What Does It Mean to Be Neurodivergent?
The Concept
In clinical and educational practice, we are often asked to define things precisely. We are trained to diagnose, categorize, and respond. But some concepts resist easy classification—because they are not merely technical. They are philosophical, relational, shaped by systems and history.
Neurodiversity is one of those concepts. It began as a challenge to how we define “normal” cognition and has grown into a framework and a movement. Today, the term neurodivergent appears across clinical, academic, and cultural spaces. But with broad use comes varied interpretations, definitions, and usages—and sometimes more confusion than clarity.
The idea of neurodiversity emerged from autistic self-advocacy in the 1990s, alongside sociological work that challenged deficit-based views of developmental conditions. The core argument was not that neurological differences are free from difficulty, but that many of the challenges faced by neurodivergent individuals are not just internal, but contextual and systemic. Just as biodiversity sustains ecosystems, neurodiversity reflects the cognitive ecology of our species—a natural and necessary variation in brain structure, processing, and perception.
Neurodiversity posits that there is more nuance to terms like ADHD, Autism, and Dyslexia—shifting the lens from disorders to be corrected toward expressions of divergent developmental logics that represent natural human variation. These conditions aren’t inherently pathological or entirely benign. They are patterned divergences from dominant norms, involving fundamental aspects of daily life such as time perception, information processing, and relational styles.
The Individual
Before a person identifies as neurodivergent, they usually experience something else first: tension. Tension between what’s expected and what feels intuitive. Between outer competence and inner dissonance. Between the pace of the world and the rhythm of one’s own mind.
Not fitting. Knowing how to act but not feeling it instinctively. Being overwhelmed by what others consider simple—or unmoved by what they find motivating. Relating to self, others, and language in ways that diverge from the norm. These patterns often fall outside diagnostic language, as they are typically internalized and expressed only in masked or muted forms. The need to avoid scrutiny may lead to perfectionistic strategies designed to maintain the appearance of competence. Many construct personas around the illusion of functionality. Over time, these adaptations to perceived threats result in contorting oneself to meet expectations—often at a significant cost to well-being.
This internal tension becomes burdensome, and is often a distress that remains unspoken—either because it feels unnamable or because the individual doesn’t yet know the right words or how to articulate it. To be neurodivergent is not to have a checklist of symptoms. It is to live with a different operating system—a cognitive architecture that moves through the world at a different rhythm. A different sense of time. A nervous system attuned more deeply to nuance, unpredictability, or intensity.
Being neurodivergent doesn’t always look like a disorder. It might look like the quiet student who works twice as hard to appear average. The professional who excels publicly but crashes privately. The adult who has never received a diagnosis but has always felt a quiet, persistent sense of difference while navigating daily demands. Diagnosis can help. It can provide access, language, and sometimes relief. But it doesn’t answer all the questions, and it cannot fully explain the story behind the struggle.
The System
As neurodiversity gains recognition, so do the questions: What does it encompass? Who belongs under its umbrella? What cognitive profiles and patterns does it describe? Some advocate for an expansive model grounded in self-identification. Others call for clinical definitions to ensure shared understanding and appropriate support. Both positions have merit—but both carry risk. Over-expansion can dilute the term, minimizing the needs of those most affected. Over-definition can exclude and invalidate lived experiences.
If neurodiversity describes a population-level reality—that all minds vary—then neurodivergent describes those whose cognitive patterns diverge in significant and consistent ways. Autism, ADHD, Dyslexia, Dyspraxia, and similar developmental profiles are common examples. Some define this narrowly, requiring formal diagnosis. Others define it experientially, grounded in subjective self-reports of chronic mismatch with one’s environment.
We need language that can hold both identity and impairment, both personal resonance and practical utility. We need terms that invite reflection without erasing real need. At its best, the term neurodivergent shifts the narrative from repair toward recognition. It can offer individuals a framework for understanding themselves and support systemic changes that improve accessibility and care. But it is not a perfect term. It can be romanticized, overused, or co-opted. Like any bridge between person and system, it requires care, precision, and continual dialogue.
The Supporters
For clinicians, neurodiversity invites a shift in orientation—toward something process-focused, relationally attuned, and diagnostically informed. The clinical question becomes: What kind of mind do you have, and how has it learned to adapt? For educators, the challenge is similar: How do we not only accommodate differences, but design learning environments that anticipate them?
These changes demand intellectual humility and deep sensitivity. An openness to what can’t be easily named or measured, yet remains real and valid. A willingness to interrogate the limits of our own assumptions—and an appreciation for how much remains unknown.
You may be reading this wondering about yourself. Feeling like you don’t quite fit. You may not have a diagnosis. Or you may have one that doesn’t feel like it tells the whole story. You may be searching for language that makes your experience feel less alone. Or a framework that makes better sense of what you’ve long felt. Or maybe you’re asking an older, deeper question: What does it mean to be different in a world that rewards sameness?
Neurodiversity does not answer this question—how could it? It is an idea, a concept, a frame. It cannot act on its own. But it can serve as a catalyst. It can offer a container for reflection, and—within the context of therapy—a way to explore your mind’s architecture and how it has been shaped by the world around you.
You don’t need a label to begin reflecting on how you move through the world. You don’t need a category to begin asking what your mind needs to thrive. Finding the right term is not the point. These ideas are guiding images—pointers toward inquiry, growth, and clarity.
That is what therapy offers. Not a verdict, but a space. A space that allows for a steady unfolding—aimed at understanding the patterns you carry and the meaning they hold.