Why I’m Not Celebrating Neurodiversity Week
Every March, Neurodiversity Celebration Week fills my feed with bright colors, cheerful slogans, and calls to “embrace different brains.” I see posts filled with good intentions: inclusion, awareness, acceptance.
And I get it. We want to make space. We want to do better.
But when I sit with how it actually feels to live as a neurodivergent person in this world, I don’t feel like celebrating.
Because what’s being asked of us isn’t true celebration.
It’s tolerance—so long as we perform it the right way.
The World Still Rewards Pretending
We’re told to be ourselves, but punished when we actually do it.
A child is reprimanded for “being disruptive” when they flap their hands in excitement. A student gets detention for refusing to make eye contact. A teen scripts conversations to survive high school, then gets told she’s “too robotic.” An adult holds it together all day at work, only to melt down in the car on the way home—and still shows up the next day, on time, with a smile.
Meanwhile, we’re handed pastel infographics and told this is progress.
We’re praised for being “high-functioning,” but the praise comes with a price: silence, self-erasure, and constant internal monitoring.
I Don’t Want to Be Included If It Costs Me Myself
Inclusion shouldn’t come with terms and conditions.
It shouldn’t mean “act normal and we’ll let you stay.”
And yet, that’s the unspoken rule.
The “good kind” of neurodivergent is quiet. Capable. Consistent.
The kind that doesn’t rock the boat. That doesn’t stim too visibly, need too many breaks, or ask for too many accommodations.
But that’s not me. That’s not most of us.
I don’t want to shape-shift to earn a place at the table. I want to sit at a table that doesn’t require a mask to get in.
What It Could Look Like If We Didn’t Have to Pretend
I’ve seen small, real glimpses of something different.
A workplace that allows voice notes instead of written messages because writing is hard when you’re in executive dysfunction.
A home where kids stim and spin and pace, and no one tells them to stop.
A friendship that allows for last-minute cancellations without guilt, because your body said no.
A therapist who doesn’t pathologize your coping strategies, but helps you build a life around them.
A teacher who doesn’t punish quiet kids for not participating “enough,” but finds ways to connect without forcing performance.
It’s not polished. It’s not perfect.
But it feels like relief. Like breathing deeper.
This Week, I’m Not Performing Gratitude
This week, I’m not pushing through.
I’m not posting the hashtag.
I’m not celebrating surface-level progress while so many are still hurting underneath it.
I’m letting myself stim without apology.
I’m not forcing eye contact.
I’m not masking discomfort to protect someone else’s experience.
I’m naming the grief. The rage. The heaviness that comes with constantly being misunderstood—not because you failed, but because the system was never built to understand you.
And Let’s Be Honest About Who Gets Left Out
Celebration often centers the neurodivergent people who mask well, speak clearly, and fit into the systems with just a few tweaks.
But what about everyone else?
What about Black, Brown, and Indigenous neurodivergent folks—whose behaviors are seen not as “quirky” but as dangerous, defiant, or criminal?
What about the kids funneled into discipline instead of diagnosis?
The adults who’ve been misread their whole lives because the research was built on white, middle-class boys?
The folks living in bodies that the world already doesn’t listen to—now trying to ask for support without being seen as a threat?
What about the non-speaking communicators, the disabled people called “too complex,” the ND folks navigating gender transition and social transition at the same time?
If we’re only celebrating the versions of neurodivergence that look familiar or easy to understand, we’re not making space. We’re just rearranging the furniture in the same exclusive room.
So No, I’m Not Celebrating
I’m noticing. I’m grieving. I’m protecting what works for me. I’m stepping away from systems that tell me I have to be easy, explainable, or productive to be worthy.
I’m unlearning the belief that I have to prove anything to deserve rest.
And I’m honoring the parts of me that were never the problem.
Maybe the most radical thing we can do this week isn’t to celebrate, but to stop pretending.
What’s the Point?
The point isn’t to reject hope or progress.
It’s to remind us that real change doesn’t come from celebration—it comes from listening. From unlearning. From creating spaces that don’t just tolerate difference, but actually value it. And maybe a small part of me also hopes to awaken this concept within us collectively- that we cannot rely on fixing the systems or complying with them to get our needs met. That ultimately, we need each other, and community, and to identify beyond ordinary ways of getting our needs met.
Maybe that is the revolution- knowing who you can rely on, where you can experience safety, and how to be a true accomplice to the needs of neurodiverse humans.
If this week feels hollow to you, that doesn’t mean you’re bitter. It means you’re paying attention. So instead of celebrating what isn’t working, maybe we pause and ask: What would it look like to build something that actually works?
Beyond Ordinary: What To Do
Systemic advocacy matters—especially for caregivers—but it can’t be the whole story. What if real change isn’t only found in policy or reform, but in how we live and care for one another? Beyond systems that were never built for us, we can begin to build something else—something rooted in presence, mutual aid, co-regulation, and the radical act of knowing and supporting our neighbors.
I’m still learning what it means to embody this shift. I’m still fumbling toward what interdependence as revolution could look like. But I know this much: it starts in connection, and it begins with us.
When I first stepped into this work, I didn’t have it all figured out. I researched, got uncomfortable, and started moving toward what felt true. The list below includes tangible ways to do the same. Please use discernment. Honor your own safety, needs, and context. I offer these ideas as inspiration, not instruction—and while I can’t guarantee outcomes or safety, I hope something here invites you forward.
Tangible Ways to Build Real-World Community & Interconnection
🌱 Get to Know Your Actual Neighbors
Start small: Say hello. Learn their names. Offer a plant cutting, baked good, or a spare trash bin when theirs is full.
Create a shared space: Start a “Little Free Library,” tool library, or seed swap box in your front yard or apartment lobby.
Organize a micro-event: Host a potluck, driveway tea, or “no-pressure hangout” for your block or floor.
🧩 Build Local Neurodivergent and Disability-Affirming Communities
Search ND-friendly spaces: Look for local peer-led or neurodivergent-run events through Meetup, Facebook groups, Eventbrite, or libraries.
Start your own: Host an unmasked, low-stimulation gathering at a park, coffee shop, or online if in-person feels inaccessible.
Use public boards: Post in local cafes, co-ops, libraries, or Discord servers to find others seeking intentional connection.
🌿 Get Involved in Mutual Aid
Find a local group: Search “[your city] mutual aid” on Instagram, TikTok, or Google. Many have forms you can fill out to give or receive help.
Offer your capacity: It doesn’t have to be money—you can give rides, translate, help with forms, or just listen.
Organize grassroots: Start a “community fridge,” free yard sale, or informal ride-share for medical or grocery trips.
📚 Join or Start Skill-Sharing Networks
Exchange what you know: Trade cooking, tech help, art, or childcare with others. No money, just mutual support.
Create low-barrier learning spaces: Host casual, non-performative spaces to learn together—like a book circle, body-doubling session, or co-working day.
🏡 Tap into Local Hubs & Gathering Spots
Community centers, parks, co-ops, and libraries are often underutilized third spaces where interdependence can grow.
Attend open meetings or workshops: Even if it’s not “your thing,” showing up can build surprising bridges.
📬 Build Offline Relationships
Send postcards or letters to neighbors, elders, or isolated friends.
Exchange phone numbers with trusted locals in case of emergency or just for checking in.
Create a neighborhood contact tree (opt-in) for support during outages, weather events, or crises.
✊ Practice Community Safety Outside of Institutions
Form or join a care pod: A small group of people who commit to checking in on each other, sharing resources, and showing up in times of need.
Learn and share de-escalation skills and alternatives to calling police (especially for mental health crises).
Amplify and support BIPOC-led safety initiatives and transformative justice projects in your area.
Want to Support Neurodivergent People? Start Here:
Here are some incredible creators, thinkers, educators, and orgs doing the real, unfiltered work. Follow them. Fund them. Share their voices. Learn from them.
Creators & Educators
•Sonny Jane Wise – Trans, disabled, multiply neurodivergent educator & speaker.
•Patrick Casale – Autistic ADHD therapist, speaker, & co-host of Divergent Conversations.
•Dr. Megan Neff – Neurodivergent psychologist sharing accessible ND mental health education.
Podcasts
•Divergent Conversations – Real, deep talks about neurodivergence, burnout, masking & more.
Mutual Aid & Advocacy Orgs
•Autistic People of Color Fund – Redistributes funds directly to autistic BIPOC.
•Stimpunks Foundation – ND & disabled-led org offering education, tech, and mutual aid alternatives.
•Autistic Self Advocacy Network (ASAN) – By and for autistic people, advocating for policy & representation.
•Society for Neurodiversity (S4Nd) – UK-based, ND-led org offering peer support and systemic advocacy.
If you or someone you know feels they should be on this resource list, please reach out and let me know. I would love to connect with you.
