The Neurodivergent Glossary

ADHD is one of the most common neurodevelopmental conditions, affecting an estimated 5-7% of children and 2-5% of adults worldwide. The name is misleading: people with ADHD don't have a deficit of attention—they have difficulty regulating where their attention goes. This means intense focus on engaging tasks (hyperfocus) can coexist with an inability to start or sustain effort on things that feel boring or unrewarding.

ADHD presents in three subtypes: predominantly inattentive (often missed in diagnosis, especially in women and girls), predominantly hyperactive-impulsive, and combined. In adults, hyperactivity often shows up as internal restlessness rather than the stereotypical "bouncing off the walls."

The core challenge isn't willpower—it's a neurological difference in dopamine regulation that affects motivation, time perception, emotional regulation, and working memory. Understanding this reframe is often transformative for people who've spent years blaming themselves for struggles that have a biological basis.

References

• Barkley, R. A. (2015). Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder: A Handbook for Diagnosis and Treatment. Guilford Press.
• CHADD—Understanding ADHD
• Driven to Distraction by Edward Hallowell & John Ratey (Book)

ADHD paralysis is the experience of being completely stuck—not because you don't want to act, but because your brain can't select a starting point. It shows up in three main forms: task paralysis (too many steps), choice paralysis (too many options), and emotional paralysis (feelings too big to think through).

This isn't procrastination in the traditional sense. Procrastination involves choosing to delay; ADHD paralysis feels involuntary. Your body won't move. Your thoughts loop without resolving. You might stare at a screen, scroll aimlessly, or literally freeze while your internal monologue screams at you to just do something.

The root cause is usually a combination of executive dysfunction (difficulty sequencing and prioritizing) and emotional overwhelm. When the brain can't rank what matters most, it defaults to doing nothing—which then triggers shame, which makes the paralysis worse.

References

• ADHD Paralysis: Why Your Brain Freezes (And How to Unfreeze It)

Autistic burnout is distinct from general burnout or depression, though it can look similar from the outside. It's the cumulative result of years or months of masking, sensory overload, social demands, and the constant cognitive labor of translating between autistic and neurotypical ways of being.

During burnout, autistic people often experience a loss of skills they previously had—including speech, executive function, self-care, and social capacity. This isn't regression; it's a system that's been running on overdrive finally shutting down to protect itself.

Recovery requires significant reduction in demands, not just a vacation or a good night's sleep. Many autistic adults describe burnout cycles that last months or even years, especially when they don't have the language or support to recognize what's happening.

References

• Raymaker, D. M., et al. (2020). "Having All of Your Internal Resources Exhausted Beyond Measure and Being Left with No Clean-Up Crew": Defining Autistic Burnout. Autism in Adulthood.
• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

ADHD tax is a community-coined term for the extra costs—financial, emotional, and practical—that pile up because of executive dysfunction. Late fees because you forgot to pay a bill you could afford. Replacing lost items for the third time. Food that went bad because you forgot it was in the fridge. Subscriptions you've been meaning to cancel for months. Impulse purchases that seemed essential at 2 AM.

These costs are invisible to people who don't live with them. There's no line item in a budget for "things ADHD made more expensive." But they add up. Studies on the economic impact of ADHD consistently find higher costs of living across healthcare, lost productivity, and financial mismanagement—not because people with ADHD are irresponsible, but because systems like billing cycles, expiration dates, and cancellation processes assume a level of executive function that isn't universal.

The emotional ADHD tax is just as real: the shame of another missed deadline, the relationship strain from forgotten promises, the exhaustion of systems and workarounds that neurotypical people never need to build.

References

• Doshi, J. A., et al. (2012). Economic Impact of Childhood and Adult ADHD. Journal of the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, 51(10), 990-1002.
• ADDitude Magazine—The Hidden Costs of ADHD

Alexithymia literally means "no words for feelings." It describes the experience of having emotions but struggling to identify, label, or communicate them. You might feel something intense in your body—tightness in your chest, a knot in your stomach, a surge of energy—without being able to name it as anger, anxiety, excitement, or sadness.

Alexithymia affects roughly 50% of autistic people, compared to about 5-10% of the general population. It's not an autism-specific condition, but the overlap is significant enough that researchers now believe many emotional difficulties previously attributed to autism are actually driven by co-occurring alexithymia.

Living with alexithymia can be confusing and isolating. When someone asks "how are you feeling?" and you genuinely don't know, it can look like avoidance or disinterest. When your body is sending distress signals you can't decode, you might push through pain, hunger, or exhaustion without realizing you need to stop. Developing a vocabulary for bodily sensations—and learning to map them to emotions—is a common therapeutic approach.

References

• Bird, G., & Cook, R. (2013). Mixed emotions: the contribution of alexithymia to the emotional symptoms of autism. Translational Psychiatry, 3(7), e285.
• Kinnaird, E., Stewart, C., & Tchanturia, K. (2019). Investigating alexithymia in autism: A systematic review and meta-analysis. European Psychiatry, 55, 80-89.

Anxiety is one of the most common co-occurring conditions in neurodivergent people. Roughly 47% of adults with ADHD and 40-80% of autistic people meet criteria for an anxiety disorder. But neurodivergent anxiety often doesn't match the standard clinical picture, which means it gets missed, misdiagnosed, or treated with approaches that don't fit.

In ADHD, anxiety frequently stems from a lifetime of unpredictable executive function. When you've missed enough deadlines, forgotten enough commitments, and let enough people down—despite trying desperately not to—your nervous system starts anticipating failure everywhere. This isn't irrational anxiety. It's a learned response to real experience.

In autism, anxiety is often tied to unpredictability, sensory overload, social demands, and the constant cognitive labor of navigating a world built for different brains. What looks like "social anxiety" might actually be the very rational stress of trying to decode unwritten rules in real time while managing sensory input. The anxiety is real, but the root cause is environmental, not pathological.

References

• Kessler, R. C., et al. (2006). The prevalence and correlates of adult ADHD in the United States. American Journal of Psychiatry, 163(4), 716-723.
• Hollocks, M. J., et al. (2019). Anxiety and depression in adults with autism spectrum disorder: a systematic review and meta-analysis. Psychological Medicine, 49(4), 559-572.

"Actually Autistic" began as a hashtag (#ActuallyAutistic) used by autistic people on social media to distinguish their perspectives from the flood of content about autism produced by non-autistic parents, therapists, and organizations. The word "actually" is the point: it signals that the speaker is autistic themselves, not someone interpreting autism from the outside.

The movement emerged because autistic voices were—and often still are—marginalized in conversations about autism. Major autism organizations have historically been led by non-autistic people, research priorities have been set without autistic input, and public narratives about autism have centered the experiences of parents and caregivers rather than autistic people themselves. "Actually Autistic" was a reclamation: we exist, we speak for ourselves, and our perspectives matter more than anyone else's when the subject is our own lives.

The hashtag and community have created a massive body of first-person autism knowledge that challenges clinical assumptions, reframes "deficits" as differences, and provides a sense of belonging for newly diagnosed and self-identified autistic people.

References

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)
• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)

Acquired neurodivergence refers to neurological differences that aren't present from birth but develop later due to brain injury, illness, or other medical events. Traumatic brain injury (TBI), stroke, long COVID, brain tumors, and certain infections can all produce lasting changes in cognition, sensory processing, executive function, and emotional regulation that overlap significantly with developmental neurodivergence.

The concept matters because conversations about neurodivergence have historically centered on conditions people are born with—autism, ADHD, dyslexia. But millions of people develop similar cognitive and sensory differences through acquired causes, and they often find more recognition and community in neurodivergent spaces than in traditional rehabilitation frameworks.

Including acquired neurodivergence in the broader conversation isn't about erasing the differences between developmental and acquired conditions—it's about acknowledging that the experience of having a brain that works differently from what society expects is shared across causes. The coping strategies overlap, the barriers overlap, and the need for accommodation and understanding overlaps.

References

• Dewan, M. C., et al. (2018). Estimating the global incidence of traumatic brain injury. Journal of Neurosurgery, 130(4), 1080-1097.

Auditory processing disorder (APD) is a condition where the brain has difficulty interpreting sounds, even though hearing itself is normal. A standard hearing test comes back fine, but in real-world situations—noisy restaurants, group conversations, lectures—speech becomes garbled, words blend together, and meaning gets lost.

APD frequently co-occurs with ADHD, autism, and dyslexia, and is significantly underdiagnosed because standard hearing tests don't catch it. The person hears the sounds; their brain just struggles to process them quickly and accurately enough for real-time comprehension. This often leads to asking people to repeat themselves, misunderstanding instructions, and appearing inattentive when in fact the person is straining to decode every word.

The experience is often described as trying to listen to a conversation underwater, or hearing every word individually but not being able to assemble them into meaning fast enough. Written communication, subtitles, and visual supports can make an enormous difference—not because the person can't understand language, but because the auditory channel is unreliable.

References

• American Academy of Audiology (2010). Clinical Practice Guidelines: Diagnosis, Treatment, and Management of Children and Adults with Central Auditory Processing Disorder.

Autistic inertia describes the difficulty many autistic people have with initiating action, stopping an activity in progress, or transitioning between tasks. It's the experience of knowing what you need to do but being unable to get your body or mind to change course—as if you're an object at rest that requires enormous force to start moving, or an object in motion that can't stop.

This differs from ADHD paralysis in important ways. ADHD paralysis is often driven by overwhelm, decision fatigue, or lack of dopamine motivation. Autistic inertia is more about the difficulty of state-change itself. Transitioning from one activity to another—even a preferred activity—requires a kind of cognitive gear-shifting that doesn't happen automatically. The person may need significant lead time, preparation, and sometimes external support to make the switch.

Autistic inertia can also work in the other direction: once engaged in an activity, an autistic person may be unable to stop even when they want to, because disengaging requires the same state-change that's difficult in all directions. This isn't stubbornness—it's a neurological difficulty with transitions.

References

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

Autistic joy is the experience of intense, often overwhelming happiness that many autistic people describe in connection with their special interests, favorite sensory experiences, moments of genuine connection, or encounters with beauty and pattern. It can involve hand-flapping, bouncing, squealing, full-body stimming, or quiet, focused absorption—the expression varies, but the intensity is characteristic.

Mainstream narratives about autism focus almost exclusively on challenges: social difficulties, sensory overload, communication barriers, meltdowns. Autistic joy is the deliberate counter-narrative—a reminder that autistic experience includes not just different kinds of suffering but different kinds of happiness. The same neurology that produces intense distress also produces intense delight.

Autistic joy often shows up in ways that neurotypical social norms discourage. Hand-flapping in public, talking at length about a niche interest, making sounds of delight—these expressions of joy are the same behaviors that masking teaches autistic people to suppress. Unmasking often means reconnecting with this capacity for intense positive experience.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)

The accommodation vs cure debate is the central philosophical divide in how society approaches neurodivergence. The cure model says the goal should be to eliminate or minimize neurological differences—to make neurodivergent people function as neurotypically as possible. The accommodation model says the goal should be to change environments, systems, and expectations so that neurological differences aren't disabling.

This isn't an abstract debate. It shapes everything from how therapies are designed (eliminate autistic behaviors vs support autistic people), how schools operate (remediate differences vs provide alternative pathways), how workplaces function (require conformity vs design for diversity), and how research funding is allocated (cure-focused vs quality-of-life focused).

Most neurodivergent self-advocates favor accommodation over cure, arguing that many of their difficulties come from environmental mismatch rather than intrinsic deficiency. This doesn't mean all neurodivergent people reject medical support—many benefit from medication, therapy, and specific interventions. The distinction is between support that helps a person thrive as they are and interventions aimed at making them someone they're not.

References

• Neuroqueer Heresies by Nick Walker (2021) (Book)

Body doubling is the practice of having another person present while you work, not to help or supervise, but simply to exist nearby. For many people with ADHD, the passive presence of another person provides just enough external accountability and stimulation to keep executive function engaged.

This works because ADHD brains often struggle with self-directed motivation but respond well to social context. The other person doesn't need to be doing the same task, talking to you, or even paying attention to you—their presence alone changes the neurological equation.

Body doubling can happen in person (a friend doing their own work at the same table) or virtually (video calls where both people work silently, or platforms designed specifically for this). It's one of the most accessible and effective ADHD strategies, yet it's rarely mentioned in clinical settings.

References

• CHADD—Body Doubling for ADHD

Burnout in the neurodivergent context goes beyond workplace stress. It's the cumulative result of running a brain that requires more energy for everyday tasks—masking, managing sensory input, compensating for executive dysfunction, navigating social expectations—without adequate recovery time. The demands don't have to be extraordinary; they just have to exceed your capacity for long enough.

Neurodivergent burnout differs from general burnout in important ways. Recovery takes longer because the underlying energy demands don't disappear with a vacation. The triggers are often invisible to others (sensory environments, social performance, cognitive compensation), which means the burnout itself is frequently dismissed as laziness, weakness, or lack of resilience.

The relationship between burnout and autistic burnout is worth noting: autistic burnout is a specific pattern involving skill loss and reduced tolerance, while broader neurodivergent burnout may present as chronic fatigue, brain fog, emotional numbness, increased sensitivity, and a collapse of coping strategies. Both involve a system that's been running too hard for too long.

References

• Maslach, C., & Leiter, M. P. (2016). Understanding the burnout experience. World Psychiatry, 15(2), 103-111.

Cognitive load refers to the total amount of mental processing your brain is handling at any given time. Everyone has a limited capacity, but for neurodivergent people, the baseline load is often higher because tasks that are automatic for neurotypical brains require conscious effort.

Consider a simple meeting: a neurotypical person might just listen and respond. An autistic person might be simultaneously processing sensory input, monitoring their facial expressions, interpreting social cues that don't come naturally, suppressing stims, and managing anxiety—all while trying to follow the actual content. The "same" meeting is a fundamentally different cognitive experience.

This is why neurodivergent people can be exhausted by activities that seem effortless to others. It's not about stamina or attitude—it's about how much invisible processing is happening behind the scenes. Reducing cognitive load through accommodations, routine, and environmental control isn't laziness. It's smart resource management.

References

• Sweller, J. (1988). Cognitive load during problem solving: Effects on learning. Cognitive Science, 12(2), 257-285.

Coprolalia is a specific type of vocal tic involving the involuntary production of obscene, profane, or socially taboo words or phrases. It's the single most recognized—and most misunderstood—feature of Tourette syndrome, largely because of how it's portrayed in media. In reality, coprolalia affects only about 10-15% of people with Tourette's.

The mechanism behind coprolalia isn't fully understood, but it appears related to how the brain inhibits context-inappropriate responses. Everyone has intrusive thoughts about saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment. In coprolalia, the inhibition system that normally suppresses those impulses doesn't engage reliably. The words that emerge are often the exact words the person least wants to say—precisely because the brain flags them as forbidden.

The social impact is enormous. Coprolalia can make public spaces, workplaces, and schools feel hostile or impossible to navigate. People with coprolalia often experience intense shame, social isolation, and misunderstanding—not because of the tics themselves, but because of how others react to them.

References

• Tourette Association of America

Context blindness describes the difficulty many autistic people have with automatically transferring knowledge, skills, or rules from one context to another. A person might master a math concept at home with a tutor but be unable to apply it on a school test. They might understand social rules in one friend group but struggle to adapt them to a different social setting. The knowledge exists—but it's stored with its original context attached, and extracting it for use elsewhere requires conscious effort.

This differs from a learning deficit. The person has genuinely learned the material or skill. But while neurotypical brains automatically abstract and generalize, autistic brains often encode information context-specifically. The classroom, the teacher, the time of day, the format of the question—all of these become part of how the knowledge is stored and accessed.

Context blindness has practical implications for education, work, and daily life. It means that "you know this—you did it yesterday" is a frustrating and unhelpful thing to hear, because knowing something in one context doesn't guarantee access to it in another. Effective support involves explicitly teaching transfer—helping the person see how the same principle applies across different settings.

References

• Vermeulen, P. (2012). Autism as Context Blindness. AAPC Publishing.

Compensation strategies are the systems, habits, and behaviors neurodivergent people develop to manage or hide their differences. They include everything from elaborate reminder systems for executive dysfunction, to memorized social scripts for autism, to reading lips to compensate for auditory processing differences. They work—often well enough that nobody realizes there's a difference being managed.

The problem with compensation is its invisibility. When strategies are effective, the person appears to function "normally," which leads to three damaging conclusions: they don't need support, they're not "really" neurodivergent, and if they struggle, they're not trying hard enough. The effort behind the performance remains unseen.

Compensation also has a shelf life. Strategies that work in high school may not survive college. Coping mechanisms that managed a structured job may collapse in a role with more ambiguity. Major life transitions—parenthood, career changes, health challenges—often overwhelm established compensation strategies, leading to what looks like sudden decline but is actually the failure of a system that was always running on overtime.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)

Co-occurring conditions (also called comorbidities, though many communities prefer the less pathologizing term) refers to the frequent overlap of multiple neurodivergent conditions in the same person. The numbers are striking: about 50-70% of people with ADHD also meet criteria for at least one other condition. More than 70% of autistic people have at least one co-occurring condition. Dyslexia and ADHD co-occur in 20-40% of cases.

This isn't coincidence. Many neurodivergent conditions share underlying neurological features—differences in executive function, sensory processing, dopamine regulation, and neural connectivity. The boundaries between conditions are often blurrier than diagnostic categories suggest. A person might have executive dysfunction that looks like ADHD, sensory differences that look like autism, and reading difficulties that look like dyslexia—and all three might be aspects of the same neurological variation.

Understanding co-occurrence matters because treatment and support need to address the full picture. Treating ADHD without accounting for co-occurring anxiety may not work. Supporting autism without recognizing co-occurring ADHD misses half the challenge. The most effective approaches see the whole person, not a list of separate diagnoses.

References

• Kessler, R. C., et al. (2006). The prevalence and correlates of adult ADHD in the United States. American Journal of Psychiatry, 163(4), 716-723.

Capacity fluctuation describes the experience of having significantly different levels of cognitive, emotional, and functional ability from one day to the next—or even within the same day. Monday you might handle a complex project, a social dinner, and household chores with energy to spare. Tuesday the same tasks feel impossible, and getting out of bed is a genuine achievement. Both days are real.

This inconsistency is one of the most misunderstood aspects of neurodivergence. When people see you functioning well on Monday, they set that as the baseline and interpret Tuesday as failure, laziness, or attention-seeking. The truth is that neurodivergent capacity is affected by sleep quality, sensory load, social demands, hormonal fluctuations, accumulated stress, and dozens of other variables that neurotypical capacity is more resilient to.

Capacity fluctuation creates a specific kind of suffering: the inability to trust your own abilities. You can't commit to plans because you don't know which version of your capacity will show up. You can't explain the inconsistency to employers or friends because "I could do it yesterday but I can't today" sounds like an excuse rather than a neurological reality.

References

• Divergent Mind by Jenara Nerenberg (Book)

Dopamine is a chemical messenger in the brain that plays a central role in motivation, reward processing, attention, and movement. In the context of neurodivergence, dopamine differences help explain why ADHD brains struggle with tasks that feel unrewarding and hyperfocus on tasks that feel interesting.

It's important to understand what dopamine actually does: it doesn't create pleasure. It creates the anticipation of reward—the feeling that something is worth pursuing. When dopamine signaling is lower (as research suggests in ADHD), the brain struggles to generate motivation for tasks that don't have an immediate, compelling payoff. This is why a person with ADHD can play a video game for six hours but can't start a five-minute chore.

This isn't a character flaw—it's neurochemistry. ADHD medications (stimulants like methylphenidate and amphetamines) work primarily by increasing dopamine availability in the prefrontal cortex, which is why they help with focus and task initiation.

References

• Volkow, N. D., et al. (2009). Evaluating dopamine reward pathway in ADHD. JAMA, 302(10), 1084-1091.

Dyslexia is a neurological difference in how the brain processes written language. People with dyslexia often have difficulty decoding words, reading fluently, and spelling accurately—but these challenges exist alongside (and sometimes because of) strengths in big-picture thinking, problem-solving, spatial reasoning, and verbal communication.

Dyslexia isn't about seeing letters backward, despite the popular myth. It's primarily a phonological processing difference—the brain has difficulty mapping sounds to letters and letter patterns. This makes the mechanics of reading effortful in a way that's invisible to people who read automatically. Imagine trying to read a paragraph where every word requires conscious effort to decode. That's the cognitive load many dyslexic readers navigate daily.

An estimated 15-20% of the population has some degree of dyslexia, making it one of the most common neurodivergent conditions. Early identification and the right support (structured literacy approaches, assistive technology, accommodations) can make an enormous difference—but many people aren't identified until adulthood, if at all.

References

• International Dyslexia Association
• Overcoming Dyslexia by Sally Shaywitz (Book)

Dyspraxia (clinically known as Developmental Coordination Disorder, or DCD) affects the brain's ability to plan and coordinate physical movements. It's not a muscle problem—it's a communication problem between the brain and the body. The person knows what they want to do, but the motor planning required to execute it smoothly doesn't come automatically.

This can affect fine motor skills (handwriting, buttoning shirts, using utensils), gross motor skills (running, catching, balance), and motor planning (learning new physical sequences, navigating unfamiliar spaces). Many people with dyspraxia also experience difficulties with spatial awareness, time management, and organization—suggesting the coordination challenges extend beyond just movement.

Dyspraxia frequently co-occurs with ADHD, autism, and dyslexia. It's significantly underdiagnosed, especially in adults, partly because it's often dismissed as "clumsiness" and partly because many people develop elaborate compensatory strategies that mask the underlying difficulty.

References

• Dyspraxia Foundation

Dyscalculia is a specific learning difference that affects how the brain processes numerical information. People with dyscalculia often struggle with number sense (the intuitive understanding of what numbers mean and how they relate), math fact retrieval (remembering that 7 x 8 = 56), and mathematical procedures (carrying, borrowing, multi-step problems).

Like dyslexia, dyscalculia has nothing to do with intelligence. A person can be a brilliant writer, lawyer, or artist and still genuinely struggle to split a restaurant bill or read an analog clock. The difficulty is specific to how the brain represents and manipulates numerical quantities.

Dyscalculia is estimated to affect 3-7% of the population but is significantly less researched and recognized than dyslexia. Many people with dyscalculia go undiagnosed and internalize the belief that they're "just bad at math"—when in reality, they have a neurological difference that benefits from specific support and accommodations.

References

• Butterworth, B. (2010). Foundational numerical capacities and the origins of dyscalculia. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 14(12), 534-541.

Decision fatigue is the well-documented phenomenon where the quality of your decisions degrades after making many of them. Every choice—from what to eat for breakfast to how to respond to an email—draws from a finite cognitive reserve. When that reserve runs low, you either make poor choices or stop making choices altogether.

For neurodivergent people, especially those with ADHD, decision fatigue can hit faster and harder. When your brain already struggles with prioritization and evaluation, every decision costs more cognitive effort than it would for someone whose executive function handles it automatically. A neurotypical person might breeze through 20 small decisions before lunch; an ADHD brain might be depleted after five.

This is why many neurodivergent people develop systems to reduce daily decisions: meal planning, capsule wardrobes, routines, and default choices. It's not rigidity—it's resource management.

References

• Baumeister, R. F., et al. (1998). Ego depletion: Is the active self a limited resource? Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 74(5), 1252-1265.

Dysgraphia is a neurological condition that affects the ability to write. This can manifest as difficulty with handwriting (letter formation, spacing, sizing), spelling, or the ability to organize and express thoughts in written form—or all three. The challenge isn't about intelligence or effort; it's about how the brain coordinates the complex motor and cognitive processes involved in writing.

Handwriting-related dysgraphia involves fine motor coordination: the brain has difficulty directing the hand to form letters consistently. People with this form often produce writing that's illegible, inconsistently sized, or physically painful to produce. Expressive dysgraphia involves difficulty translating thoughts into written language—a person may be an eloquent speaker but produce disorganized, incomplete writing that doesn't reflect their actual thinking.

Dysgraphia often co-occurs with dyslexia, ADHD, and autism, but it's a distinct condition. Many people with dysgraphia benefit from typing instead of handwriting, speech-to-text tools, graphic organizers for writing tasks, and extended time on written assignments.

References

• International Dyslexia Association—Dysgraphia

The double empathy problem, proposed by Dr. Damian Milton in 2012, challenges one of the most persistent assumptions about autism: that autistic people lack empathy or social understanding. Milton's argument is simple but revolutionary—when two people have very different ways of experiencing the world, they'll both struggle to understand each other. The difficulty is mutual, not one-sided.

Traditional autism research framed communication difficulties as an autistic deficit: autistic people fail to read social cues, miss nonverbal signals, and don't understand others' perspectives. The double empathy problem flips this by pointing out that non-autistic people are equally bad at reading autistic communication styles, understanding autistic perspectives, and interpreting autistic social cues. The difference is that only one group gets pathologized for it.

Research supports this reframe. Studies have shown that autistic people communicate effectively with other autistic people, and that non-autistic people struggle to read autistic emotions and intentions. The "empathy deficit" dissolves when you stop measuring autistic people against a neurotypical standard and start looking at the interaction itself.

References

• Milton, D. E. M. (2012). On the ontological status of autism: the "double empathy problem." Disability & Society, 27(6), 883-887.
• Crompton, C. J., et al. (2020). Autistic peer-to-peer information transfer is highly effective. Autism, 24(7), 1704-1712.

Disclosure is the act of telling someone—an employer, a teacher, a friend, a date—about your neurodivergent condition. It sounds straightforward, but for most neurodivergent people it's a complex risk-reward calculation that gets recalculated with every new person, every new context, and every new experience of how the information was received.

The potential benefits are significant: legal protections under disability law, access to reasonable accommodations, the ability to explain your needs openly, and the relief of not hiding. The potential costs are equally real: stigma, being seen as less capable, having your behavior over-attributed to your diagnosis ("oh, that's just their ADHD"), or losing opportunities that would have been available if you'd stayed quiet.

There's no formula. Some people disclose upfront and find it liberating. Others disclose only when they need specific accommodations. Many never disclose at work at all, choosing to manage privately and absorb the cost of masking. The right answer depends on the workplace culture, the specific people involved, the legal protections available, and the person's own comfort and safety.

References

• Job Accommodation Network (JAN)—Disclosure Decisions

In neurodivergent spaces, "disability" is a word that carries weight, nuance, and sometimes disagreement. Some neurodivergent people identify as disabled; others don't. Both positions are valid, and the conversation between them is one of the most important in the community.

Under the social model, disability isn't a characteristic of a person—it's a product of the mismatch between a person and their environment. An autistic person who works from home, controls their sensory environment, and communicates on their own terms might not feel disabled at all. Put that same person in an open-plan office with fluorescent lights and mandatory team-building activities, and they become profoundly disabled—not because they changed, but because the environment did.

The word also carries legal significance. In many countries, identifying as disabled unlocks protections and accommodations under disability law. Rejecting the label can mean rejecting those protections. This creates a tension for neurodivergent people who don't feel disabled in their daily lives but need the legal framework that the word provides.

References

• Oliver, M. (1983). Social Work with Disabled People. Macmillan.
• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

Dissociation is the experience of feeling detached from yourself, your body, your emotions, or your surroundings. It can range from mild (zoning out, feeling "not quite here") to severe (losing time, feeling like you're watching yourself from outside your body, not recognizing your own reflection). It's a protective mechanism—the brain's way of creating distance when experience becomes too intense to process.

For neurodivergent people, dissociation often serves as an automatic response to sensory overload, emotional overwhelm, or sustained masking. When the nervous system is flooded with more input than it can handle, dissociation reduces the volume on everything—sensation, emotion, connection, presence. It's effective in the moment but costly over time, because you can't selectively numb. When you dissociate from distress, you also dissociate from connection, pleasure, and engagement.

Dissociation is distinct from autistic shutdown, though they can overlap. Shutdown is a response to overload that primarily affects the ability to function (speak, move, process). Dissociation is a response that primarily affects the sense of being present and connected. Some people experience both simultaneously.

References

• van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score. Viking.

A doom box (or doom pile, doom bag, doom drawer) is an accumulation of items that don't have a clear home. Mail, receipts, keys, chargers, random objects from your pockets, things you meant to put away but couldn't decide where—they all end up in the same spot because the organizational decision required to sort them exceeds your available executive function in the moment.

The term comes from ADHD communities and captures both the behavior and the emotional weight. The pile starts small and manageable. Then it grows. Then it becomes so overwhelming that sorting it feels impossible—so you avoid it, which makes it grow more. Eventually you either have a burst of hyperfocus energy and clear it all at once, or you dump the whole thing into a bigger container and start over. Many people with ADHD have multiple doom locations operating simultaneously.

Doom boxes aren't a character flaw. They're a predictable outcome of executive dysfunction meeting the constant stream of objects that daily life generates. Every item requires a micro-decision (where does this go?), and ADHD brains deplete their decision-making capacity faster than neurotypical brains. The doom box is what happens when the capacity runs out but the objects keep arriving.

References

• CHADD—Organizing Tips for Adults with ADHD

Executive function is the brain's project manager: it handles planning, prioritizing, sequencing, time management, working memory, impulse control, and emotional regulation. Executive dysfunction means this system doesn't work reliably—not because you're not smart enough, but because the neurological wiring works differently.

Executive dysfunction can look like forgetting appointments five minutes after scheduling them, being unable to break a big project into steps, struggling to switch between tasks, or knowing exactly what you need to do but being physically unable to start. It's one of the most common and most misunderstood aspects of ADHD, autism, and other neurodivergent conditions.

The key insight is that executive dysfunction is situational and variable. You might manage a complex project at work with ease on Monday and be unable to make a sandwich on Tuesday. This inconsistency often leads to accusations of laziness or "not trying," when in reality it reflects how executive function fluctuates with energy, stress, sleep, and interest levels.

References

• Executive Dysfunction: How It Shows Up and What Helps
• Smart but Scattered by Peg Dawson & Richard Guare (Book)

Emotional dysregulation means your emotional responses are harder to control, more intense, and slower to resolve than what's considered typical. For many neurodivergent people, emotions arrive fast, hit hard, and take a long time to settle—even when the logical brain knows the reaction is disproportionate.

This isn't about being "dramatic" or "overly emotional." Research shows that ADHD involves genuine differences in the brain regions responsible for emotional regulation (the prefrontal cortex and amygdala). Autistic people may experience alexithymia (difficulty identifying emotions) alongside intense emotional responses, creating a confusing internal landscape.

Emotional dysregulation is one of the most impactful yet least-discussed aspects of neurodivergence. It affects relationships, work performance, self-image, and daily decision-making. When your emotional thermostat doesn't have fine-grained controls, everything feels like it's set to either "off" or "maximum."

References

• Shaw, P., et al. (2014). Emotion dysregulation in attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. American Journal of Psychiatry, 171(3), 276-293.

Echolalia is the repetition of words, phrases, or sounds that a person has heard. It can be immediate (repeating something just said) or delayed (repeating a phrase from a movie, song, or past conversation hours, days, or years later). It's common in autistic people, particularly in childhood, and has historically been dismissed as meaningless or pathological. Research increasingly shows it's neither.

Echolalia serves multiple functions. It can be communicative (using a memorized phrase to express a need or feeling), regulatory (repeating sounds that feel soothing), processing-oriented (echoing speech to help comprehend it), or social (using shared scripts to connect with others). A child who answers "Do you want juice?" by repeating "Do you want juice?" may be saying yes—using the only language structure available to them in that moment.

Understanding echolalia as functional rather than meaningless changes how it's approached therapeutically. Instead of trying to eliminate it, effective support works with it—expanding the scripts, building on the phrases, and recognizing that echolalic speech is speech, even if it doesn't follow conventional patterns.

References

• Prizant, B. M., & Duchan, J. F. (1981). The functions of immediate echolalia in autistic children. Journal of Speech and Hearing Disorders, 46(3), 241-249.

Energy accounting is the practice of deliberately tracking and managing your cognitive, emotional, and physical energy as a finite resource. It extends the metaphor of spoon theory into a more detailed framework: instead of just counting spoons, you're tracking what gives energy (deposits) and what costs energy (withdrawals) with enough granularity to plan your day around your actual capacity.

For neurodivergent people, energy accounting is essential because the costs are different from what neurotypical people experience. A social event that energizes one person might cost an autistic person hours of recovery. A task that a neurotypical colleague handles automatically might drain significant executive function capacity from someone with ADHD. Without conscious tracking, it's easy to overspend and crash.

Effective energy accounting includes identifying high-cost activities (masking, sensory environments, transitions, decision-making), low-cost or energy-positive activities (special interests, solitude, preferred sensory input), and planning the day so that withdrawals don't exceed deposits before essential tasks are complete.

References

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

An external brain is any system outside your head that holds information your working memory can't retain reliably. For neurodivergent people, especially those with ADHD, the external brain isn't a nice-to-have productivity hack—it's a necessary cognitive prosthetic. It holds the thoughts, tasks, appointments, and intentions that your working memory would otherwise drop.

External brain systems can be analog (notebooks, whiteboards, sticky notes on the bathroom mirror), digital (note-taking apps, calendar apps, voice memos, automated reminders), or environmental (putting your keys in the same place every day, leaving your medication next to the coffee maker). The specific tools matter less than the principle: if it needs to be remembered, it needs to live somewhere outside your head.

The concept acknowledges something important: neurodivergent working memory isn't lazy—it's architecturally different. Instead of fighting the architecture, the external brain works with it. Your brain is freed up for the things it does well (creative thinking, problem-solving, pattern recognition) while the external system handles the things it doesn't (remembering, tracking, sequencing).

References

• Building a Second Brain by Tiago Forte (Book)

Flat affect refers to a reduced outward expression of emotion: a neutral facial expression, monotone voice, limited gestures, and minimal visible emotional reactivity. In autistic people, flat affect is common and frequently misinterpreted. Observers assume the person doesn't feel anything, doesn't care, or isn't engaged—when the internal experience may be intensely emotional.

The disconnect between internal experience and external expression is the key issue. An autistic person watching a movie might feel deeply moved while their face shows nothing. They might be thrilled about a gift but respond with a flat "thanks." This isn't coldness or indifference—it's a difference in how emotions translate to visible expression. The emotional engine is running; the display panel just doesn't update at the same rate.

Flat affect can cause significant social difficulties because neurotypical communication relies heavily on reading facial expressions and vocal tone. When these signals are absent or muted, neurotypical observers fill in the gap with assumptions: they're bored, they don't like me, they're being rude. Understanding flat affect as an expressive difference rather than an emotional absence is crucial for accurate interpretation.

References

• Jaswal, V. K., & Akhtar, N. (2019). Being versus appearing socially uninterested: Challenging assumptions about social motivation in autism. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 42, e82.

Hyperfocus is the ability to become so deeply absorbed in a task that everything else fades: time, hunger, other responsibilities, even physical discomfort. It's common in ADHD and autism, and it contradicts the popular misconception that these conditions are only about distraction.

The catch is that hyperfocus isn't voluntary. You can't choose when it activates or what it locks onto. It tends to engage for tasks that are novel, interesting, urgent, or emotionally stimulating—and disengage abruptly when the dopamine reward dries up. This means you might hyperfocus on reorganizing your bookshelf for five hours while ignoring the work deadline that's actually urgent.

When hyperfocus aligns with useful goals, it can produce remarkable output. Many neurodivergent people describe their greatest accomplishments as products of hyperfocus. But it can also lead to neglected relationships, missed meals, disrupted sleep, and burnout when it goes unchecked.

References

• Hyperfixation: When Your Brain Won't Let Go
• Hupfeld, K. E., et al. (2019). Living "in the zone": hyperfocus in adult ADHD. ADHD Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorders, 11, 191-208.

Habit stacking is the practice of linking a new behavior to an existing one, using the established habit as a trigger: "After I pour my morning coffee, I take my medication." "After I brush my teeth, I do two minutes of stretching." The existing habit provides the cue that the new behavior needs to start.

For ADHD brains, habit stacking is one of the most effective behavior-change strategies because it bypasses the task initiation problem. Starting a brand-new behavior from nothing requires executive function that may not be available. But piggybacking on a behavior that's already automatic—one that doesn't require conscious activation—means the new behavior gets pulled along for the ride.

The key is choosing anchor habits that are genuinely automatic and consistent. If the anchor habit is itself unreliable (like "after I check my planner"), the stack will collapse. The strongest anchors are physical routines that happen in the same place, at the same time, every day: brushing teeth, making coffee, arriving at your desk, eating lunch.

References

• Atomic Habits by James Clear (Book)

The interest-based nervous system is a framework popularized by Dr. William Dodson to describe how ADHD brains allocate attention and motivation. Most people operate on an importance-based nervous system: they can generate motivation for tasks because those tasks are important, expected, or rewarded. ADHD brains operate differently—they're driven by interest, challenge, novelty, urgency, and passion.

This explains one of the most frustrating paradoxes of ADHD: the ability to spend eight hours on a fascinating hobby while being unable to spend 15 minutes on a crucial task. It's not a choice or a character flaw. The ADHD brain literally cannot generate motivation through importance alone—it needs one of those other activation triggers.

Understanding this framework is transformative because it replaces moral judgment with strategic thinking. Instead of asking "why can't I make myself do this?" you can ask "how can I make this interesting, urgent, or novel enough to engage my brain?"

References

• Dodson, W. (2020). The ADHD Nervous System. ADDitude Magazine.

Infodumping is the act of sharing a large amount of information about a topic you know deeply—often a special interest—in a single, extended burst. It's common in autistic and ADHD experience, and it's driven by genuine excitement, expertise, and the desire to share something meaningful.

From the neurodivergent person's perspective, infodumping feels like finally getting to talk about something you care about with someone who (hopefully) wants to listen. It's a form of connection and self-expression. The information isn't random—it's carefully organized in the person's mind, and sharing it is an act of trust and enthusiasm.

From a neurotypical perspective, infodumping can feel overwhelming or one-sided, which creates social friction. This mismatch isn't because the neurodivergent person doesn't care about reciprocity—it's because their communication style favors depth over back-and-forth exchange. Many autistic people describe infodumping as one of the most natural ways they connect, and having it received warmly is deeply meaningful.

References

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

Interoception is your body's internal sensing system. It's how you know you're hungry, thirsty, too hot, in pain, need the bathroom, or are becoming emotionally activated. Most people take these signals for granted—hunger builds gradually, you notice, you eat. For many neurodivergent people, interoceptive signals are muted, delayed, or confusingly intense.

Poor interoception can look like forgetting to eat until you're shaking, not noticing you need the bathroom until it's urgent, wearing a coat in summer because you can't gauge your body temperature, or not realizing you're stressed until you're already in a meltdown. The signals aren't absent—they're just harder to detect and interpret.

This has ripple effects across daily life. If you can't reliably sense hunger, you eat erratically. If you can't feel fatigue building, you crash instead of resting. If you can't identify the early signs of emotional overwhelm, you skip the window where coping strategies would have helped. Understanding interoception is often a missing piece for people who've struggled with self-regulation their whole lives.

References

• Craig, A. D. (2002). How do you feel? Interoception: the sense of the physiological condition of the body. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 3(8), 655-666.
• Interoception: The Eighth Sensory System by Kelly Mahler (2017) (Book)

Irlen syndrome (also called scotopic sensitivity syndrome or visual stress) is a condition where the brain has difficulty processing specific wavelengths of light. This can make reading physically uncomfortable: text may appear to move, blur, double, or wash out under certain lighting conditions. White pages can seem blindingly bright, and fluorescent lighting can be particularly unbearable.

Irlen syndrome is not an eye problem—standard vision tests come back normal. It's a brain-based processing issue, which is why it often goes undiagnosed for years. People who have it develop coping strategies without realizing what they're compensating for: tilting pages, reading in dim light, using a finger to track lines, or simply avoiding reading altogether.

The condition frequently co-occurs with dyslexia, ADHD, and autism, which complicates diagnosis further. A child who struggles to read might be identified as dyslexic when the real issue—or an additional issue—is that the page itself is causing visual distress. Colored overlays or tinted lenses (Irlen lenses) can provide significant relief for some people, though the evidence base remains debated in clinical circles.

References

• Irlen, H. (2005). Reading by the Colors: Overcoming Dyslexia and Other Reading Disabilities Through the Irlen Method. Penguin.

Identity-first language places the condition before the person: "autistic person," "Deaf person," "disabled person." Person-first language does the opposite: "person with autism," "person with a hearing impairment," "person with a disability." The debate between these two approaches is one of the most visible conversations in disability and neurodivergent communities.

Most autistic self-advocates prefer identity-first language. The reasoning: autism isn't something you carry around like a bag—it's woven into how you think, perceive, and experience the world. Saying "person with autism" implies autism is separable from the person, something that could theoretically be removed. Saying "autistic person" acknowledges that autism is a fundamental part of who someone is, not an add-on.

This preference isn't universal. Some people, particularly those with acquired conditions or those who don't want a diagnosis to define them, prefer person-first language. Many ADHD communities use both interchangeably. The most respectful approach is to ask individuals their preference—and when speaking about a community as a whole, to follow that community's majority preference.

References

• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)—Identity-First Language

Impostor syndrome is the feeling that you don't deserve your achievements, that you've fooled everyone into thinking you're competent, and that you'll be "found out" at any moment. While it affects many people, it has a particular intensity and flavor in neurodivergent experience.

For neurodivergent people, impostor syndrome often runs in two directions simultaneously. Before diagnosis: "Maybe I'm just lazy and everyone else is right that I should try harder." After diagnosis: "Maybe I'm not really neurodivergent—maybe I'm just making excuses." Both versions deny the person's reality, and both are reinforced by a world that doesn't understand neurological variation.

The post-diagnosis version is especially cruel. You finally have a framework that explains decades of struggle, and your brain immediately starts arguing against it. You weren't "really" struggling—you finished college, held a job, maintained relationships. Never mind that each of those required three times the effort they should have. Impostor syndrome takes the very evidence of your compensation and uses it against you.

References

• Clance, P. R., & Imes, S. A. (1978). The impostor phenomenon in high achieving women. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research & Practice, 15(3), 241-247.

In the United States, two main legal frameworks provide educational support for students with disabilities: Individualized Education Programs (IEPs) and 504 Plans. Both require schools to provide accommodations, but they differ in scope and legal basis.

An IEP is developed under the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (IDEA). It's a detailed plan that includes specific learning goals, specialized instruction, related services (speech therapy, occupational therapy, counseling), and measurable benchmarks. IEPs are for students who need specially designed instruction to access education. The process involves formal evaluation, a team meeting, and ongoing review.

A 504 Plan is developed under Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act. It provides accommodations—like extended test time, preferential seating, or assistive technology—but doesn't include specialized instruction or individual learning goals. It's for students who can learn in a general education setting with the right supports in place.

For neurodivergent students, either plan can be appropriate depending on the level of support needed. Many students with ADHD, for instance, receive 504 Plans with accommodations like movement breaks and extended time, while students with more significant learning differences might need the specialized instruction an IEP provides.

References

• Understood.org—IEP vs. 504 Plan

Impulse control is the brain's ability to insert a pause between an impulse and an action—long enough to evaluate whether the action is a good idea. For people with ADHD, this pause is shorter, less reliable, and sometimes absent entirely. The impulse and the action can happen almost simultaneously.

This shows up across every domain of life: blurting out answers before the question is finished, interrupting conversations, making impulsive purchases, saying things you immediately regret, starting new projects before finishing old ones, and acting on emotions before you've had time to evaluate them. The common thread is speed—the action happens before the evaluation process can engage.

Impaired impulse control is a neurological difference, not a character flaw. Research shows that it's connected to differences in the prefrontal cortex (responsible for executive function) and dopamine regulation (which affects reward evaluation). This is why ADHD medication often dramatically improves impulse control—it's addressing the neurology, not the person's willpower.

References

• Barkley, R. A. (1997). Behavioral inhibition, sustained attention, and executive functions: Constructing a unifying theory of ADHD. Psychological Bulletin, 121(1), 65-94.

Internal hyperactivity is the form of ADHD hyperactivity that doesn't show on the outside. It's a constant mental restlessness: racing thoughts, a busy inner monologue, difficulty slowing your brain down, and a persistent feeling of being revved up even when you're physically still. It's the reason many people with ADHD—especially women and adults—are never identified, because they don't match the stereotype of bouncing off the walls.

In childhood, ADHD hyperactivity is often visible: running, climbing, fidgeting, inability to sit still. In adulthood, the external hyperactivity often shifts inward. The body may be still, but the mind is running at full speed. This can look like an inability to relax, difficulty falling asleep because your brain won't quiet down, jumping from thought to thought mid-conversation, and a chronic sense that you should be doing something even when you're ostensibly resting.

Internal hyperactivity is exhausting because there's no off switch. You can't step away from your own mind. And because it's invisible, others may not understand why you seem so tired when you've "been sitting down all day." The effort of managing a brain that won't idle is real work—it just happens where nobody can see it.

References

• Barkley, R. A. (2015). Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder: A Handbook for Diagnosis and Treatment. Guilford Press.

Job crafting is the practice of proactively modifying aspects of your job to create a better fit between your work and your abilities. It was originally described by researchers Wrzesniewski and Dutton as a way employees reshape their roles in three dimensions: task crafting (changing what you do), relational crafting (changing who you work with), and cognitive crafting (changing how you think about your work).

For neurodivergent people, job crafting is often a survival skill practiced long before they know the term. You volunteer for the detail-oriented projects because your brain is built for them, and steer away from the networking events that drain you. You negotiate to do your deep work in the mornings when your medication is most effective. You find a desk in the quiet corner without asking permission.

The difference between informal adaptation and intentional job crafting is awareness and agency. When you understand your neurodivergent profile—where you excel, where you struggle, what conditions support your best work—you can make strategic choices about how to shape your role rather than just reacting to whatever causes the least pain.

References

• Wrzesniewski, A., & Dutton, J. E. (2001). Crafting a job: Revisioning employees as active crafters of their work. Academy of Management Review, 26(2), 179-201.

Late diagnosis refers to being identified as neurodivergent (ADHD, autistic, dyslexic, etc.) in adulthood rather than childhood. This is increasingly common as understanding of neurodivergence expands beyond the stereotypes that dominated earlier diagnostic criteria—stereotypes that were largely based on white boys.

Late diagnosis is especially common in women, people of color, people with high IQs, and anyone who developed effective masking strategies early in life. Many late-diagnosed adults spent years with alternative explanations for their struggles: anxiety, depression, burnout, personality disorders, or simply "not trying hard enough." The diagnosis often reframes an entire life story.

The emotional experience of late diagnosis is complex. There's typically relief ("so that's why everything has been so hard"), grief ("I spent 30 years blaming myself for something that had a name"), anger ("why didn't anyone catch this?"), and sometimes identity disruption ("who am I if I'm not the person I thought I was?"). Processing these feelings is a significant part of post-diagnosis life.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)
• ASAN—Late Diagnosis Resources

Learned helplessness is a psychological state in which a person stops trying because past experience has taught them that their efforts don't lead to success. The concept was first described by Martin Seligman in the 1960s through animal research, but it maps powerfully onto the neurodivergent experience.

When you've spent years trying strategies that work for neurotypical brains and failing, your brain draws a logical conclusion: effort doesn't work. You've tried harder, used willpower, set reminders, made promises, and still missed deadlines, forgotten commitments, and let people down. At some point, the nervous system stops investing energy in attempts that have a track record of failure. This isn't laziness—it's a rational response to repeated negative outcomes.

Breaking learned helplessness in neurodivergent people requires more than motivation or encouragement. It requires changing the conditions so that effort actually works. This usually means neurodivergent-specific strategies, accommodations, and environments where success is possible—proving to the nervous system that outcomes can change when the approach changes.

References

• Seligman, M. E. P. (1972). Learned helplessness. Annual Review of Medicine, 23(1), 407-412.

Literal thinking is the tendency to process language at face value, interpreting words and phrases according to their direct meaning rather than their implied or figurative meaning. When someone says "I'll be there in a second," a literal thinker may genuinely expect them in one second. When someone says "break a leg," the literal response might be confusion or concern.

This is a common autistic trait, and it's not about intelligence or language ability. Many autistic people have extensive vocabularies and sophisticated understanding of language—the difference is in the default processing mode. Where neurotypical brains automatically scan for subtext, sarcasm, idiom, and implied meaning, autistic brains often process the surface meaning first and require conscious effort to access the layer underneath.

Literal thinking can be both a challenge and a strength. It causes miscommunication when figurative language is assumed to be understood. But it also produces clarity, precision, and an ability to notice when language is being used imprecisely or deceptively. Many autistic people develop a secondary skill in figurative language through study and experience—they learn the idioms, master sarcasm detection, and build a mental database of non-literal phrases. But the default remains literal, and energy is required to override it.

References

• Thinking in Pictures by Temple Grandin (Book)

Masking (also called camouflaging) is the practice of hiding or suppressing neurodivergent traits—stimming, communication differences, sensory needs, emotional responses—and replacing them with learned "normal" behaviors. It's common in both autism and ADHD, and it's especially prevalent in women, people of color, and anyone who's been socially punished for being different.

Masking can be conscious (deliberately suppressing a stim in a meeting) or unconscious (automatically mirroring the social behavior of people around you without realizing you're doing it). It often develops in childhood as a survival strategy and becomes so automatic that many people don't realize they're doing it until they learn about the concept.

The cost of masking is real and cumulative. It drains cognitive and emotional resources, contributes to autistic burnout, can delay diagnosis by decades, and creates a painful gap between who you are and who people think you are. Unmasking—learning to drop the performance—is a common focus of post-diagnosis work, but it's not simple. Social consequences are real, and letting go of lifelong habits takes time and safety.

References

• Hull, L., et al. (2017). "Putting on My Best Normal": Social Camouflaging in Adults with Autism Spectrum Conditions. Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 47, 2519-2534.
• Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN)

A meltdown is an involuntary loss of behavioral control triggered by overwhelming input that exceeds the nervous system's capacity to cope. It can look like crying, screaming, hitting, throwing things, or other intense external expressions. From the outside it may resemble a tantrum, but the internal experience is fundamentally different.

The critical distinction: a tantrum is goal-directed behavior (a child screaming because they want candy). A meltdown is a system failure (a person's nervous system has been pushed past its breaking point and the body's stress response has taken over). No one chooses to have a meltdown, and they can't be stopped through willpower once they start.

Meltdowns are preceded by a buildup of stress, sensory input, social demands, or cognitive load—often over hours or days. The visible meltdown is just the breaking point. Many people feel intense shame afterward, even though the meltdown was no more voluntary than a sneeze. Recovery can take hours to days and often involves a period of reduced capacity.

References

• National Autistic Society—Meltdowns

Monotropism is a theory developed by Dinah Murray, Wenn Lawson, and Mike Lesser that offers an alternative framework for understanding autism. The core idea: attention can be distributed broadly across many things (polytropism) or focused intensely on fewer things (monotropism). Autistic brains tend toward monotropism—deep, narrow attention tunnels.

This single concept explains many autistic traits without framing them as deficits. Special interests? Deep attention on a single topic. Difficulty with transitions? Attention is invested heavily and redirecting it is costly. Sensory overload? When attention is focused, unexpected sensory input feels intrusive. Social difficulties? Social interaction requires splitting attention across many channels simultaneously—something monotropic processing makes harder.

Many autistic people consider monotropism the most accurate description of their internal experience. It reframes autism not as a collection of deficits but as a fundamentally different attention style—one that produces both remarkable depth and genuine challenges in a world designed for polytropism.

References

• Murray, D., Lesser, M., & Lawson, W. (2005). Attention, monotropism and the diagnostic criteria for autism. Autism, 9(2), 139-156.

Motor planning (also called praxis) is the cognitive process of figuring out how to move your body to accomplish a task. It involves three stages: ideation (knowing what you want to do), planning (figuring out the sequence of movements), and execution (actually doing it). When any stage is disrupted, movement becomes unreliable.

Motor planning difficulties are a core feature of dyspraxia (developmental coordination disorder) and are common in autism and ADHD. They can affect both gross motor skills (running, climbing, catching a ball) and fine motor skills (handwriting, buttoning shirts, using utensils). The movements themselves aren't impossible—the brain just needs more time and conscious effort to organize them.

What makes motor planning difficulties frustrating is their inconsistency. You might tie your shoes perfectly one morning and fumble with the laces the next. The skill is there, but accessing it on demand requires a level of conscious attention that most people never need to apply to automatic movements. This inconsistency is often misread as carelessness.

References

• Steinman, K. J., et al. (2010). Motor cortex development in children with autism. Developmental Science, 13(1), 151-162.

Math anxiety is a specific form of performance anxiety triggered by mathematical tasks. It's not just disliking math—it's a stress response that can include racing heart, sweaty palms, mental blanking, and avoidance behavior. For some people, the anxiety is so intense that it actively interferes with their ability to do math they actually understand.

The relationship between math anxiety and dyscalculia is tangled. Math anxiety can develop as a result of dyscalculia (years of failing at math naturally produces fear of it), but it can also develop independently in people without any underlying numerical processing difference. And once present, math anxiety produces symptoms that look like dyscalculia—working memory gets consumed by anxiety, leaving less capacity for actual calculation. This makes accurate diagnosis genuinely difficult.

The instructional environment plays a huge role. Timed tests, public board work, and "math facts" drills are particularly anxiety-producing for students who process numbers differently. Many adults with math anxiety can trace it back to a specific classroom experience where they were humiliated or singled out for not being fast enough.

References

• Ashcraft, M. H., & Krause, J. A. (2007). Working memory, math performance, and math anxiety. Psychonomic Bulletin & Review, 14(2), 243-248.

Misophonia literally means "hatred of sound," but it's more accurately described as a strong, involuntary emotional and physiological response to specific trigger sounds. Common triggers include chewing, lip-smacking, pen-clicking, sniffling, keyboard typing, and repetitive tapping. The response isn't proportional to the sound's volume—a quiet chew can be as triggering as a loud one.

What distinguishes misophonia from simple annoyance is the intensity and involuntary nature of the reaction. Trigger sounds produce an immediate fight-or-flight response: rage, panic, disgust, or an overwhelming need to escape. The person isn't choosing to be upset—their nervous system is treating the sound as a threat. Heart rate increases, muscles tense, and the person may experience a surge of adrenaline that takes minutes or hours to subside.

Misophonia frequently co-occurs with autism, ADHD, and anxiety, which makes sense given the shared sensory processing differences. It's increasingly recognized as a distinct neurological condition rather than a psychological quirk, with research pointing to differences in how the brain's salience network responds to specific auditory patterns.

References

• Kumar, S., et al. (2017). The Brain Basis for Misophonia. Current Biology, 27(4), 527-533.

Motivation deficit in ADHD isn't about not caring or not wanting to act. It's about the neurological gap between intention and activation. You want to do the thing. You know it matters. You can see exactly what needs to happen. But the internal engine that converts "I should" into "I am" doesn't fire reliably.

This happens because motivation is largely driven by dopamine, and ADHD brains have differences in dopamine regulation. Neurotypical motivation works like a sliding scale: the more important something is, the more motivated you feel. ADHD motivation is more binary: either the task generates enough interest, novelty, urgency, or emotional charge to activate the system, or it doesn't—regardless of how important it is. This is why you can spend hours on a passion project but can't start a tax return that's due tomorrow.

Understanding this as neurological rather than moral changes everything. It means the solution isn't "try harder" (which treats motivation as a character issue) but "change the conditions" (which treats motivation as a brain chemistry issue). Adding urgency, novelty, accountability, or interest to a task isn't cheating—it's engineering the dopamine conditions your brain needs to engage.

References

• Volkow, N. D., et al. (2009). Evaluating dopamine reward pathway in ADHD. JAMA, 302(10), 1084-1091.

Neurodiversity is the idea that neurological differences—ADHD, autism, dyslexia, Tourette syndrome, and others—are a normal part of human variation rather than defects to be fixed. The term was developed by Australian sociologist Judy Singer in her 1998 thesis and published in 1999, drawing a parallel to biodiversity: just as ecosystems thrive through variation, so does humanity.

The neurodiversity framework doesn't deny that neurological differences can be disabling. It challenges the assumption that there's one correct way for a brain to work and that everyone who deviates from that standard is broken. This matters because the "broken brain" narrative shapes everything from how diagnoses are delivered to how support systems are designed—and it often causes more harm than the conditions themselves.

Neurodiversity is a fact about populations, not about individuals. You don't "have neurodiversity" the way you might have ADHD. The term describes the full range of neurological variation within a group. The related terms "neurodivergent" and "neurotypical" describe individuals.

References

• Singer, J. (1999). "Why can't you be normal for once in your life?" In M. Corker & S. French (Eds.), Disability Discourse. Open University Press.
• NeuroDiversity: The Birth of an Idea by Judy Singer (2017) (Book)

Neurodivergent means your neurology diverges from the dominant societal standard. The term was coined by Kassiane Asasumasu, a multiply-neurodivergent activist, as a way to describe individuals within the neurodiversity framework. Where "neurodiversity" describes the fact that brains vary across populations, "neurodivergent" describes a specific person whose brain works differently from the norm.

The term is intentionally broad. It can include people with ADHD, autism, dyslexia, dyspraxia, Tourette syndrome, OCD, epilepsy, and other neurological variations. Some people also include acquired neurological differences like traumatic brain injury. There's no official checklist—the term is a self-identification tool, not a clinical diagnosis.

What makes the term useful is its neutrality. It describes difference without implying deficit. Saying "I'm neurodivergent" doesn't carry the same weight as listing diagnoses, and for many people it provides a way to talk about their experiences without pathologizing language.

References

• Neuroqueer Heresies by Nick Walker (2021)—discusses the origins and definitions of neurodiversity terminology (Book)

Neurotypical describes someone whose brain functions in ways that society considers standard or expected. The term exists as a counterpart to "neurodivergent," and its purpose isn't to create an us-vs-them divide—it's to name a default that usually goes unnamed.

Before "neurotypical" existed, the only options were "normal" and "not normal." That framing puts all the weight on the neurodivergent person to explain their difference. Having a word for the majority experience makes it possible to talk about neurological differences without implying that one side is the standard and the other is the deviation.

The term originated in autistic communities in the late 1990s, initially sometimes used sarcastically ("neurotypical syndrome"), but has settled into a genuinely useful piece of vocabulary. It's not an insult—it's a description. And it's important because it makes visible the fact that "typical" is just one way of being, not the only way.

References

• Neuroqueer Heresies by Nick Walker (2021) (Book)

Number sense is the innate ability to perceive and understand quantities without counting. It's what tells you that a group of seven objects is "more" than a group of three, that 100 is closer to 90 than to 50, and that dividing a pizza among four people means smaller slices than dividing it among two. Most people develop this sense naturally in early childhood; for people with dyscalculia, it doesn't develop reliably.

When number sense is impaired, math isn't just difficult—it's disorienting. Numbers don't carry intuitive meaning. A person might memorize that 7 x 8 = 56 without any felt sense of why, or struggle to estimate whether a grocery bill seems right because quantities don't "feel" like anything. This isn't a failure of intelligence or effort; it's a neurological difference in how the brain processes numerical information.

Understanding number sense is important because it explains why traditional math instruction often fails for dyscalculic learners. Drilling multiplication tables doesn't build number sense any more than memorizing a dictionary builds reading comprehension. Effective approaches start with concrete, visual, and embodied representations of quantity before moving to abstract symbols.

References

• Butterworth, B. (2005). The development of arithmetical abilities. Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, 46(1), 3-18.
• The Number Sense by Stanislas Dehaene (Book)

Neuronormativity is the set of unspoken assumptions that treat one particular cognitive style—neurotypical—as the default, the ideal, and the measure against which all other brains are judged. It's the water we all swim in: schools are designed for neurotypical learners, workplaces are designed for neurotypical workers, and social norms are calibrated to neurotypical communication and behavior.

The concept works similarly to other "normativity" frameworks. Just as heteronormativity assumes heterosexuality is the default and everyone else must explain themselves, neuronormativity assumes neurotypical functioning is standard and neurodivergent people must justify, compensate for, or apologize for their differences.

Neuronormativity is powerful precisely because it's invisible to those who fit within it. A neurotypical person rarely has to think about why meetings are structured the way they are, why job interviews reward eye contact and small talk, or why schools measure intelligence through timed written tests. These structures feel natural and neutral—but they're not. They're designed around one type of brain and experienced as barriers by many others.

References

• Neuroqueer Heresies by Nick Walker (2021) (Book)

Neurodiversity at work encompasses both the business case and the human case for building workplaces that value and accommodate different kinds of thinking. The business case is increasingly well-documented: cognitively diverse teams are better at problem-solving, innovation, and quality assurance. The human case is simpler: neurodivergent people deserve to work in environments where they can succeed.

Companies like SAP, Microsoft, JPMorgan Chase, and others have launched neurodiversity hiring programs that redesign interview processes, provide workplace accommodations, and pair neurodivergent employees with mentors. These programs have shown strong results—not because neurodivergent people were given advantages, but because barriers were removed that had been preventing their contributions.

The deeper shift isn't about special programs for special people. It's about recognizing that traditional workplace norms—open offices, real-time verbal communication, rigid schedules, social-performance-based interviews—were designed for one kind of brain and accidentally exclude many others. Fixing this isn't charity; it's organizational design.

References

• Austin, R. D., & Pisano, G. P. (2017). Neurodiversity as a Competitive Advantage. Harvard Business Review.

In developmental psychology, object permanence is the understanding that objects continue to exist when you can't see them—a skill that develops in infancy. In ADHD communities, the term has been borrowed (somewhat loosely) to describe the experience of things ceasing to exist in your working awareness when they're not directly visible.

This isn't a true lack of object permanence—you know intellectually that the food is in the fridge and your friend still exists. But your brain doesn't maintain active awareness of things outside your current sensory field. The leftovers are forgotten until you clean the fridge and find them. The friend you haven't seen in months drops off your mental radar entirely—not because you don't care, but because your working memory didn't keep them loaded.

This pattern affects everything from organization (if you can't see it, you won't use it) to relationships (if you don't see someone regularly, you forget to reach out) to self-care (if the vitamins are in a cupboard, they don't get taken). The most effective coping strategies involve making important things visible: clear containers, open shelving, regular scheduled contact with friends, and reminders placed in your direct line of sight.

References

• ADDitude Magazine—Understanding ADHD and Object Permanence

OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) is a condition characterized by intrusive, unwanted thoughts (obsessions) and repetitive behaviors or mental acts performed to reduce the anxiety those thoughts create (compulsions). It co-occurs frequently with autism (about 17-37% overlap) and ADHD, and is often misunderstood by the general public as a preference for neatness or organization.

The reality of OCD is far more distressing than the stereotype. Obsessions are ego-dystonic—they go against the person's values and desires. A person might have intrusive thoughts about harming someone they love, contamination fears that prevent them from touching doorknobs, or a persistent doubt that they left the stove on despite checking seven times. The compulsions (checking, washing, counting, arranging, mental reviewing) provide temporary relief but reinforce the cycle.

In neurodivergent people, distinguishing OCD from other traits can be complex. Autistic routines and rigidity can look like OCD compulsions. ADHD's difficulty with cognitive "braking" can feed obsessive thought loops. The key distinction is distress: autistic routines typically feel comforting and desired, while OCD compulsions feel forced and unwanted. Accurate identification matters because the treatment approaches differ significantly.

References

• Meier, S. M., et al. (2015). Obsessive-compulsive disorder and autism spectrum disorders. The Lancet Psychiatry, 2(2), 91-93.

A premonitory urge is the sensory experience that precedes most tics. It's often described as a building pressure, itch, tightness, or uncomfortable sensation in a specific part of the body that intensifies until the tic is performed. Once the tic happens, the sensation temporarily resolves—only to build again.

Not everyone with a tic disorder experiences premonitory urges, but most do. Studies suggest that around 90% of adults with Tourette syndrome report them. Children may be less aware of the sensation or less able to describe it, which is why premonitory urges are sometimes only recognized in retrospect.

Understanding premonitory urges matters because they're central to one of the most effective tic management approaches: Comprehensive Behavioral Intervention for Tics (CBIT). CBIT teaches people to recognize the urge and respond with a competing behavior instead of the tic. This doesn't eliminate the urge, but it gives people more agency over their response to it—which can be genuinely life-changing.

References

• Leckman, J. F., Walker, D. E., & Cohen, D. J. (1993). Premonitory urges in Tourette's syndrome. American Journal of Psychiatry, 150(1), 98-102.

Proprioception is the sense that tells your brain where your body parts are in relation to each other and to the environment. It's why you can touch your nose with your eyes closed, walk without watching your feet, and gauge how much force to use when picking up a glass. When proprioception is unreliable, the physical world becomes harder to navigate.

Proprioceptive differences are common in autism, dyspraxia, and ADHD. They can show up as clumsiness (bumping into doorframes, misjudging distances), difficulty with fine motor tasks, poor posture, or a need for deep pressure input (heavy blankets, tight hugs, compression clothing). The person isn't being careless—their brain is receiving imprecise information about where their body is.

Many people with proprioceptive differences instinctively seek out input that helps calibrate their system: leaning against walls, sitting on their feet, chewing on things, or craving intense physical activity. These behaviors are often regulatory—they're providing the proprioceptive feedback the brain needs to feel grounded in physical space.

References

• Interoception: The Eighth Sensory System by Kelly Mahler (2017)—discusses proprioception alongside other sensory systems (Book)

Perfectionism in neurodivergent people often starts as a survival strategy. When your executive function is unreliable, when you've been criticized for careless mistakes, when you know your brain might miss something obvious—doing everything perfectly feels like the only way to stay safe. If you check the email five times, maybe you won't miss the typo. If you over-prepare, maybe you won't be caught off guard.

The problem is that perfectionism is unsustainable, especially for brains that already burn more energy on routine tasks. The standards keep rising because "good enough" has never been a reliable standard for you. You've been burned by "good enough" before—something slipped through, someone noticed, and the shame was devastating. So the bar goes higher and higher until nothing gets finished because nothing meets the standard.

This creates a painful paradox: the person appears lazy or unproductive, but they're actually paralyzed by standards so high that starting feels pointless. Perfectionism and procrastination are two sides of the same coin—both are responses to the fear that your output will reveal the gaps you're desperately trying to hide.

References

• Curran, T., & Hill, A. P. (2019). Perfectionism is increasing over time. Psychological Bulletin, 145(4), 410-429.

Perseveration is the involuntary repetition of a particular response—a thought, a word, a behavior, an activity—beyond the point where it serves a purpose. It's different from a habit or preference; perseveration happens because the brain's "switching" mechanism isn't responding. You want to move on. You can't.

In ADHD, perseveration might look like replaying an awkward conversation in your head for hours, or continuing to research a topic long after you've found the answer you needed. In autism, it can involve difficulty transitioning between activities, returning to the same topic repeatedly in conversation, or getting locked into a routine that's no longer functional. In both cases, the underlying issue is the same: the brain's ability to shift attention or behavior is impaired.

Perseveration can be confused with obsession, but the mechanism is different. Obsessive thoughts are driven by anxiety; perseveration is driven by cognitive inflexibility. You're not stuck because you're worried—you're stuck because your brain's gear-shift isn't engaging.

References

• Ozonoff, S., & Jensen, J. (1999). Brief report: Specific executive function profiles in three neurodevelopmental disorders. Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders, 29(2), 171-177.

Pathological demand avoidance (PDA) is a profile increasingly recognized within the autism spectrum, characterized by an overwhelming, anxiety-based need to avoid or resist demands. The "demands" aren't just instructions from others—they include self-imposed expectations, routine tasks, and even activities the person wants to do. The avoidance isn't willful defiance; it's a nervous system response to perceived threats to autonomy.

PDA presents differently from typical autism in ways that often delay or prevent diagnosis. People with PDA may be socially motivated (unlike the stereotype of autistic social withdrawal), use sophisticated avoidance strategies (humor, distraction, excuses, taking control of situations), and appear comfortable in social settings while internally being in constant fight-or-flight about demands.

The demand avoidance can apply to anything: getting dressed, eating meals, going to school, attending events they're looking forward to, or following their own plans. The intensity can fluctuate—some days a simple request is manageable, other days it triggers a panic response. Traditional behavioral approaches (reward charts, consequences, firm boundaries) typically make PDA worse because they increase the perceived demand.

References

• Newson, E., Le Maréchal, K., & David, C. (2003). Pathological demand avoidance syndrome. Archives of Disease in Childhood, 88(7), 595-600.

Prosopagnosia, commonly called face blindness, is the inability or difficulty recognizing faces. It ranges from mild (difficulty recognizing acquaintances out of context) to severe (not recognizing family members or one's own face in a mirror). The condition is more prevalent in autistic populations than in the general population, though it can occur independently.

People with prosopagnosia typically develop workarounds: recognizing others by hairstyle, voice, clothing, gait, context, or distinctive features. These strategies work until they don't—when someone changes their hairstyle, or when you encounter them in an unexpected location. The social consequences can be significant: accidentally ignoring someone you know, failing to recognize a colleague at a conference, or not recognizing a friend who's waving at you from across the street.

Prosopagnosia isn't about not paying attention or not caring about people. It's a specific difference in how the brain's fusiform face area processes facial information. Some researchers believe the higher prevalence in autistic people relates to broader differences in how autistic brains process visual information—focusing on details rather than the holistic gestalt of a face.

References

• Barton, J. J. S. (2008). Structure and function in acquired prosopagnosia. Cognitive Neuropsychology, 25(5-6), 535-607.

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria describes the overwhelming emotional pain triggered by the perception—real or imagined—of being rejected, criticized, or falling short. For people with ADHD, this isn't garden-variety hurt feelings. RSD can feel like a physical gut-punch that derails your entire day.

RSD operates on a hair trigger: a slightly flat tone in a text message, a raised eyebrow in a meeting, or constructive feedback on a project can set off an emotional firestorm that feels completely disproportionate to the trigger. The pain is real and intense, even when the logical brain knows the reaction doesn't match the situation.

RSD can drive three common behavioral patterns: people-pleasing to an extreme (avoiding any possibility of rejection), avoiding situations where rejection is possible (not applying for jobs, not sharing work, not initiating social contact), or intense emotional outbursts that feel uncontrollable. Understanding RSD helps explain why many people with ADHD struggle with perfectionism, social anxiety, and relationship patterns that seem irrational from the outside.

References

• Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria: The Emotional Intensity of ADHD
• Dodson, W. (2019). Emotional Regulation and Rejection Sensitivity. ADDitude Magazine.
• CHADD—Understanding ADHD Emotions

Reasonable accommodations are modifications or adjustments to a job, work environment, or hiring process that enable a qualified person with a disability to participate equally. Under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) and similar laws in other countries, employers are legally required to provide reasonable accommodations unless doing so would cause "undue hardship."

For neurodivergent employees, accommodations might include written instructions instead of verbal ones, noise-canceling headphones in open offices, flexible scheduling, permission to work from home, extra time on written tasks, or regular check-ins instead of annual reviews. The key word is "reasonable"—the accommodation needs to be effective for the employee without fundamentally altering the nature of the job.

Many neurodivergent people don't request accommodations because they don't know they can, fear being stigmatized, or don't have a formal diagnosis. Others have found that framing requests in terms of productivity ("I do my best work when...") rather than disability ("I need this because of my ADHD") can be more effective in workplaces that aren't yet disability-literate.

References

• Job Accommodation Network (JAN)

Rumination is the pattern of repeatedly going over past events, conversations, or perceived failures in your mind. Everyone does it sometimes, but for neurodivergent people—especially those with ADHD, autism, or anxiety—rumination can become a consuming, default state that eats hours and disrupts sleep.

The neurodivergent flavor of rumination often has specific triggers. For people with ADHD, rejection sensitive dysphoria can turn a mildly critical comment into hours of replay. For autistic people, social interactions that require real-time decoding of unwritten rules provide endless material for post-event analysis: "Did I say the wrong thing? Was that look meaningful? Should I have laughed there?"

What makes rumination especially tricky is that it feels productive. Your brain tells you that if you just replay the conversation one more time, you'll figure out what went wrong and prevent it next time. But rumination doesn't solve problems—it rehearses pain. The exit usually isn't more analysis; it's interrupting the loop through sensory input, physical movement, or deliberate attention redirection.

References

• Nolen-Hoeksema, S. (2000). The role of rumination in depressive disorders and mixed anxiety/depressive symptoms. Journal of Abnormal Psychology, 109(3), 504-511.

Revenge bedtime procrastination is the decision to delay sleep in order to carve out leisure time that the day didn't provide. The "revenge" is against a schedule that left no room for your own interests, your own pace, or your own choices. The late-night hours feel like the only time that truly belongs to you—even though you know you'll pay for it tomorrow.

For neurodivergent people, this pattern is amplified by several factors. ADHD brains are often more alert and creative at night, when external demands quiet down and dopamine-seeking can happen freely. The executive dysfunction that made the day exhausting also makes it hard to initiate the bedtime routine. And the emotional need for unstructured, self-directed time is greater when you've spent the day masking, compensating, and meeting neurotypical expectations.

The term originated in Chinese social media culture (bàofùxìng áoyè, "revenge staying up late") and resonated globally because the experience is universal—but especially intense for people whose days require more cognitive and emotional labor than the average person realizes.

References

• Kroese, F. M., et al. (2016). Bedtime procrastination: Introducing a new area of procrastination. Frontiers in Psychology, 7, 587.

Regulation refers to the ability to manage your internal state—emotional, sensory, physiological, and cognitive—in response to changing demands. Self-regulation means managing this internally; co-regulation means doing it with the support of another person. Both are essential, and both work differently in neurodivergent people.

For many neurodivergent people, self-regulation is less automatic and more effortful. A neurotypical person might unconsciously adjust their emotional response in a stressful meeting. A neurodivergent person may need to consciously deploy a strategy—deep breathing, fidgeting, reframing—and even then, the regulation may be unreliable. This isn't a skill deficit; it's a difference in the neurological systems that support automatic regulation.

Co-regulation—using another person's calm presence to help regulate your own state—is especially important for neurodivergent people and is often underrecognized in adults. A partner who sits quietly with you during overwhelm, a friend who helps you process an emotional event, or a therapist who provides a regulated presence are all forms of co-regulation. The cultural emphasis on self-regulation as the only "mature" approach misses the reality that all humans need co-regulation—neurodivergent people may just need it more visibly.

References

• Porges, S. W. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory. W. W. Norton & Company.

Sensory overload happens when the brain receives more sensory information than it can effectively process. For neurotypical people, the brain automatically filters out background noise, visual clutter, and minor physical sensations. For many neurodivergent people, this filter works differently—or doesn't work at all—meaning everything comes in at full volume, all the time.

Overload can build gradually (a long day of fluorescent lights and open-plan office noise) or hit suddenly (walking into a crowded, loud restaurant). The experience varies: some people describe it as physical pain, others as a feeling of drowning, and others as their brain "shutting off" to protect itself.

Sensory overload is a key feature of autism and sensory processing differences, but it also affects people with ADHD, PTSD, and other conditions. It's not a preference or a mood—it's a neurological event. Understanding this helps reframe behaviors like leaving events early, wearing noise-canceling headphones, or needing recovery time after social outings as legitimate self-regulation, not antisocial behavior.

References

• Marco, E. J., et al. (2011). Sensory Processing in Autism. International Review of Neurobiology, 113, 49-75.

A special interest is a deep, focused engagement with a particular subject, activity, or domain that is characteristic of autistic experience. Unlike casual hobbies, special interests often involve an encyclopedic depth of knowledge, significant time investment, and a level of joy and satisfaction that's hard to find elsewhere.

Special interests can last years or a lifetime, or they can rotate through phases. They serve important functions: emotional regulation (returning to a special interest when stressed), identity and self-expression, social connection (finding community around shared interests), and genuine expertise. Many autistic people build careers around their special interests.

The clinical literature has historically pathologized special interests as "restricted" or "repetitive" behaviors, but the autistic community widely rejects this framing. For most autistic people, special interests are a source of meaning, competence, and happiness—not a problem to be solved. The issue arises only when external demands prevent someone from engaging with their interests, or when interests are dismissed as "obsessive."

References

• Grove, R., et al. (2018). Special Interests and Subjective Wellbeing in Autistic Adults. Research in Autism Spectrum Disorders, 25, 100-105.

Spoon theory was created by Christine Miserandino in 2003 to explain the experience of living with lupus, but it has been widely adopted by the neurodivergent and disabled communities as a way to communicate about energy management.

The core idea: imagine you start each day with a limited number of "spoons." Every activity—getting dressed, commuting, having a conversation, making a decision, managing sensory input—costs one or more spoons. Neurotypical and non-disabled people might have a large supply that replenishes easily. People with chronic illness, neurodivergent conditions, or disabilities often start with fewer spoons, and activities that seem "easy" to others can cost significantly more.

The power of spoon theory is that it makes invisible energy costs visible and communicable. Saying "I'm out of spoons" is a quick way to say "I physically and mentally cannot do more right now, and it's not about willpower or interest." It's especially useful for explaining why someone can seem fine one day and completely depleted the next—the spoon count varies.

References

• Miserandino, C. (2003). The Spoon Theory. ButYouDontLookSick.com

Stimming (short for self-stimulatory behavior) includes any repetitive action that provides sensory input: rocking, hand-flapping, spinning, humming, clicking pens, chewing things, fidgeting, tapping, hair-twirling, or countless other variations. Everyone stims to some degree (think: bouncing your leg in a boring meeting), but stimming is more frequent, more necessary, and more varied in autistic and ADHD experience.

Stimming serves multiple functions. It can help regulate overwhelming emotions (rocking when anxious), provide needed sensory input (chewing stim toys for oral input), process information (pacing while thinking), express excitement or joy (hand-flapping when happy), or simply feel good. It's not a behavior problem—it's a regulatory tool.

Historically, many therapies (especially ABA) aimed to eliminate stimming, treating it as a behavior to be suppressed. The neurodivergent community has pushed back strongly against this approach, arguing that suppressing stims removes a vital coping mechanism and teaches people that their natural responses are shameful. The modern understanding is that stims should be supported unless they're genuinely self-harmful.

References

• Kapp, S. K., et al. (2019). "People should be allowed to do what they like": Autistic adults' views and experiences of stimming. Autism, 23(7), 1782-1792.

Sensory processing differences describe the wide range of ways neurodivergent brains handle sensory input differently from the statistical norm. This can include hypersensitivity (experiencing sensory input as more intense), hyposensitivity (needing more input to register it), or a combination of both across different senses.

A person might be hypersensitive to sound (a ticking clock is unbearable) while being hyposensitive to pain (not noticing a cut until they see blood). These profiles are highly individual—no two people have the same sensory landscape.

Sensory processing differences are central to the autistic experience but also affect people with ADHD, SPD (Sensory Processing Disorder), and other conditions. Understanding your own sensory profile is one of the most practical tools for managing daily life—it transforms confusing meltdowns and shutdowns into predictable, manageable responses to identifiable triggers.

References

• Crane, L., et al. (2009). Sensory processing in adults with autism spectrum disorders. Autism, 13(3), 215-228.

A shutdown is a meltdown's quieter sibling. Where a meltdown involves an outward explosion of emotion, a shutdown involves an inward collapse. The person may become nonverbal or limited in speech, physically still, emotionally flat, and seemingly "checked out." It's the nervous system's way of slamming the brakes when everything is too much.

Shutdowns can be harder to recognize than meltdowns because they don't look dramatic from the outside. A person in shutdown might seem like they're just being quiet, distant, or unresponsive. Internally, they may feel frozen, foggy, unable to process language, or dissociated from their surroundings. It's not a choice to withdraw—it's a protective neurological response.

Shutdowns can be triggered by the same things that cause meltdowns: sensory overload, social exhaustion, cognitive demands, emotional stress, or an accumulation of smaller stressors. Some people tend toward meltdowns, others toward shutdowns, and many experience both at different times. Recovery requires time, reduced demands, and often a low-stimulation environment.

References

• National Autistic Society—Shutdowns

Safe foods are the foods a person can consistently eat without triggering sensory distress. For many autistic people and others with sensory processing differences, eating isn't just about taste—it's about texture, temperature, smell, appearance, and predictability. A food that was fine yesterday might be intolerable today if the texture is slightly different, or if it's a different brand, or if it looks wrong on the plate.

The clinical literature calls this "food selectivity," and it affects an estimated 50-89% of autistic children. But framing it as selectivity implies choice. For people living it, there's nothing selective about it—certain foods trigger genuine sensory distress, from gagging to nausea to meltdowns. Safe foods are the ones that don't.

Safe foods tend to share certain qualities: predictable texture, consistent flavor, familiar appearance. This is why many people with sensory processing differences gravitate toward specific brands, specific preparations, and foods they've eaten many times before. The goal isn't variety—it's reliability. And that's a perfectly valid way to eat.

References

• Cermak, S. A., Curtin, C., & Bandini, L. G. (2010). Food Selectivity and Sensory Sensitivity in Children with Autism Spectrum Disorders. Journal of the American Dietetic Association, 110(2), 238-246.

Stealth dyslexia describes the pattern where a person's strong cognitive abilities hide their dyslexic processing differences. They read at or above grade level, score well on tests, and appear to have no reading problems—but underneath, they're working two or three times harder than their peers to achieve those results. The dyslexia is there; it's just invisible.

This is a form of twice-exceptionality: the giftedness and the learning difference cancel each other out in the metrics that schools and clinicians use to identify problems. The student reads slowly but compensates with context clues and vocabulary. They misspell words but produce such strong content that teachers overlook the errors. They avoid reading aloud but nobody notices because they participate in other ways.

The cost of stealth dyslexia shows up over time. As academic demands increase, compensation strategies require more and more energy. Many people with stealth dyslexia describe hitting a wall in high school, college, or the workplace when the sheer volume of reading finally outpaces their ability to compensate. By then, years of unrecognized struggle have often taken a toll on confidence and mental health.

References

• The Dyslexic Advantage by Brock L. Eide & Fernette F. Eide (Book)

Self-diagnosis is the process of recognizing your own neurodivergence through research, community connection, and careful comparison with your lived experience, without obtaining a formal clinical diagnosis. In neurodivergent communities, self-diagnosis is widely accepted as valid—and for good reason.

Formal diagnosis is expensive, time-consuming, and inaccessible for many people. In the United States, an adult ADHD or autism assessment can cost $2,000-5,000 without insurance. Waitlists can stretch months or years. And diagnostic criteria were historically developed around white, male, childhood presentations—meaning women, people of color, and adults are systematically under-identified even when they do access assessment.

Self-diagnosis isn't about skipping rigor. Most self-diagnosed people have done extensive research, taken validated screening tools, and spent months or years comparing their experiences to clinical descriptions and community accounts. They're not claiming a label casually—they're recognizing a pattern that explains their life. The question isn't whether self-diagnosis is "real" but whether formal diagnosis should be the only acceptable path to self-understanding and community.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price—discusses the validity and importance of self-identification (Book)

The social model of disability draws a distinction between impairment (a physical, sensory, or cognitive difference) and disability (the disadvantage caused by a society that doesn't accommodate that difference). Under this model, a wheelchair user isn't disabled by their legs—they're disabled by stairs. An autistic person isn't disabled by their neurology—they're disabled by environments that demand constant masking, sensory endurance, and social performance.

This framework emerged from disability rights activism in the 1970s and 1980s, primarily through the work of disabled scholars like Mike Oliver. It challenged the medical model, which treats disability as a problem located inside the individual that needs to be cured or managed. The social model doesn't deny that impairments exist or that they can be painful—it argues that much of the suffering attributed to disability is actually caused by inaccessible design, discriminatory attitudes, and structural exclusion.

For neurodivergent communities, the social model is foundational. It's the intellectual basis for arguing that the solution to ADHD in the workplace isn't medication alone—it's also flexible scheduling, written instructions, and sensory-friendly environments. The problem isn't just inside the person; it's also in the world around them.

References

• Oliver, M. (1983). Social Work with Disabled People. Macmillan.

Scaffolding is a teaching and support strategy that provides temporary structure to help someone accomplish a task they couldn't manage independently. Just like construction scaffolding supports a building during construction and is removed once the structure can stand on its own, cognitive scaffolding provides step-by-step guidance that's gradually reduced as competence develops.

For neurodivergent people, scaffolding addresses the gap between "knowing what to do" and "being able to do it." An ADHD brain might understand every step of a project but be unable to sequence and initiate them without external structure. An autistic brain might grasp the concept but need explicit instruction on each sub-step that a neurotypical person would infer automatically.

Effective scaffolding isn't about making things easier—it's about making the path visible. A complex project becomes five clear steps with checkpoints. An overwhelming decision becomes a structured decision tree. A blank page becomes a template with prompts. The person's intelligence and capability remain the same; the scaffolding just makes those capabilities accessible.

References

• Vygotsky, L. S. (1978). Mind in Society: The Development of Higher Psychological Processes. Harvard University Press.

A strengths-based approach starts with what's working rather than what's broken. Instead of defining a person by their deficits and designing interventions to remediate them, it identifies existing strengths, interests, and capabilities and uses them as the foundation for support, learning, and growth.

This matters in neurodivergent contexts because the deficit model has dominated for decades. Diagnostic processes are entirely focused on what's wrong. IEPs list areas of weakness. Therapy goals target behaviors to eliminate. While understanding challenges is important, an exclusive focus on deficits teaches neurodivergent people that they are problems to be solved rather than people with a distinctive set of strengths and needs.

In practice, a strengths-based approach might mean building a student's curriculum around their special interest, structuring a job role around an employee's areas of hyperfocus, or recognizing that the same brain that struggles with small talk might excel at systems thinking, pattern recognition, or creative problem-solving. The strengths are real—they're just easy to miss when everyone's staring at the deficits.

References

• The Dyslexic Advantage by Brock L. Eide & Fernette F. Eide (Book)

Sensory seeking is the active pursuit of intense sensory experiences. While most conversations about sensory differences focus on overload and avoidance, many neurodivergent people have sensory systems that are under-responsive—they need more input than the environment naturally provides in order to feel alert, grounded, and regulated.

Sensory seeking can involve any sense: craving loud music or bass-heavy sound, seeking out intense flavors and spicy food, wanting deep-pressure hugs or weighted blankets, gravitating toward spinning or swinging, chewing on objects, or constantly touching different textures. These aren't random preferences—they're the nervous system self-medicating with the input it needs.

Many neurodivergent people are both sensory seeking and sensory avoiding, depending on the sense and the context. The same person might crave deep pressure but be overwhelmed by light touch, or seek out loud music through headphones but be distressed by unexpected noise. This isn't contradictory—different sensory channels have different thresholds.

References

• Dunn, W. (1997). The impact of sensory processing abilities on the daily lives of young children and their families. Infants & Young Children, 9(4), 23-35.

A sensory diet is a structured schedule of sensory activities tailored to an individual's specific sensory needs. Just like a food diet provides the nutrients your body needs, a sensory diet provides the sensory input your nervous system needs to function at its best. The concept was developed by occupational therapists Patricia Wilbarger and Julia Wilbarger in the 1990s.

A sensory diet might include scheduled movement breaks (jumping, swinging, heavy lifting), tactile activities (fidget tools, textured objects), proprioceptive input (weighted blanket, compression vest, wall push-ups), oral input (crunchy or chewy snacks, chew jewelry), and environmental adjustments (lighting, noise levels, seating). The specific activities depend entirely on the person's sensory profile—what they seek, what they avoid, and what calms versus alerts their system.

The power of a sensory diet is prevention rather than reaction. Instead of waiting for sensory overload and then trying to recover, a sensory diet proactively provides input that keeps the nervous system regulated throughout the day. For many neurodivergent people, especially children, a well-designed sensory diet dramatically reduces meltdowns, improves focus, and increases tolerance for challenging environments.

References

• Interoception: The Eighth Sensory System by Kelly Mahler (2017) (Book)

A sensory toolkit is a collection of items and strategies that help a neurodivergent person manage their sensory environment. Think of it as a first-aid kit for the nervous system: tools you carry or keep nearby so you can regulate when the environment becomes overwhelming or understimulating.

Common toolkit items include noise-canceling headphones or earplugs for auditory management, sunglasses or tinted lenses for visual sensitivity, fidget tools for tactile and proprioceptive input, chew jewelry for oral sensory needs, a favorite scent (essential oil roller, scented lotion) for olfactory grounding, and comfort items with familiar textures. Digital tools count too: calming playlists, white noise apps, and timer apps for managing transitions.

Building a sensory toolkit is deeply personal. What works for one person's nervous system might be triggering for another's. The process of figuring out what helps is itself valuable—it builds sensory self-awareness and gives you language for your needs. Having the toolkit available also reduces anxiety about entering unpredictable environments, because you know you have backup.

References

• Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight by Sharon Heller (Book)

Scripting is the practice of preparing verbal exchanges in advance: rehearsing what you'll say in a conversation, planning responses to anticipated questions, and mentally running through social scenarios before they happen. For many autistic people, scripting is a core strategy for navigating a social world that doesn't come with intuitive instructions.

Where neurotypical social interaction relies heavily on real-time improvisation—reading cues, generating appropriate responses on the fly, adjusting tone based on feedback—autistic interaction often requires conscious processing of each element. Scripting handles some of this processing in advance, reducing the real-time cognitive load of conversation.

Scripts can range from simple (planning a greeting and a few conversation starters before a party) to extensive (rehearsing every possible branch of an important conversation, including the other person's likely responses). Many autistic people script without realizing it—the practice is so ingrained that it feels like "just thinking about what to say," when in fact the level of preparation far exceeds what neurotypical people do.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)

Selective mutism is a condition where a person is unable to speak in specific social situations—often school, work, or unfamiliar settings—despite speaking fluently in others, typically at home with family. The "selective" part is misleading: the person isn't choosing when to speak. Their speech system shuts down involuntarily in response to anxiety, social pressure, or sensory overload.

Selective mutism is classified as an anxiety disorder in the DSM-5 and frequently co-occurs with autism, social anxiety, and sensory processing differences. In autistic people, it can be particularly complex: the mutism may be triggered not just by anxiety but by cognitive overload, processing demands of real-time conversation, or the energy cost of masking. Some autistic people experience situational mutism as a form of shutdown—the speech system goes offline when overall capacity is exceeded.

The most important thing to understand about selective mutism is that it isn't willful. The person isn't refusing to speak, being rude, or seeking attention. They want to speak—often desperately—and the words simply won't come. Pressure to speak typically makes it worse, while patience and alternative communication methods (writing, typing, gestures) can help bridge the gap.

References

• Muris, P., & Ollendick, T. H. (2015). Children who are anxious in silence: A review on selective mutism. Clinical Child and Family Psychology Review, 18(2), 151-169.

A spiky profile describes the pattern of dramatically uneven abilities that's characteristic of many neurodivergent people. Instead of abilities clustering around a single level (as they tend to in neurotypical development), neurodivergent abilities spike high in some areas and dip low in others. A person might have graduate-level verbal reasoning and elementary-level organizational skills. Or exceptional visual-spatial abilities alongside severe difficulty with reading.

Spiky profiles create unique challenges because the world expects consistency. If you can write a brilliant essay, people assume you can also remember to submit it on time. If you can solve complex mathematical proofs, people assume you can also manage basic life tasks. The gap between peaks and valleys is itself disabling—not because of the valleys alone, but because of the expectations created by the peaks.

This unevenness is also why many neurodivergent people fall through diagnostic cracks. Their strengths mask their struggles. Their IQ scores average out to "normal" even though nothing about their cognitive profile is average. They're "too smart" for disability services and "too struggling" for gifted programs—the spiky profile doesn't fit systems designed for smooth ones.

References

• Divergent Mind by Jenara Nerenberg (Book)

Time blindness is the experience of having an unreliable internal clock. For many people with ADHD, time doesn't feel linear or predictable—it's elastic, inconsistent, and often invisible. You might genuinely not know whether something happened two days ago or two weeks ago, or consistently underestimate how long tasks take by 50% or more.

This isn't carelessness or poor planning (though it causes both). Research suggests that people with ADHD process time differently at a neurological level, particularly in the prefrontal cortex regions responsible for temporal processing. Time exists in two categories for many ADHD brains: "now" and "not now." If something is in the "not now" category, it functionally doesn't exist—which is why a deadline three weeks away feels imaginary until it's suddenly tomorrow.

Time blindness affects every area of life: chronic lateness, missed deadlines, difficulty estimating project timelines, forgetting to eat because hunger "wasn't registering," and poor planning for transitions. The most effective coping strategies involve externalizing time—making it visible through clocks, timers, alarms, and time-blocking.

References

• Barkley, R. A., et al. (2001). Time perception and reproduction in young adults with ADHD. Neuropsychology, 15(3), 351-360.
• Time Anxiety: The Illusion of Urgency and a Better Way to Live by Chris Guillebeau (Book)

Tourette syndrome (TS) is a neurodevelopmental condition defined by the presence of both motor tics (involuntary movements like blinking, head jerking, or shoulder shrugging) and vocal tics (involuntary sounds like throat clearing, sniffing, or repeating words). Tics typically begin in childhood and can wax and wane in frequency and intensity throughout life.

The most common misconception about Tourette's is that it primarily involves involuntary swearing (coprolalia). In reality, coprolalia affects only about 10-15% of people with TS. Most people with Tourette's experience much subtler tics that may not be immediately obvious to others—but the internal experience of trying to suppress them can be exhausting.

Tourette's frequently co-occurs with ADHD (about 60% overlap) and OCD (about 50% overlap). Many people with TS describe tics as being preceded by a premonitory urge—an uncomfortable sensation that builds until the tic is performed, similar to the need to sneeze. Suppressing tics is possible briefly but requires significant mental effort, and the tics often come back stronger afterward.

References

• Tourette Association of America

Task initiation is exactly what it sounds like: the ability to start doing something. For most people, the gap between "I should do this" and actually doing it is small. For people with ADHD and other executive function differences, that gap can stretch into hours, days, or weeks—even for tasks they genuinely want to do.

The difficulty isn't about the task itself. A person with task initiation struggles can't start easy things either. The problem is neurological: the brain struggles to generate the activation energy needed to transition from "thinking about doing" to "doing." It's like having a car with a faulty ignition—the engine works fine once it turns over, but getting it started is unreliable.

Task initiation is closely related to ADHD paralysis, but it's more specific. While paralysis often involves overwhelm or too many options, task initiation difficulty can happen even when there's only one clear thing to do and no emotional barrier. The bridge between intention and action simply doesn't fire on demand.

References

• Smart but Scattered by Peg Dawson & Richard Guare (Book)

Twice-exceptional (often abbreviated 2e) describes people who are intellectually gifted while also having a learning disability, ADHD, autism, or another neurodivergent condition. The "twice" refers to being exceptional in two ways—exceptional ability and exceptional challenge.

The core problem with being 2e is masking in both directions. Giftedness can compensate for learning differences, making the disability invisible ("she's so smart, she can't have ADHD"). And the disability can mask giftedness, pulling performance down to average and hiding the exceptional ability underneath ("his grades are fine, he's not gifted"). The result is often a person who appears "average" but is actually working twice as hard to achieve that appearance.

This double-masking effect means 2e individuals are frequently identified as neither gifted nor disabled, falling through both sets of cracks. They often receive less support than someone with a visible disability and less challenge than someone with recognized giftedness—leading to frustration, underachievement, and a persistent feeling of "I know I can do better than this, but I can't figure out how."

References

• Misdiagnosis and Dual Diagnoses of Gifted Children and Adults by James T. Webb et al. (Book)

Tics are involuntary, rapid, repetitive movements or vocalizations. Motor tics include blinking, head jerking, shoulder shrugging, facial grimacing, or more complex sequences like touching objects or mimicking gestures. Vocal tics include throat clearing, sniffing, coughing, or more complex sounds like repeating words or phrases.

Tics are the defining feature of tic disorders, which the DSM-5 classifies under neurodevelopmental conditions. Tourette syndrome requires both motor and vocal tics lasting more than a year with onset before age 18. Other tic disorders involve either motor or vocal tics but not both. Tics typically begin in childhood between ages 5-7, often peak in early adolescence, and may lessen in adulthood—though many adults continue to experience them.

Most people with tics describe a premonitory urge—an uncomfortable sensation that builds before the tic, similar to the feeling before a sneeze. Suppressing tics is possible for short periods but takes enormous mental effort, and the tics often rebound more intensely afterward. This is why telling someone to "just stop" is both unhelpful and exhausting to hear.

References

• Tourette Association of America
• American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition (DSM-5). Tic Disorders section.

Time anxiety is the chronic sense that you don't have enough time—not for a specific deadline, but in general. It's the feeling that life is slipping away, that you're behind where you should be, and that the clock is always working against you. While anyone can experience time anxiety, it hits neurodivergent people especially hard because it layers on top of existing difficulties with time perception, executive function, and self-regulation.

For people with ADHD, time anxiety often compounds time blindness. You already can't feel time passing reliably, and the anxiety about that unreliability creates a feedback loop: you're anxious because you lose track of time, and the anxiety itself makes it harder to engage with the present moment. The result is a constant low-level dread that something is being forgotten, missed, or wasted.

Time anxiety is different from being busy or stressed about a deadline. It's an existential discomfort with your relationship to time itself. It shows up as compulsive clock-checking, guilt during rest, difficulty being present, and the nagging sense that no matter what you're doing, you should be doing something else. Recognizing it as a pattern—rather than a personal failure—is the first step toward a healthier relationship with time.

References

• Time Anxiety: The Illusion of Urgency and a Better Way to Live by Chris Guillebeau (Book)
• Barkley, R. A., et al. (2001). Time perception and reproduction in young adults with ADHD. Neuropsychology, 15(3), 351-360.

Task switching is the process of shifting your attention from one task to another. For everyone, there's a cognitive cost to switching—research calls it "switch cost" and measures it in reaction time and error rates. For neurodivergent people, particularly those with ADHD and autism, this cost is substantially higher.

ADHD brains struggle with task switching because disengaging from the current focus requires executive function that may be depleted or unreliable. If you're hyperfocused, switching feels physically painful. If you're in a state of paralysis, switching to a new task requires even more activation energy than starting from scratch. Autistic brains struggle because of monotropic attention patterns and the difficulty of state-change (autistic inertia).

The practical impact is enormous. Open-plan offices with constant interruptions, jobs that require frequent context-switching, and days with many short meetings separated by gaps too small for deep work—these are all environments optimized for brains that switch cheaply. For brains that don't, each switch costs time, energy, and quality.

References

• Monsell, S. (2003). Task switching. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 7(3), 134-140.

Unmasking is the process of recognizing and gradually releasing the neurotypical performance that many neurodivergent people have maintained for years or decades. It's the companion concept to masking, and it often begins after diagnosis or self-identification when someone finally has language for what they've been doing.

Unmasking isn't a single decision—it's a gradual, often messy process. It might mean allowing yourself to stim in public, being honest about sensory needs, stopping the constant monitoring of your facial expressions, or simply admitting when you're overwhelmed instead of pushing through. Each of these changes can feel both liberating and terrifying.

The process isn't straightforward because masking served a purpose: social survival. Dropping the mask can mean real social consequences—confusion from people who "knew" a different version of you, workplace friction, or strained relationships. Many people unmask selectively, choosing safe contexts first and expanding slowly. There's no right pace or endpoint.

References

• Unmasking Autism by Devon Price (Book)

Universal design is the principle of creating things that work for as many people as possible without requiring adaptation or special accommodation. Curb cuts were designed for wheelchair users but benefit parents with strollers, delivery workers with carts, and travelers with rolling luggage. Captioned videos were designed for deaf viewers but help people watching in noisy environments, non-native speakers, and anyone scrolling with the sound off.

In the neurodivergent context, universal design means building workplaces, classrooms, and systems that accommodate cognitive diversity by default. Written agendas sent before meetings help everyone, but they're essential for people with ADHD or auditory processing differences. Flexible deadlines help everyone manage workload, but they're critical for people whose executive function fluctuates. Quiet spaces help everyone focus, but they're necessary for people with sensory processing differences.

The power of universal design is that it removes the disclosure requirement. When a building has ramps, nobody needs to "come out" as a wheelchair user to get inside. When a classroom offers multiple ways to demonstrate learning, nobody needs to disclose dyslexia to succeed. The accommodation is built into the system, not bolted on after someone asks.

References

• CAST (2018). Universal Design for Learning Guidelines version 2.2.

Working memory is the cognitive system that temporarily holds information so you can use it. It's what lets you remember a phone number long enough to dial it, follow multi-step instructions, or keep track of what you were saying mid-sentence. It's different from long-term memory—working memory is about what you can actively hold and process right now.

In ADHD, working memory capacity is often reduced. This doesn't mean you're less intelligent—it means your brain's "scratch pad" is smaller. You might walk into a room and forget why, lose track of a conversation mid-sentence, or need to re-read the same paragraph multiple times because the information doesn't stick during the first pass.

Working memory deficits also explain why verbal instructions can be so difficult for people with ADHD. By the time someone finishes a three-step instruction, the first step has already evaporated. This is why written instructions, checklists, and external memory aids aren't crutches—they're accommodations for a genuine neurological difference.

References

• Kasper, L. J., et al. (2012). Moderators of working memory deficits in children with ADHD. Journal of Abnormal Child Psychology, 40(5), 735-747.

Waiting mode is what happens when you have an appointment at 3 PM and your entire morning becomes unusable. You know you have hours of free time. You have a list of things you could do. But your brain won't engage with any of them because it's locked onto the upcoming event, monitoring the clock, afraid of losing track of time and being late.

This isn't laziness or poor time management. It's a collision between time blindness and executive dysfunction. ADHD brains struggle to feel the passage of time, which makes it genuinely hard to trust yourself to transition smoothly from one activity to another. Your brain's solution is to stop everything and wait—because starting something risks losing track of time and missing the appointment.

The result is entire days consumed by a single one-hour event. Many people with ADHD describe scheduling a morning appointment as "ruining the whole day" because nothing else gets done before or after it. The mental energy spent monitoring the clock is exhausting, even though from the outside it looks like you're doing nothing.

References

• Barkley, R. A., et al. (2001). Time perception and reproduction in young adults with ADHD. Neuropsychology, 15(3), 351-360.

Workplace accommodations are the concrete changes that translate the legal concept of "reasonable accommodations" into everyday reality. They're the specific adjustments to environment, schedule, communication, or process that allow a neurodivergent employee to do their best work.

Common accommodations include noise-canceling headphones or a quiet workspace for sensory management; flexible scheduling or remote work for people whose energy and focus fluctuate; written instructions and agendas instead of verbal-only communication; regular check-ins instead of annual reviews; permission to use fidget tools or take movement breaks; and adjusted lighting to reduce sensory stress.

The challenge isn't usually the accommodation itself—most are simple and inexpensive. The challenge is the culture around requesting them. Many neurodivergent employees don't ask because they fear being seen as high-maintenance, not a team player, or less capable. Others don't know they can ask, or don't have the diagnosis they believe is required. Creating a workplace where accommodations are normalized—not exceptional—benefits everyone, not just neurodivergent employees.

References

• Job Accommodation Network (JAN)

The Wall of Awful is a concept developed by ADHD coach Brendan Mahan to describe the emotional barrier that stands between a person with ADHD and a task they need to complete. It's not the task itself that's the problem—it's the accumulated emotional weight of every previous failure, criticism, and shame experience connected to similar tasks.

Every time you tried to clean your apartment and couldn't finish, a brick was added to the wall. Every time a teacher said "you're so smart, if you'd just apply yourself," another brick. Every missed deadline, every disappointed look, every time you promised yourself "this time will be different" and it wasn't—each experience adds to a wall that must be climbed before the task can even begin.

This explains why some tasks feel disproportionately difficult. Writing an email isn't hard. But writing an email when your Wall of Awful includes every email you forgot to send, every response you agonized over, and every time someone was upset by your delayed reply—that email becomes a mountain. The task hasn't changed; the emotional barrier in front of it has grown.

References

• ADHD Essentials Podcast by Brendan Mahan—The Wall of Awful