Is the Neurodiversity Movement Helping - or Hurting the Very People It Aims to Support?

When I first discovered the neurodiversity movement, it felt like coming home. Finally, there was a language for my difference that wasn’t about “fixing” or “curing” me, but about celebrating the wild, creative, sometimes chaotic wiring that makes me, me. I dove in headfirst, eager to connect with others who’d spent years feeling like square pegs in round holes.

But as my journey continued, I started noticing cracks in the foundation. Conversations that once felt expansive and empowering sometimes turned rigid and combative. There were rules - unspoken, but clear - about what “real” neurodiversity advocacy looked like. And if you didn’t fit the mould, or if your needs didn’t match the dominant narrative, you could find yourself on the outside, again.

I’ve watched as the movement, born from a place of radical acceptance, sometimes struggles with its own diversity. For some, especially those who are verbal, independent, or “high-functioning,” the movement has been a lifeline - a space to claim identity and demand respect. But what about those with higher support needs, or families navigating severe disability? Increasingly, I hear voices - parents, researchers, even some autistic people - saying they feel erased or even attacked for expressing different experiences or seeking therapies like ABA, which some advocates view as inherently harmful.

The truth is, the neurodiversity movement is not a monolith. It’s a tapestry of lived experience, advocacy, and sometimes, sharp disagreement. Critics argue that in its push to reject the old medical model and pathologising language, the movement can swing too far - minimising the real, daily challenges faced by those who need significant support. Others worry that the focus on empowerment and strengths glosses over pain, isolation, or the need for practical help.

I’ve felt this tension in my own life. There are days when I want to shout my difference from the rooftops, and days when I’d give anything for a bit more “normal.” I’ve met people who find freedom in self-diagnosis, and others who need clinical support and clear labels to access the help they deserve. I’ve seen the movement lift people up - and, at times, shut them down for not toeing the line.

So, where do we go from here? I believe the neurodiversity movement is still one of the most important shifts in how we understand brains, bodies, and belonging. But we have to make room for nuance. We need to listen to those who feel left out, to respect different needs and choices, and to remember that inclusion means all of us-or it means nothing at all.

Progress isn’t about picking sides. It’s about holding space for complexity, for disagreement, for the messy, beautiful reality of being human. If we can do that, maybe we can build a movement that truly supports every neurodivergent person-no exceptions.

If you’ve ever felt both seen and unseen by the neurodiversity conversation, you’re not alone. Let’s keep talking, keep questioning, and keep making space for every story-even the ones that challenge our own.