The following is Chapter One from the book Loving Variant Minds: How to Navigate Love After a Late Neurodivergence Diagnosis.

Scheduled for release on 14^th February 2026 with availability on Apple Books and Kindle

Chapter 1: What Is Neurodivergence?

Introduction

If you have picked up this book, chances are something in your life has shifted. Perhaps you have just received a diagnosis that finally puts a name to a lifetime of feeling different. Perhaps your partner has, and you are trying to understand what this means for your relationship. Or perhaps you are simply searching for answers - a reason why things that seem effortless for others have always felt impossibly hard for you, or why the person you love sometimes feels like they are operating from an entirely different rulebook.

You are not imagining it. They are.

The human brain is not a single, standardised design. It comes in countless variations, each with its own way of processing information, experiencing emotions, and navigating the world. For most of history, we have treated one particular style of brain - the most common one - as “normal,” and measured everyone else against it. Those who fell outside this narrow band were labelled as broken, difficult, or defective. They were told to try harder, to stop being so sensitive, to just pay attention, to act their age.

This book is built on a different premise: that neurological difference is not a flaw to be fixed, but a reality to be understood. That the struggles many neurodivergent people face are not purely internal failures, but often arise from a world designed without them in mind. And that relationships - particularly intimate ones - can not only survive these differences but genuinely thrive when both partners learn to see each other clearly.

But I will not pretend this is easy. Understanding neurodivergence requires unlearning much of what society has taught us about how people “should” think, feel, and behave. It asks us to sit with discomfort, to challenge assumptions, and to extend compassion - both to others and to ourselves. If you are a neurodivergent person, this book will ask you to examine patterns you may have spent a lifetime trying to hide. If you love someone who is neurodivergent, it will ask you to resist the temptation to interpret their behaviour through a neurotypical lens.

The reward for this effort is profound: genuine connection, built not on the brittle foundation of who we think our partners should be, but on the solid ground of who they actually are.

Let us begin by understanding what we mean when we talk about neurodivergence - and why getting the language right matters more than you might think.

Defining Neurodivergence vs Neurodiversity

These two terms are often used interchangeably, but they mean quite different things. Understanding the distinction is more than academic - it shapes how we think about ourselves, our partners, and our place in the world.

Neurodiversity is a biological fact. It refers to the natural variation in human brains and nervous systems across our entire species. Just as biodiversity describes the range of life forms in an ecosystem, neurodiversity describes the range of neurological configurations in the human population. It is not a condition, a diagnosis, or a movement. It simply is. Every human being - regardless of whether they have a diagnosis of anything - is part of neurodiversity, in the same way that every person is part of human genetic diversity.

The term was coined in 1998 by Australian sociologist Judy Singer, who is herself autistic. In her honours thesis, she argued that neurological differences should be recognised and respected as a natural form of human variation, rather than pathologised as disorders to be cured ¹. This was a radical idea at the time, emerging alongside the disability rights movement and challenging centuries of medical thinking that positioned atypical brains as fundamentally broken.

Neurodivergent, by contrast, describes an individual. A person is neurodivergent if their brain functions in ways that diverge significantly from what society considers “typical” or “normal.” This includes people with autism, ADHD, dyslexia, dyspraxia, dyscalculia, Tourette syndrome, and a range of other neurological differences. Some definitions also include acquired neurodivergence - differences that arise from brain injury, trauma, or illness rather than developmental variation.

The counterpart to neurodivergent is neurotypical - a term describing people whose neurological development and functioning fall within the ranges that society considers standard. Neurotypical is not a compliment or an insult; it is simply a descriptor. It acknowledges that there is a dominant neurological style that shapes most of our social norms, workplace expectations, educational structures, and relationship templates.

Here is where it gets personal. If you are reading this book because you or your partner has been diagnosed with ADHD or autism, you are likely grappling with what it means to be neurodivergent in a neurotypical world. The challenges you face are real - but they are not solely the product of a “disordered” brain. They emerge from the interaction between your neurology and an environment that was not designed for you.

Think of it this way: a person who uses a wheelchair is not disabled by their body alone. They are disabled by stairs, by narrow doorways, by buildings without lifts. Their impairment becomes a disability only when the environment fails to accommodate it. The same principle applies to neurodivergence. An autistic person is not disabled by their autism in a quiet, predictable environment with clear expectations and respectful communication. They become disabled when forced into noisy open-plan offices, ambiguous social situations, and workplaces that punish direct communication as “rude.”

This is not to minimise the genuine difficulties that come with being neurodivergent. Executive dysfunction, sensory overload, emotional dysregulation, and social communication differences can be profoundly challenging regardless of environment. But it does invite us to ask a different question. Instead of asking “What is wrong with this person?”, we might ask “What does this person need to thrive?”

The neurodiversity paradigm does not deny that neurodivergent people may need support, treatment, or accommodations. It does not claim that ADHD and autism are merely “differences” with no associated struggles. What it does is reframe the conversation. It positions neurological variation as part of human diversity rather than a collection of deficits to be eliminated. It insists that neurodivergent people have inherent worth and value, not despite their neurology but inclusive of it.

For relationships, this reframing is transformative. When we stop seeing our neurodivergent partners as broken neurotypicals who need to be fixed, we can begin to see them as they are: people with a different operating system, facing genuine challenges, bringing genuine strengths, and deserving of genuine understanding.

This does not mean that anything goes - that neurodivergence excuses all behaviour or that partners must simply accept whatever happens. Chapter 15 of this book addresses accountability directly. But it does mean that we start from a place of curiosity rather than judgment, seeking first to understand before we evaluate.

One more clarification: the neurodiversity movement refers to the social and political advocacy that has grown from Singer’s original concept. This movement campaigns for the rights, acceptance, and inclusion of neurodivergent people. It pushes back against treatments aimed at making neurodivergent people appear “normal” rather than helping them live well. It argues for accommodations in schools and workplaces, for an end to stigma, and for neurodivergent voices to be centred in conversations about neurodivergence.

You do not have to align yourself with every position of the neurodiversity movement to benefit from this book. But understanding that this movement exists - and why it exists - helps explain the passion and sometimes defensiveness you may encounter in neurodivergent communities. These are people who have spent their lives being told they are the problem. The insistence on respect and acceptance is not oversensitivity. It is a hard-won boundary, built from painful experience.

The Spectrum Concept: There Is No “Typical” Brain

When people hear the word “spectrum,” they often picture a straight line running from “a little bit autistic” at one end to “very autistic” at the other. This image is intuitive but deeply misleading. It suggests that neurodivergence is simply a matter of severity - that some people have a mild case and others a severe one, and that with enough effort, someone might move along the line towards “normal.”

The reality is far more complex and, I think, far more interesting.

A spectrum, in the truest sense, is not a single line but a range of variation across multiple dimensions. Think of the colour spectrum: it does not run from “a little bit coloured” to “very coloured.” It encompasses entirely different hues - red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet - each with its own character. A person can be highly saturated in one colour and barely present in another. The same is true of neurodivergence.

An autistic person, for example, might have exceptional verbal skills but struggle profoundly with sensory processing. Another might navigate sensory environments with relative ease but find social communication exhausting and confusing. A person with ADHD might have severe difficulties with time management but exceptional capacity for creative problem-solving. Another might manage deadlines adequately but struggle with emotional regulation to a degree that affects every relationship they have.

This is why two people with the same diagnosis can appear so remarkably different. The diagnosis names a cluster of traits, but the specific configuration - which traits are present, how intensely, and in what combination - varies enormously from person to person. As one clinical text notes, if you have met one autistic person, you have met one autistic person ². The same applies to ADHD and to the many other forms of neurodivergence.

This variation has profound implications for relationships. Your neurodivergent partner is not a textbook case. They are a unique individual whose neurology interacts with their personality, their history, their culture, and their current circumstances in ways that no generalisation can fully capture. The information in this book will give you frameworks and possibilities, but only your partner can tell you what is true for them.

It also means that comparisons are often unhelpful. “My cousin has ADHD and she manages fine” is not a useful observation, because your cousin’s ADHD may present entirely differently from your partner’s. The traits that make daily life difficult for one person may not be the traits that challenge another. What looks like coping may be masking. What looks like failure may be a person pushed beyond their capacity in ways that are invisible to outside observers.

There is another dimension to the spectrum concept that often goes unacknowledged: neurotypicality itself is not a single fixed point. The brains we call “typical” also vary considerably. Some neurotypical people are more socially intuitive than others. Some handle change with ease; others find it unsettling. Some thrive on routine; others crave novelty. The line between neurotypical and neurodivergent is not a sharp boundary but a blurry zone, shaped as much by social convention as by neuroscience.

What distinguishes neurodivergent people is not that they have quirks - everyone does - but that their neurological differences are significant enough to create meaningful friction with the expectations of the world around them. This friction may manifest as a diagnosable condition, or it may simply be a persistent sense of not quite fitting, of having to work harder than others to achieve the same results, of exhaustion that nobody else seems to share.

Some researchers and clinicians now speak of the “broader autism phenotype” or “shadow traits” of ADHD - subclinical variations that do not meet diagnostic thresholds but nonetheless shape a person’s experience. If you recognise yourself in the descriptions in this book but have never received a diagnosis, you are not imagining things. You may sit somewhere in that vast grey zone between clearly neurotypical and clearly neurodivergent. Your experience is valid, even without a clinical label.

What does all this mean practically? It means that rigid categories - “autistic people do this,” “ADHD people are like that” - will only take you so far. They are starting points, not destinations. The goal is not to learn a set of rules about neurodivergent people but to develop the curiosity and flexibility to understand the specific person in front of you.

It also means releasing the idea of a “normal” brain that we should all be aspiring to. There is no neurological gold standard. There are only different configurations, each with trade-offs, each adapted to certain environments better than others. The brain that struggles in a fluorescent-lit open-plan office might excel in a quiet workshop. The brain that cannot follow a nine-to-five schedule might produce its best work at midnight. The brain that misses social subtext might offer a directness and honesty that cuts through confusion.

None of this erases difficulty. It simply places that difficulty in context. And context, as we shall see throughout this book, changes everything.

Common Misconceptions and Stereotypes

If you have recently encountered neurodivergence - whether through your own diagnosis, your partner’s, or simply by beginning to research the topic - you have likely already bumped into some deeply entrenched myths. These misconceptions circulate in casual conversation, in workplaces, in families, and even among healthcare professionals who should know better. They cause real harm, not because they are malicious but because they are invisible. They shape expectations, close down conversations, and leave neurodivergent people feeling unseen.

Let me address some of the most common.

“You don’t look autistic” / “You don’t seem like you have ADHD.”

This may be intended as a compliment. It is not received as one. What it actually communicates is: “You don’t match the stereotype I hold in my head, therefore I am questioning your reality.” The stereotypes in question are typically drawn from the most visible presentations - the nonverbal child, the hyperactive boy bouncing off walls - and exclude the vast majority of neurodivergent people who do not fit these narrow images.

Modern media has not helped. Film, television, and news coverage tend to employ a “make visible” strategy when depicting conditions that have no obvious physical markers. Autism, being invisible, is often represented by conditions that are visible - a person with Down syndrome may be shown to represent autism, despite these being entirely different conditions. Alternatively, autism is depicted through the tantruming child or the socially awkward savant. ADHD is represented by the impulsive, scrupulous CEO who fires people without a second thought, or the chaotic creative who cannot hold down a job. These images make for easy storytelling, but they are not accurate depictions of these conditions. They are caricatures - exaggerated, narrowly selected, and often outright wrong. Yet because they are repeated so frequently, many people have internalised them as truth. They have come to believe that this is what autism looks like, what ADHD looks like. And when they meet someone who does not match the caricature, they conclude that the person cannot really have the condition.

If you are reading this book, I would ask you to consciously set aside these media-fed assumptions. Holding onto them will only blind you to the reality of what these conditions actually are - and, more importantly, to who your partner actually is. In the next two chapters, we will explore the genuine traits of ADHD and autism. You may find they bear little resemblance to what you thought you knew.

Many neurodivergent adults have spent decades learning to mask their differences, to perform neurotypicality well enough to get by. The fact that they can make eye contact, hold down a job, or conduct a conversation without obvious difficulty does not mean they are not autistic or do not have ADHD. It means they have become skilled at a form of constant, exhausting performance. When someone says “you don’t look autistic,” they are often witnessing the mask, not the person beneath it. This is discussed in greater detail in Chapter 5.

“Everyone is a little bit ADHD/autistic these days.”

This dismissal has become increasingly common as awareness of neurodivergence has grown. It contains a grain of truth wrapped in a great deal of invalidation. Yes, many neurotypical people occasionally lose their keys, feel socially awkward, or get distracted. But there is a profound difference between occasional experiences and a pervasive neurological pattern that affects every domain of life.

Consider how this logic sounds when applied elsewhere. Closing your eyes for a moment does not make you “a little bit blind.” You would never tell a person who has been blind from birth that you understand their experience because you once stumbled in a dark room. The comparison is not just inaccurate - it is insulting. It equates a momentary, chosen, reversible experience with a permanent and pervasive one. The same principle applies here. Occasionally losing focus during a dull meeting is not “being a little bit ADHD.” Feeling awkward at a party is not “being a little bit autistic.” One cannot equate incidental events that everyone experiences to a persistent, always-present, lifelong neurological reality. The thinking is as insensitive as telling a blind person that everyone is a little blind - and it leaves the neurodivergent person feeling both dismissed and utterly alone.

When someone says “everyone is a little bit ADHD,” they are comparing their momentary lapses to another person’s lifelong struggle. It is rather like telling someone with clinical depression that everyone feels sad sometimes. Technically true, entirely unhelpful, and deeply minimising of genuine suffering. Research confirms that this kind of stigma remains widespread and contributes to diagnostic delays and reluctance to seek support ³.

“ADHD is just an excuse for laziness” / “Autism is an excuse for rudeness.”

These beliefs persist despite decades of neuroscientific research demonstrating that ADHD and autism involve measurable differences in brain structure and function. ADHD is associated with differences in the prefrontal cortex and dopamine regulation that affect attention, motivation, and impulse control ⁴. Autism involves differences in connectivity across multiple brain regions, affecting social processing, sensory integration, and prediction ⁵. These are not character flaws. They are not choices. They are neurology.

The persistence of these myths reflects a broader cultural tendency to interpret behaviour through a moral lens. If someone does not do what we expect, we assume they are choosing not to - that they are lazy, selfish, or rude. This assumption makes sense when applied to neurotypical people operating in a neurotypical world. It falls apart entirely when applied to people whose brains process motivation, time, social cues, and sensory information differently.

When your ADHD partner fails to complete a task they promised to do, they are rarely choosing to let you down. When your autistic partner says something that lands as blunt or hurtful, they are rarely intending to wound. This does not mean the impact is not real, or that accountability does not matter. But it does mean that attributing malice or laziness where none exists will poison your relationship faster than almost anything else.

“Autism means you lack empathy.”

This myth has caused immeasurable damage. It originated from early research that conflated cognitive empathy (the ability to read what others are thinking and feeling) with affective empathy (the ability to feel compassion and care in response). Autistic people often struggle with the former - correctly interpreting facial expressions, body language, and social subtext does not come naturally. But research consistently shows that affective empathy is intact and often heightened ⁶. Many autistic people care deeply, sometimes overwhelmingly, about others’ wellbeing. They simply may not express it in ways that neurotypical people recognise.

The “double empathy problem,” a concept we will explore in Chapter 3, suggests that the difficulty runs both ways. Neurotypical people are often just as poor at reading autistic people as autistic people are at reading them. The difference is that neurotypical people are in the majority, so their failures of empathy are treated as the autistic person’s problem.

“People grow out of ADHD” / “Autism is a childhood condition.”

Both ADHD and autism are lifelong neurodevelopmental conditions. While presentations may change with age - hyperactivity often decreases in adulthood (or more correctly, internalises), for example, while inattention persists - the underlying neurology does not disappear. The reason so many adults are receiving diagnoses for the first time is not that they suddenly developed these conditions. It is that they were missed in childhood, often because they did not fit the stereotypical profile or because they learned to compensate and mask.

The consequences of late diagnosis are significant and will be explored fully in Chapter 5. For now, it is enough to note that the adult sitting across from you, diagnosed at forty-five, has been neurodivergent their entire life. They did not just become this way. They always were, and simply, finally, have a name for it.

Why Language Matters: Person-First vs Identity-First Language

The words we use to describe neurodivergence are not neutral. They carry assumptions, signal attitudes, and shape how both neurodivergent and neurotypical people think about these conditions. Getting the language right is not about political correctness or walking on eggshells. It is about respect - and about accuracy.

You will encounter two main approaches: person-first language and identity-first language. Understanding both, and knowing when to use each, will serve you well as you navigate conversations about neurodivergence.

Person-first language puts the person before the condition. It sounds like: “person with autism,” “individual with ADHD,” “someone who has dyslexia.” The logic behind this approach is that a person is more than their diagnosis - that by naming the person first, we avoid reducing them to a label. This framework emerged from disability advocacy movements and was championed by organisations seeking to humanise people with disabilities who had long been defined solely by their conditions ⁷⁵.

For many years, person-first language was considered best practice across healthcare, education, and social services. It remains preferred in some contexts and by some individuals. If someone tells you they prefer to be called “a person with autism,” that preference should be honoured without question.

Identity-first language puts the condition first. It sounds like: “autistic person,” “ADHD adult,” “dyslexic writer.” This approach has gained significant ground in neurodivergent communities, particularly among autistic self-advocates. The reasoning is that autism and ADHD are not separable from the person - they are not diseases attached to an otherwise “normal” individual, but fundamental aspects of how that person experiences and interacts with the world.

The autistic self-advocate Jim Sinclair articulated this position powerfully in his influential essay “Why I Dislike Person-First Language” ⁸. Sinclair argued that saying “person with autism” implies that autism is something negative, something that can and should be separated from the person, like a tumour to be removed. But autism is not a tumour. It shapes perception, cognition, memory, social connection, sensory experience - nearly everything that makes a person who they are. To speak of the “person” as separate from the “autism” is to imagine a person who does not exist.

Research into the preferences of autistic people themselves supports this view. Studies consistently find that a majority of autistic adults prefer identity-first language, while professionals and parents are more likely to favour person-first constructions ⁹¹⁰. This gap is telling. It suggests that person-first language, despite its good intentions, may reflect the preferences of those looking at neurodivergence from the outside rather than those living it from within.

The ADHD community is somewhat more mixed in its preferences, though identity-first language is increasingly common there as well. You will hear people describe themselves as “an ADHDer” or simply say “I’m ADHD” as naturally as they might say “I’m Australian” or “I’m left-handed.”

So what should you do? The honest answer is: ask, and then listen.

If you are speaking about a specific person, use the language they prefer. If your partner describes themselves as “autistic,” do not correct them to “person with autism” because a textbook told you that was more respectful. Their self-identification takes precedence. If they prefer person-first language, honour that instead.

If you are speaking about neurodivergent people in general - as I do throughout this book - identity-first language is increasingly the safer and more accepted choice within the communities themselves. I use “autistic person” and “ADHD adult” throughout this text, not to reduce anyone to a label, but to reflect the preference of those whose voices should matter most in this conversation. I also think that the “person with” phrasing infers that “without” is possible - it’s not.

There are other language considerations worth noting.

Avoid language that frames neurodivergence as disease or tragedy. Terms like “suffering from autism,” “afflicted with ADHD,” or “struck by” these conditions imply that neurodivergence is inherently a source of misery. While neurodivergent people certainly face challenges - some of them severe - the conditions themselves are not illnesses to be cured. Many neurodivergent people live rich, meaningful lives and would not choose to be neurotypical even if they could.

Be cautious with functioning labels. You may encounter terms like “high-functioning autism” or “low-functioning ADHD.” These labels are increasingly rejected by the neurodivergent community because they flatten complex profiles into misleading binaries. A person labelled “high-functioning” may be struggling enormously in ways that are invisible; the label can be used to deny them support. A person labelled “low-functioning” may have capabilities and insights that the label obscures; it can be used to deny them agency.

You may also encounter ongoing debates - in media, in parent advocacy groups, and occasionally in clinical circles - arguing that “severe autism” should be classified as an entirely separate condition from what was once called Asperger’s syndrome. The impulse is understandable: parents of children with very high support needs often feel that their experiences are invisible in conversations dominated by articulate autistic self-advocates. However, this push toward separation is contentious and raises significant concerns about fracturing a community that already struggles for recognition and resources. We will explore support levels and the spectrum concept more fully in Chapter 3, but for now, be aware that these debates exist and that the language you encounter may carry political weight you did not anticipate.

The current diagnostic framework for autism varies depending on where you live. In the United States and Australia, clinicians typically use the DSM-5, which categorises autism by support levels (Level 1, 2, or 3). In the United Kingdom and much of Europe, the ICD-11 is more commonly used; this system does not use support levels at all, instead describing the presence or absence of intellectual impairment and functional language impairment. Both systems have limitations, and neither fully captures the complexity of individual presentations. When in doubt, describe specific strengths and challenges rather than reaching for a shorthand that may do more harm than good.

Avoid using diagnostic terms as casual adjectives. “I’m so OCD about my bookshelf” or “the weather is so bipolar today” trivialises genuine conditions and contributes to the misconceptions discussed in the previous section. These are not quirky personality traits or metaphors for mild preferences. They are neurological realities that significantly affect people’s lives.

Finally, remember that language evolves. The terms considered respectful today may shift in a decade. What matters more than memorising the “correct” vocabulary is cultivating an attitude of genuine respect and a willingness to learn. If you use a term that someone finds hurtful, apologise, adjust, and move on. The goal is connection, not perfection.

Words are not everything. But in a world where neurodivergent people have so often been spoken about rather than spoken with, choosing language carefully is one small way of signalling that you see them as full human beings deserving of dignity. That signal matters more than you might think.

The Medical Model vs the Social Model of Disability

How we understand disability shapes everything - how we treat people, what solutions we pursue, where we place responsibility, and whether we offer compassion or judgment. Two competing frameworks have dominated this conversation for decades: the medical model and the social model. Understanding both is essential, not just for grasping the politics of neurodivergence, but for navigating your own relationships with greater wisdom and less blame.

The Medical Model

The medical model of disability locates the problem inside the individual. It views disability as a defect, a deviation from normal functioning that resides in the person’s body or brain. The goal, under this framework, is to fix, cure, or rehabilitate the individual - to bring them as close to “normal” as possible.

This model has deep roots in Western medicine and has delivered genuine benefits. It drives research into treatments, funds therapies, and provides diagnostic categories that help people access support. When someone receives an ADHD diagnosis and finds that medication helps them function, the medical model is working as intended. When an autistic child receives speech therapy that helps them communicate, the medical model has contributed something valuable.

But the medical model also carries significant limitations, particularly when applied to neurodevelopmental conditions.

First, it positions the neurodivergent person as inherently broken. The language of disorder, deficit, and dysfunction permeates diagnostic criteria and clinical literature. The very names of these conditions - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Autism Spectrum Disorder - encode the assumption that something is wrong with the person. This framing can be internalised, leading neurodivergent people to see themselves as faulty versions of what they should have been, rather than as complete human beings with a different neurological profile.

Second, the medical model is often interpreted as placing the entire burden of adaptation on the individual. When people hear terms like “disorder” or “deficit,” they frequently infer that something is faulty and must be corrected. But this is a translation error. In clinical usage, “disorder” simply means a condition - a recognised pattern of traits that may require support. It does not mean broken, and it does not demand that the person contort themselves to appear normal.

Yet this nuance is routinely lost. Outside clinical settings, diagnostic language is heard through a cultural filter that equates difference with defect. The result is that neurodivergent people - and those around them - come to believe that they must mask their differences, suppress their needs, and reshape themselves to fit a world that was not designed for them. The environment escapes scrutiny. The systems that exclude are treated as neutral, natural, and unchangeable. This is not what the medical model intends, but it is often what the medical model produces when its language enters the wider world without adequate translation.

Third, the medical model can - in the hands of inadequately trained or inexperienced clinicians - justify interventions that prioritise the comfort of others over the wellbeing of the neurodivergent person. Historically, this has led to therapies aimed at eliminating autistic behaviours - like stimming or avoiding eye contact - not because these behaviours harm the autistic person, but because they make neurotypical people uncomfortable. The goal becomes making the neurodivergent person appear normal, regardless of the psychological cost.

But it is important to be precise about where this problem originates. It is not the medical model itself that demands such interventions. It is clinicians whose training has not kept pace with current understanding, or whose experience of neurodivergence is limited to textbook stereotypes. The assumption that “the doctor is always right” is widespread - but a clinician’s ability to interpret a condition depends heavily on their experience and training. And the evidence suggests that many fall short.

Systematic reviews confirm that clinicians themselves report only moderate knowledge and low self-efficacy when working with autistic people ¹¹. Qualitative studies consistently highlight dissatisfaction with services, lack of accommodations, and poor communication among neurodivergent clients. Even psychotherapists acknowledge significant gaps in autism education and competence ¹². The consequences are not abstract. One in four autistic adults report receiving inaccurate psychiatric diagnoses before their neurodevelopmental condition was recognised ¹³. Others avoid formal assessment altogether, citing past experiences of being misunderstood, blamed, or dismissed ¹⁴.

I have felt these blind spots directly. A renowned psychiatrist, who had diagnosed my ADHD condition, told me that I could not be autistic because I was able to make eye contact with him - a statement later refuted by a panel who formally diagnosed the ASD, and one that reveals how easily stereotypes override evidence. Beyond my own experience, I have watched family members struggle to find professionals able to genuinely support them in living with their conditions. I have also seen family members take personal insult at these diagnoses, because the outdated and long-refuted assumption that autism is caused by bad parenting still persists in some circles. These experiences are why so many in the neurodivergent community approach psychology and psychiatry with scepticism. They are why the phrase “neurodiversity-affirming” has become a shorthand that people actively seek out when looking for clinicians. It is not about division. It is about the repair of trust that has been repeatedly broken.

This is not to say that all medical intervention is harmful or unwanted. Many neurodivergent people actively seek diagnosis, medication, and therapy, and find these supports life-changing. The critique is not of medicine itself, but of clinicians who lack adequate training, and of a broader culture that too often treats the person as the problem and adaptation as their sole responsibility.

The Social Model

The social model of disability, developed by disability rights activists in the 1970s and 1980s, offers a fundamentally different perspective. It distinguishes between impairment (the physical or neurological difference itself) and disability (the disadvantage created by a society that fails to accommodate that difference).

Under this framework, a person who uses a wheelchair has an impairment affecting their mobility. But they are disabled by stairs, not by their legs. They are disabled by buildings without ramps, buses without lifts, and attitudes that treat walking as the only legitimate way to move through the world. If the environment were fully accessible, the impairment would remain, but much of the disability would disappear.

Applied to neurodivergence, the social model asks us to look beyond the individual brain and examine the world that brain must navigate. An autistic person may have genuine differences in sensory processing, this is the impairment. Yet they may be disabled by open-plan offices with flickering fluorescent lights, by social norms that insist on eye contact and small talk, and by job interviews that reward confident self-promotion rather than actual competence. Change the environment and the disability diminishes.

An ADHD individual may not receive enough stimulation at work to elevate dopamine levels to a functional baseline, leading to tonic hypodopaminergia and a resulting drop in cognitive efficiency. In other words, when the environment under-stimulates, performance collapses and the resulting cognitive impedance is disabling. Or, they may have genuine differences in attention regulation and time perception - this is the impairment. But they are disabled by workplaces that demand eight hours of sustained focus on unstimulating tasks, by educational systems built around sitting still and listening, by a culture that moralises punctuality and treats lateness as a character flaw. Create structures that work with the ADHD brain rather than against it, and the disability becomes far less disabling.

The social model does not deny that impairments can be challenging in themselves. Sensory overload is painful regardless of environment. Executive dysfunction creates real difficulties even in the most accommodating workplace. The social model does not claim that neurodivergence would be effortless in a perfect world. What it does is refuse to let the environment off the hook. It insists that society bears responsibility for the barriers it creates - and that removing those barriers is a matter of justice, not charity.

This shift in perspective has profound implications. Instead of asking “How do we fix this person?”, we begin to ask “How do we change this environment?” Instead of telling the neurodivergent person to try harder, we ask what support they need to succeed. Instead of treating accommodations as special favours, we recognise them as basic accessibility - no different, in principle, from providing ramps for wheelchair users or captions for deaf viewers.

Why This Matters for Relationships

You may be wondering what disability models have to do with your relationship. The answer is: everything.

The way you frame your partner’s neurodivergence will shape every interaction you have. If you operate from a purely medical model, you will see their differences as deficits to be overcome. You will wait for them to be “fixed” by medication or therapy. You will measure their progress against a neurotypical standard they may never reach. And you will grow frustrated, resentful, and exhausted when the fixing never quite happens.

If you incorporate the social model, you will begin to ask different questions. Instead of “Why can’t they just remember to do this?”, you might ask “What systems could we put in place to support their memory?” Instead of “Why do they always get overwhelmed at family gatherings?”, you might ask “How can we structure these events so they’re manageable?” Instead of “Why can’t they be normal?”, you might ask “What does our life need to look like for both of us to thrive?”

This is not about lowering your standards or accepting behaviour that genuinely harms you. Chapter 15 addresses accountability directly, and nothing in the social model excuses cruelty, neglect, or abuse. But it is about recognising that many of the struggles in neurodiverse relationships arise not from one partner being broken, but from two people with different neurology trying to share a life in a world designed for only one of them.

The social model also invites self-compassion for the neurodivergent partner. If you have spent your life believing you are lazy, stupid, or fundamentally flawed, the social model offers an alternative narrative. Your struggles are real, but they are not evidence of your worthlessness. Many of them arise from a mismatch between your brain and your environment - a mismatch you did not create and are not solely responsible for solving.

A Both/And Approach

In practice, most people find that neither model alone captures the full picture. The medical model offers useful tools: diagnosis provides understanding, medication can be transformative, therapy builds skills. The social model offers essential perspective: it challenges stigma, demands accommodations, and refuses to locate all responsibility in the individual.

The most helpful approach is often a both/and rather than an either/or. Yes, seek diagnosis and treatment where they help. And also, advocate for environments that accommodate rather than exclude. Yes, build skills to navigate a neurotypical world. And also, refuse to accept that the neurotypical way is the only legitimate way. Yes, take responsibility for your own growth. And also, insist that others take responsibility for their part in creating accessible, compassionate spaces.

For relationships, this means holding two truths at once. Your neurodivergent partner may benefit from treatment and skill-building - this is not unkind to acknowledge. And your relationship may benefit from environmental adjustments, revised expectations, and a willingness to do things differently - this is not unfair to ask. Both partners contribute. Both partners adapt. The goal is not to fix one person, but to build a shared life that works for both.

This is harder than it sounds. It requires letting go of the fantasy that one day, with enough effort, your partner will become neurotypical. They will not. It requires grieving the relationship you imagined and building the relationship that is actually possible. It requires creativity, flexibility, and a willingness to question assumptions you may not even know you hold.

But it also opens up possibilities that the medical model alone forecloses. When you stop trying to fix your partner and start trying to understand them, something shifts. When you stop measuring them against a neurotypical yardstick and start appreciating what they actually bring, connection becomes possible in ways it was not before. When you stop seeing their needs as burdens and start seeing them as information, you can begin to build a life together rather than fighting an endless war against their neurology.

That is the invitation of this book. Not to fix anyone, but to understand. Not to cure, but to accommodate. Not to erase difference, but to build a relationship capacious enough to hold it.

Where This Leaves Us

This chapter has introduced the core concepts you will need to understand the rest of this book: what neurodivergence means, how it differs from neurodiversity, why the spectrum is not a straight line, and how our choice of words shapes our understanding. We have examined the stereotypes that harm neurodivergent people and compared two ways of thinking about disability - one that locates the problem in the individual, another that asks the environment to change.

But if there is one idea I hope you carry forward from this chapter, it is this: you cannot change your partner.

This is not a failure of effort or love. It is a fundamental truth about human relationships - one that applies whether or not neurodivergence is involved, but becomes especially urgent when it is.

Research into what makes relationships succeed or fail consistently points to the same conclusion. John Gottman’s decades of research at the University of Washington found that couples who approach their partners with the intent to change or “fix” them create precisely the conditions that predict relationship breakdown: criticism, contempt, defensiveness, and stonewalling. Contempt - the sense that you are superior to your partner and that they are fundamentally flawed - is the single strongest predictor of divorce ¹⁵. And contempt grows directly from the belief that your partner is a broken version of who they should be.

Melissa Orlov, whose work on ADHD relationships aligns with much of this book, puts it plainly: “You must put your dreams of forcing your partner to change aside” ¹⁶. She describes how her own marriage transformed only when she stopped trying to control her husband’s ADHD and started taking responsibility for her own happiness. Not because his symptoms no longer mattered, but because her attempts to change him were making everything worse. The anger, the vigilance, the disappointment - these created a toxic environment in which no one could thrive. Only when she let go of the illusion of control did change become possible.

This pattern appears across every account of successful neurodiverse relationships. The neurotypical partner who spends years trying to make their autistic spouse more emotionally expressive, more socially comfortable, more “normal,” typically ends up exhausted, resentful, and no closer to their goal. The partner who tries to nag, threaten, or shame their ADHD spouse into reliability finds that the nagging itself becomes the problem - generating defensiveness, eroding trust, and destroying the very motivation they hoped to inspire.

The reason is more complex than it first appears. Some behaviours can change with effort, support, and the right strategies. But many neurodivergent traits are not behaviours at all - they are neurology. They are how the brain is wired. No amount of wanting, on either partner’s part, will make an ADHD brain suddenly track time accurately or an autistic brain stop being overwhelmed by sensory input.

This creates two painful problems. First, the neurotypical partner may continue hoping for changes that are neurologically impossible, setting themselves up for repeated disappointment and their partner up for repeated failure. Second - and this is perhaps more damaging - the neurodivergent partner may also desperately want to change. They may have spent their entire life trying to be “normal,” believing that if they just tried hard enough, they could fix themselves. When change does not come, they do not conclude that the goal was impossible. They conclude that they are failures.

The only path left is masking: performing neurotypicality at immense personal cost. And masking does not solve the problem - it hides it while creating new ones. The exhaustion, the loss of identity, the eventual breakdown when the mask slips or becomes unsustainable. Chapter 5 explores masking in detail, but for now, the key point is this: asking a neurodivergent person to change their neurology is not just futile. It is harmful. It drives them toward a coping strategy that will eventually exact a devastating toll.

This does not mean nothing can change. Strategies can be developed. Environments can be modified. Communication patterns can improve. Support systems can be built. But these are adaptations, not transformations. They work with the neurodivergent brain, not against it. The goal is not to turn your partner into someone else. It is to build a life that accommodates who they actually are.

This also does not mean you must accept everything. It does not mean boundaries do not matter, or that harmful behaviour must be tolerated. Later chapters will address accountability, boundaries, and the difficult question of when a relationship cannot be saved. But it does mean that entering a relationship - or remaining in one - with the primary goal of transforming your partner into someone else is a path to mutual misery.

The invitation of this book is different. It asks you to seek understanding rather than change. To become curious about how your partner’s brain actually works, rather than measuring it against an imaginary standard. To ask not “Why can’t they be normal?” but “What do we each need to build a life together?”

This may seem like the more difficult path. It is not. Trying to fix your partner feels like the obvious approach - it appears direct, actionable, like something you can work on. But it is a path that leads nowhere. You will spend years pushing against immovable neurology, growing more frustrated and exhausted with each attempt, while your partner feels increasingly broken and unloved. The route that appears harder - acceptance, adaptation, building something new - is the only one that actually goes somewhere. It requires grieving the partner you imagined and accepting the one you have. It requires examining your own assumptions, your own contributions to conflict, your own areas for growth. It requires humility.

But it also opens possibilities that the “fix my partner” approach forecloses entirely. When you stop fighting against your partner’s neurology and start working with it, something shifts. When they feel accepted rather than constantly corrected, safety replaces defensiveness. When you stop waiting for them to become someone else and start appreciating who they are, connection becomes possible.

That is the work ahead. It will not be easy. But if you have read this far, you have already taken the first step: you have chosen curiosity over judgment, understanding over blame.

Let us continue.

⁂