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If you've spent any time on social media recently, you've probably noticed that "neurodivergent" has gone from specialist terminology to everyday conversation at remarkable speed. TikTok, Instagram, Twitter — neurodivergent content is everywhere. People are sharing experiences, identifying traits, finding community, and in many cases, recognising themselves for the first time.
Which is genuinely wonderful. And also, like most things that go viral, a little complicated.
So what does neurodivergent actually mean? Let's start at the beginning.
The term "neurodivergent" was coined in the late 1990s by Australian sociologist Judy Singer, herself autistic, as part of the broader neurodiversity movement. Singer's original concept was straightforward: human brains, like human bodies, come in natural variation. Some brains are neurotypical — functioning in ways that align broadly with what society considers standard. Others are neurodivergent — functioning differently in ways that are neurological and developmental in nature, shaped by a complex interaction of genetics and environment, rather than the result of choice, laziness, or moral failing.
The American psychologist Nick Walker, whose work has been influential in defining neurodiversity thinking, describes neurodivergence as "a type of neurological development that is atypical in ways that are either developmentally or socially significant" (Neuroqueer Heresies, 2021).
In practical terms, neurodivergent is an umbrella term that currently includes:
What these have in common is that they all involve neurological and developmental differences — differences in how the brain is wired, how it processes information, how it regulates attention and emotion, how it experiences sensory input. They are not diseases to be cured. They are not character flaws. They are not the result of bad parenting or personal weakness.
They are, however, real. And that's where the conversation gets interesting.
Here's something important that often gets lost in the enthusiasm of social media neurodivergent content: there is genuine, ongoing debate — among researchers, clinicians, and within the neurodivergent community itself — about where the boundaries of neurodivergence lie, what the term should and shouldn't include, and what the consequences of those decisions are.
Running underneath this debate is a broader tension between two frameworks for understanding neurodivergence. The medical model treats neurological differences primarily as conditions to be diagnosed, managed, and where possible treated. The neurodiversity model — from which the term neurodivergent originates — understands those same differences as natural human variation, shaped by developmental and genetic factors, whose challenges arise largely from a world not designed to accommodate them. Most contemporary thinking sits somewhere between the two, acknowledging both the reality of genuine difficulty and the harm of framing difference purely as deficit.
Some researchers and advocates argue the neurodiversity framework risks minimising the very real challenges and support needs of autistic and ADHD people who struggle significantly. Others argue that pathologising natural neurological variation causes its own harm — particularly to people who spent decades believing something was fundamentally wrong with them.
Both positions contain truth.
There's also the question of labels themselves. Do we need them? Are they helpful or harmful? The honest answer is: it depends, and it varies enormously from person to person.
For many people, particularly those who receive a diagnosis in adulthood after decades of confusion, a label is genuinely life-changing. Not because it changes who they are, but because it finally explains why certain things have always been harder, why the standard advice never quite worked, why they always felt subtly out of step with the world around them. That recognition — "I'm not failing, I'm just wired differently" — can be profound.
For others, labels feel constraining, reductive, or simply unnecessary. Some people understand their neurodivergence clearly without wanting or needing a formal diagnostic label attached to it. Both positions are valid.
What matters is what the label — or lack of one — does for the individual person holding it.
It would be dishonest not to acknowledge the role social media has played in the rise of neurodivergent awareness — and the complexity that comes with it.
On one hand, platforms like TikTok and Instagram have done something that decades of clinical literature largely failed to do: they've shown neurodivergent people, particularly women and people from marginalised communities, that their experiences are shared. The recognition many people describe when they first encounter neurodivergent content — "that's exactly how my brain works" — is real and meaningful. Community, validation, and access to information have genuinely improved lives.
On the other hand, the same platforms that enable recognition also incentivise oversimplification. A 60-second video cannot convey the genuine complexity of autism or ADHD. Traits presented as universal may not apply to everyone. And the algorithm rewards content that generates strong identification — which can sometimes blur the line between "this resonates with me" and "I definitely have this."
Research into social media and neurodivergent self-identification is still emerging, but early findings suggest that whilst online communities significantly increase awareness and self-recognition, the complexity of neurodivergent presentations means that social media content alone is rarely sufficient for accurate self-understanding. This isn't an argument against neurodivergent social media content — it's an argument for pairing it with reliable information and, where appropriate, proper assessment.
It's worth noting that neurodivergence doesn't present equally across different groups — and recognition doesn't reach everyone equally either.
Diagnostic criteria for autism and ADHD were historically developed based largely on white, male children. As a result, women, girls, and people assigned female at birth have been systematically underdiagnosed for decades — their presentations are often more internalised, their masking more automatic, and their difficulties more easily attributed to anxiety or emotional sensitivity. People from racialised communities face additional barriers, including cultural differences in how distress is expressed, historical medical mistrust, and systemic bias in referral pathways. Socioeconomic factors matter too — access to private assessment, the capacity to advocate within complex systems, and simply having the time and energy to pursue diagnosis are not equally distributed.
This isn't a footnote. It shapes who gets support, who gets pathologised instead, and whose neurodivergence goes unrecognised for a lifetime.
This feels important to say clearly, because the "everyone's a bit neurodivergent" response — well-meaning as it usually is — does real harm.
Everyone does not experience sensory overload that makes fluorescent lighting physically painful. Everyone does not lose entire days to executive dysfunction that no amount of willpower or planning can fix. Everyone does not spend years masking their natural responses so effectively that they lose track of who they actually are underneath.
Having a short attention span when you're bored is not ADHD. Being particular about your routine is not autism. Finding large crowds draining is not a processing difference.
The distinction matters — not to gatekeep neurodivergence, but because genuine neurodivergent differences typically involve enough traits, showing up consistently enough, across enough areas of life, to meaningfully affect how a person functions. The diagnostic threshold exists for a reason. And collapsing genuine neurological and developmental difference into "we're all a bit like that" inadvertently erases the experiences of people whose differences are significant and whose needs for support are real.
Something that doesn't always make it into introductory neurodivergent content, but absolutely should: many neurodivergent people — particularly those diagnosed late, or not yet diagnosed at all — carry significant complex trauma alongside their neurological differences.
Years of not understanding why certain things were harder. Of being labelled lazy, difficult, oversensitive, or disruptive. Of masking exhaustingly in order to fit into spaces not designed for their brain. Of receiving support for anxiety or depression without anyone identifying the developmental foundation underneath.
This isn't incidental. Research consistently shows elevated rates of anxiety, depression, PTSD, and burnout among autistic and ADHD adults (Lever & Geurts, 2016; Cassidy et al., 2020). Understanding yourself as neurodivergent doesn't automatically resolve that history — but it can be a genuinely important first step toward understanding it differently.
It means your brain and nervous system work differently — in ways that are developmental and neurological in nature, consistent across your life, and significant enough to affect how you experience and navigate the world.
It means you're part of a genuinely diverse human spectrum, not a failed version of a neurotypical standard.
It means your challenges are real, your strengths are real, and your experiences deserve to be understood on their own terms.
It doesn't mean everyone who relates to a TikTok video is autistic. It doesn't mean labels are mandatory, or that formal diagnosis is the only valid path to self-understanding. It doesn't mean neurodivergence is a superpower that cancels out difficulty, or a tragedy that cancels out strength.
It's more complicated than either of those. Most true things are.
If you're reading this because you're beginning to wonder whether you might be neurodivergent — welcome. That wondering is worth taking seriously.
The articles in this series explore individual neurotypes in more depth: autism, ADHD, PDA, giftedness, and others. Each one follows the same principle: non-exhaustive, honest, grounded in research, and written from the understanding that no two neurodivergent people are the same.
If you're navigating this question and sitting with uncertainty about where you stand, you might find this helpful:
And if you'd find it useful to talk it through with someone who understands it from the inside, you're welcome to book a free discovery call.
References and Further Reading: