew is at the heart of it
The work I was recognised for comes from the same core belief that powers Inclusive Crew.
Neurodivergent people are not broken. The workplace setup often is.
Inclusive Crew is known for VR-powered neuroinclusion training that helps people experience what work can feel like for neurodivergent brains, then turn that insight into changes that actually help. The point isn’t to make people feel sorry for anyone. The point is to build understanding that sticks, so teams stop doing accidental harm and start doing better work together.
VR matters because it cuts through the usual workplace nonsense:
the “but I don’t see it so it must not be real” attitude
the “we treat everyone the same” excuse
the “they seem fine to me” guesswork
When someone has felt even a slice of sensory overload, social strain, or processing pressure, they stop arguing with it. They start adjusting the way they lead, communicate, and design work.
That shift is what creates safer workplaces. It also creates better performance, less burnout, and fewer people quietly quitting because they cannot take another day of pretending.
“Hero” is a strong word. So here’s what I think it really means
For me, Hero of the Year doesn’t mean cape and fireworks.
It means you kept going when it would have been easier to shrink, shut up, or do something more “normal”.
It means you built something that helps people feel less alone.
It means you took lived experience and turned it into action.
It means you made it harder for workplaces to keep ignoring neurodivergent reality.
That’s what I care about.
What this win changes going forward
This award gave Inclusive Crew credibility in rooms where people sometimes need “proof” before they listen.
It also gives more weight to the message I’ll keep repeating:
If your inclusion work is only policies, posters, and one lunchtime webinar a year, you’re not doing inclusion. You’re doing admin.
Real inclusion shows up in:
how managers communicate
how meetings run
how feedback is given
how performance is measured
how sensory needs are handled
how safe it feels to be a real human at work
That’s the work. That’s what we do.
If you want this kind of change in your workplace
If you’re done with box-ticking and you want training that makes people actually get it, Inclusive Crew can help.
We bring the VR. We bring the honest conversations. We bring practical next steps your team can use straight away.
And no, nobody’s leaving with a beige folder they’ll never open again.

