Neurodiversity University
Understanding. Support. Growth.
About This Project
I’m a neurodivergent adult with over 20 years of experience working with young people—and now we're raising our neurodivergent children. My wife, a teacher for over two decades, understands how thoughtful changes in education can make a real difference for diverse learners.Together, we’ve seen how neurodivergence shapes family life, friendships, learning, and the emotional world around us.Neurodiversity University was created to share what we’ve learned—offering tools, language, and support that are simple, free, and built for real life.Contact : [email protected]
Foundations
Toolkit
Support This Work
Keeping the content free and accessible.
What Does It Mean to Be Neurodiverse
Being different is the one thing we all have in common. It might sound like a contradiction, but it’s not. We are supposed to be diverse. That’s not a flaw—it’s a design. Some of us are brilliant at problem-solving. Some of us feel emotions deeply and instinctively know how to care for others. Some of us struggle to fit in. Some of us never quite stop asking, “Why does it have to be this way?”That’s not brokenness. That’s specialization.Because when we bring all those different ways of thinking, feeling, and experiencing the world together, we don’t just function—we thrive. It’s like becoming a super-organism, a species built to collaborate through contrast. We’re not meant to all be the same. We’re meant to fit together.Neurodiversity is a word that reflects that truth. It doesn’t mean “a few people with a diagnosis.” It means everyone. Every brain is different. Some brains come with traits that cause friction in certain systems—like school, work, or social life—and sometimes we give those traits names: ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and so on.But names are just tools. They’re only useful when they help us understand or support someone better. Labels aren’t who we are. They’re just a shortcut to getting what we need. That’s why they matter when it comes to support or funding—but they should never be used to limit someone’s worth.Nobody gets through life without difficulty. Nobody gets to skip the hard parts. Struggle, regret, joy, confusion, love—they’re all part of being human. Neurodiversity just reminds us that there are many valid ways to experience those things. Many ways to be human.And every single one of them deserves to be seen. And heard.This way of seeing the world—of valuing difference—is especially important when we’re caring for, raising, or supporting someone who doesn’t seem to “fit.” Maybe they don’t sit still. Maybe they don’t speak when expected. Maybe they feel things too deeply, or not in the ways others expect. Maybe school feels impossible. Maybe social rules don’t make sense.It’s easy to see those things as problems. But often, they’re just differences bumping up against a system built for sameness.That’s where the idea of neurodiversity becomes powerful—not as a label, but as a lens. It asks us to stop saying, “What’s wrong with this person?” and start asking, “What kind of support helps this person thrive?”Because when someone is given space to be who they are, when they’re supported instead of shaped, they don’t just survive—they surprise you. They grow. They find their own path. They contribute in ways that no one else could.It’s like trying to make a tree grow inside a mold. Trees don’t grow the same. No two are identical. Each one has its own roots, its own canopy, its own needs. If you force a tree to grow in a shape that doesn’t suit it, you don’t get a stronger tree—you get a tree full of stress points. And over time, those stress points become damage.If you keep doing that, you don’t just end up with one damaged tree. You end up with a whole forest of trees that never got the space to grow as they were meant to. And the forest—the community—is weaker for it.But if you let each tree grow with kindness and boundaries, if you give them enough space to reach outward while guiding them away from harm, then they flourish. And when they flourish, they create shelter for others. They hold the soil together. They build something greater than themselves.That’s what neurodiversity asks of us. Not to ignore harmful behavior—but to stop mistaking difference for harm. To stop trying to force people into sameness and instead create environments that allow us to grow into who we already are.Because when we understand what it’s like to be someone else—truly understand it—we get closer to understanding ourselves. And when we understand ourselves, we make better choices. Not out of fear. Not out of pressure. But out of clarity.Neurodiversity isn’t just about people with diagnoses. It isn’t just those with “issues” or “problems.” Neurodiversity means you. It means me. It means that person over there. It means them, too.It means everybody.
Emotional Overflow
People often misunderstand emotional overwhelm because they think it has to look extreme. Like unless someone is crying or screaming or completely shutting down, they’re just being dramatic or difficult. But overwhelm doesn’t always explode outward—it builds up quietly and fast, especially for neurodivergent folks.Here’s the thing: we all have a limit. Imagine this—someone tells you, “Today, we’re going to drop you in the middle of the city centre, completely naked, and you’re going to headline a live comedy gig.” What’s your reaction? Instant panic? Total shutdown? That’s overwhelm. That’s your system hitting a wall and going, “Nope, can’t do it.”Now take that same feeling and drop it into what looks like a simple, “normal” situation. Talking to more than one person. Being in a loud room. Making a phone call. Trying to read a facial expression while processing what someone’s saying and what they might mean. For some people, that naked comedy gig is a regular Tuesday conversation.The point isn’t how big the situation looks from the outside. The point is how big it feels inside. And that’s different for everyone.Sometimes emotional overwhelm doesn’t look like panic—it looks like someone getting snappy, zoning out, going quiet, or walking away. And people around them think, “What’s wrong with them?” or “Why are they being rude?” But what they’re actually seeing is someone trying to keep themselves from sinking.Because when your system is flooded, your brain isn’t thinking about manners or social cues—it’s thinking, “How do I survive this moment?” And survival doesn’t always look tidy. It might mean avoiding eye contact. It might mean stimming. It might mean leaving the room. None of that means the person is weak or broken. It just means they’ve hit their version of the naked comedy gig.And the kicker? Most people experiencing this know they’re reacting differently. They’re usually aware they’re being seen as “difficult,” which just piles shame on top of everything else. Now they’re not only overwhelmed—they’re also self-conscious and apologetic, which makes it all worse.Here’s where it gets tricky. When someone’s overwhelmed, their behavior might come across as cold, snappy, or even arrogant. Like they don’t want to be around you. But what they’re actually saying—without words—is: “Please. I need space. I can’t do this right now.”The problem is, we’re not always trained to read that signal clearly. Instead, we filter it through our emotional lens. We feel rejected, offended, or annoyed, so we react. We want to label what we’re seeing and move on. That snap judgment helps us feel like we’ve made sense of it. But when the person in front of us is someone we care about, that reaction doesn’t help—it harms.Because when you meet emotional overwhelm with emotional pressure, you’re just making it harder. You’re adding guilt and shame to something that’s already out of their control. That doesn’t calm things down—it drives the person deeper into distress.So here’s the move: learn to separate your reaction from their signal. Sweep your own emotions aside for a moment and ask yourself, “What are they really asking for?” Most of the time, it’s simple. They need space. They need quiet. They need a moment to breathe without judgment.And here’s something that often gets missed: your emotions matter too. It’s okay to feel frustrated. It’s okay to feel annoyed or helpless when someone you care about is overwhelmed. Those feelings are valid. But they’re not the whole truth.If you let those emotions drive your response, you’ll end up reacting instead of helping. You’ll say things you don’t mean. You’ll teach the other person that their overwhelm is something to be ashamed of. And you’ll feel worse, too—because now you’re carrying guilt on top of everything else.So don’t fight your emotions. Acknowledge them. Say, “Okay, I’m annoyed, and that’s fine.” Then ask yourself: what do I actually want to do with that feeling? What’s the helpful move here? What’s the kind move?When you learn to do that, you’re not just supporting someone else through their overwhelm—you’re modeling how to deal with it. You’re teaching them how to pause, reflect, and respond. And that’s where real change starts.So here’s one last thing to carry with you: you’re not frustrated with the person—you’re frustrated with the behavior. And the behavior is not the person.When you keep those two things separate, you create space to still love someone even when you’re struggling with how they’re acting. You can say, “This is hard, this is annoying,” without saying, “You are a problem.”And remember—managing someone else’s overwhelm starts with managing your own. If you’re not being kind to yourself, if you’re burying your own emotions or judging them harshly, you’re going to teach others—especially kids—to do the same. But when you show yourself patience, when you let yourself feel and then choose how to act—you’re giving them a blueprint for how to care for themselves, too.That’s how we change things. Not with perfection. But with presence, patience, and practice.
Masking
Everyone masks. That’s the first thing to understand. You’re not the same person at work as you are with your friends, or at home with your family. Maybe you laugh a bit differently. Maybe you speak more carefully. Maybe you hide certain habits or thoughts. That’s masking—it’s how we shape ourselves to fit the expectations around us.And that’s normal. To a degree. We all do it. It’s part of being social. But for neurodivergent people, masking isn’t just occasional—it can be constant. It’s not about showing your best side. It’s about covering your true self so you won’t be judged, excluded, or misunderstood.Think of it like this: imagine you're at work, so you put on your “work self.” That’s manageable. But now imagine you’re also supervising others, trying to stay in control. So you raise the mask a bit higher—more structure, more polish. Now imagine you're responsible for an entire building, a city, a country. You have to maintain that calm, composed image constantly, even as pressure builds underneath.That’s the experience many neurodivergent people have in spaces others find totally normal. A classroom. A supermarket. A conversation with one person. It might look easy from the outside, but inside, they’re running at full speed just to maintain that socially acceptable front.Masking drains your energy, just like physical work does. But instead of sore muscles, you get brain fog, exhaustion, and sometimes a deep sense of disconnection from yourself. It’s like running your social battery flat without anyone even noticing.And here’s the catch—just because something doesn’t take your energy, doesn’t mean it doesn’t take someone else’s. A trip to the shop. Small talk at school pickup. Answering the phone. These might seem like nothing to you, but for someone who’s masking to get through them, they’re draining.And just like a phone needs charging, so do people. But the way we recharge looks different for everyone. For some, it’s seeing friends or going for a walk. For others, it’s something quiet and simple—watching the spin of a washing machine, repeating a video clip, playing a familiar game, or just sitting alone without the pressure to be on.And that alone time isn’t laziness or rudeness—it’s repair. It’s essential. When someone’s constantly masking to get through the day, giving them space to drop that mask is one of the kindest things you can do.The exhaustion from masking isn’t just emotional—it’s cognitive. Imagine trying to read two or three books at the same time, hold a conversation, and practice a dance move. That’s what masking can feel like, especially in busy or unfamiliar environments.Because it’s not just about fitting in—it’s about constantly monitoring your words, your tone, your facial expressions, your body language. It’s about scanning for social cues, decoding them, and adjusting yourself—sometimes in real time—all while still trying to function. That’s not just tiring. That’s cognitive overload.And just like emotional overwhelm, cognitive overwhelm comes at a price. A very real energy cost. The trick is figuring out what that cost looks like for the person in front of you. For some, a conversation might barely register. For others, one short chat might empty the tank completely.So when someone says, “I need a break,” or they pull away after something that seems small—it’s not about rudeness or avoidance. It’s about recovery. They’ve spent energy just existing in the moment. Now they need space to restore.For young people especially, masking through a full school day can leave them completely spent by the time they get home. That’s when they need what I’d call a little palace of peace—a space that’s safe, quiet, and theirs. Maybe it’s their room. Maybe it’s the living room with a game queued up or a favorite show ready to go. Whatever it is, it should feel like walking into a sigh of relief.And in those moments, resist the urge to ask questions or give instructions right away. It’s like walking out of the gym and immediately being told to do fifty more reps. They need to come down, settle, recharge. That recovery time isn’t indulgent—it’s essential.But here’s the important bit: supporting someone’s need for recovery doesn’t mean shielding them from life. Challenge still matters. Growth still matters. Being neurodivergent doesn’t erase the need to face things—it just means you have to respect the energy it takes.And that starts with helping them develop the language for what they’re feeling. They may not be able to say, “I’m overwhelmed, I need space,” at first. But if you consistently create that space, and you guide them gently, they’ll learn. Over time, they’ll build the words and the self-awareness to know when to rest and when to rise to the challenge.It’s not about avoiding life—it’s about doing life in a way that’s sustainable, human, and kind.
Transitions
Transition isn’t just change—it’s movement, and for many neurodivergent people, that movement comes with weight.Most people would agree that moving house is stressful. It’s often listed as one of life’s biggest upheavals—new routines, new surroundings, everything in flux. That’s transition at its most obvious. But here’s the thing: for someone with neurodivergence, even the smallest shifts can feel like moving house.Going from home to school. From one activity to another. Even from inside the house to the car. These moments might look tiny to someone else, but inside, they carry the same sense of dislocation, pressure, and mental reordering. It’s not about the size of the change—it’s about how much energy it takes to shift from one state to another.And just because it’s easy for you, doesn’t mean it is for them.At its core, the difficulty with transition isn’t just about movement—it’s about safety. The brain needs to feel secure in its surroundings and in its group. It wants to know, Where do I fit? What’s expected of me here? Am I safe in this space?Imagine being taken from a familiar group of friends and dropped in the middle of a dark forest surrounded by hungry wolves. That’s an extreme example—but the emotional logic tracks. Your brain doesn’t feel safe. It doesn’t know the rules. It doesn’t know what’s coming next.Now shrink that scenario down to something everyday—starting a new job, entering a packed concert stadium, even leaving a party and getting stuck in a crowded car park. Those situations are common, but they’re still full of uncertainty, noise, and change. And if your brain is already juggling ten things just to stay regulated, even one more ball—one small shift—can be too much.That’s transition. It’s not about how big the change looks—it’s about how many invisible pieces your brain is trying to carry at once.Transition is part of life. Whether it’s getting up in the morning, starting a new job, going back to school, or just switching off from one task to another, it’s going to happen. Unless you plan to live as a hermit, there’s no getting around it.So the focus shouldn’t be on avoiding transitions—it should be on supporting them. Step by step. No leaps. No assumptions. Just clear, steady guidance at the pace the person can manage.And this part is tricky for people who find change easy: if it comes naturally to you, you probably haven’t had to think about how to break it down. That makes it harder to support someone else, because you don’t instinctively know how to slow the process.Let’s say a young person is struggling to get to school. The journey back might not start with the school gates. It might start with the uniform. Maybe that uniform just sits around the house for a while—nothing forced, just familiar presence. Then maybe they wear one item at a time. Socks, trousers, whatever feels manageable. Slowly, layer by layer, the stress softens.And if the school is supportive—why not let that student arrive in jeans and school socks for a week? Why not let them build up their outfit like stepping stones? What matters more: full compliance, or helping them want to come through the door?Because when someone feels seen, when they know you’re not trying to shove them forward, but walk beside them—they’ll try. They’ll rise to the challenge, not because they’re pushed, but because they feel safe enough to take the step.And when we talk about something like clothing, especially in school settings, we have to include sensory needs. Many neurodivergent people experience heightened sensitivity to touch, pressure, or fabric texture. That means even something as simple as school trousers can become a constant, grinding source of discomfort—tight seams, rough material, the waistband digging in.So instead of grey school trousers, maybe it needs to be grey jogging bottoms—same color, different fabric, less pressure. That one adjustment could make the difference between a child who’s barely holding it together all day, and one who has enough bandwidth to actually learn, connect, and engage.Because here’s the truth: when someone’s energy is being eaten up by physical discomfort, everything else becomes harder. Their patience goes down. Their overwhelm spikes. All the other challenges—communication, transitions, attention—get magnified. All for the sake of strict dress code compliance.That’s why supporting transition isn’t about ticking boxes—it’s about seeing the whole person. It’s about realizing that small shifts in one area ripple across everything else. And yeah, it might feel overwhelming at first to try and factor all of this in. But once you start paying attention to the ebb and flow of stress, energy, and emotion—for them and for you—it gets easier. It becomes second nature.Support doesn’t mean fixing everything. It means adjusting thoughtfully, and making space for someone to grow without drowning in the process.And if it feels like a lot to manage at first, that’s okay. You’re not failing. You’re learning. And that moment of effort—that stretch to understand—is a window into what life can feel like for someone with neurodivergence. The constant balancing act, the small calculations, the quiet work of holding it all together.You’re not expected to get it perfect. Just to keep noticing, keep adjusting, and keep walking with them. That effort alone says, “I see you. I’m here. We’ll do this together.”And through it all—be kind to yourself. You’re learning, adapting, and trying. That’s not nothing. That’s everything. Because the way you treat yourself in these moments teaches them how to treat themselves. If you model patience, they’ll learn patience. If you show yourself compassion, they’ll start to believe they deserve the same.This isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about showing up, staying present, and walking the path together—step by step.
Routine
Routine is something we all rely on—whether we realise it or not. It gives us structure, predictability, and a sense of control.If you showed up at work one day and were told you’d be working in a completely different department, doing a job you’ve never done before, you’d expect to feel thrown off. Stressed. Maybe even anxious. That’s routine breaking.Or say you’re driving to work and suddenly your car breaks down. Or there’s traffic, or unexpected roadworks. You arrive flustered, behind schedule, and not quite yourself. Why? Because your routine—your familiar, dependable rhythm—was broken.When our routines are intact, we can plan ahead. We feel safer, more settled, more capable. We know what’s coming. And that creates a sense of comfort and stability that helps us manage the day.Now take that same principle and apply it to a neurodivergent person—especially a child. A break in routine for them might not be as obvious as a job change or traffic jam. It might be a new brand of shampoo. A different pair of socks. A change in the route to school or the order of morning tasks. Things most people would barely notice can cause a ripple of discomfort, uncertainty, and disorientation.And it’s not about needing to keep everything exactly the same forever. It’s about recognising that even small breaks in routine can raise the risk of emotional, sensory, social, or academic overwhelm. Because when the world feels unpredictable, the ability to cope starts to slip.Here’s the tricky bit about routine: life doesn’t stick to one. It’s random. Things change. Plans fall through. And for neurodivergent people, that randomness isn’t just inconvenient—it can feel like chaos. Like someone’s taken a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle you’d just started to understand and given it a hard shake.Routine gives you a sense of order. You know which pieces go where. You know what comes first, second, third. But when that routine breaks—even in a small way—you’re suddenly faced with a pile of unfamiliar pieces and no clear idea how to begin again.Now, that doesn’t mean life should never change. If we never shook the box, life would be dull. Repetitive. Flat. And that’s not what anyone wants—especially not kids, who deserve to live fully, playfully, and with real experiences. But for someone who processes the world differently, change has to come slowly. With care. With structure.Think of it like this: if you hand a child a blank piece of paper and say, “Draw something,” that can be instant overwhelm. Too many options. Too many unknowns. But if you hand them the same paper and say, “Draw either a cat, an aardvark, a tree, or a mushroom,” now they have freedom—but within safe, manageable boundaries. That’s the sweet spot. That’s how we introduce change—through choices, not chaos.To make this more concrete, let’s take a common school example. Say a child is expecting PE—they’ve mentally prepared, they’ve visualised it, maybe even built their whole morning around it. But then the class is cancelled because the hall is being used for a test.To most kids, it’s a minor disruption. An annoyance, maybe. But for a neurodivergent child, that small break in routine can feel catastrophic. It isn’t just about missing PE—it’s about the entire structure of their internal world getting suddenly knocked off balance.And often, the response from adults is something like, “Life’s unpredictable, get used to it,” or “Come on, just go with it.” But that doesn’t help. It only adds pressure to an already overstimulated system.Instead, offer them choice within the change. Say something like: “PE has changed. You can do PE outside or bring a book.”That does two things: it acknowledges the break in routine, and it gives the child agency in how they move forward. Now they’re not just being pushed through discomfort—they’re part of the decision. And when people feel some control, even in a small way, they cope better. They feel safer. They’re more likely to re-engage.Another key piece to supporting someone through a break in routine—especially in a moment of stress—is language. The way we speak, and how much we say, matters more than most people realise.Often, when someone doesn’t respond right away, adults rephrase their request. It’s a natural habit. For example:“Can you sit down, please?”
A few seconds pass.
“Come on, I’ve asked you to sit down.”
Then again: “How many times do I have to ask you? Please come and sit down.”The intention is gentle, even patient. But what’s actually happening is this: three different instructions, each with slightly different wording, tone, and emotional energy. And for someone already processing slowly or under stress, that means they now have to re-process the same request three different times.In a moment of routine disruption—when stress is already high and cognitive resources are low—this can make things worse.So the best thing you can do? Keep it short. Keep it clear.
Not cold. Not harsh. Just simple.Instead of, “This has happened and we’re really sorry about it, how do you feel about maybe doing PE outside or reading a book instead?”
Say: “PE has changed. You can do PE outside or bring a book.”No extra detail. No apologies. No pleases or thank-yous. Not because you’re being rude—but because you’re helping someone process with the narrowest bandwidth they have left. The kindness is in the clarity.And here’s a piece people often forget: celebrate them. Not right in the heat of the stress—not while they’re still working through it—but afterwards. When they’ve made their choice, found their footing, and are settled again.That’s when you go over. That’s when you say:
“You handled that really well.”
“I know changes like that are hard for you, but you did it.”
“I’m really proud of you.”
“Well done.”That’s where trust grows. That’s where self-esteem starts to build—not from getting everything perfect, but from seeing that they were recognised. That someone noticed the effort it took. That someone understood.Praise in these moments isn’t just encouragement—it’s validation. It tells them, “You were seen. And you’re doing better than you think.”The more you support someone through these small routine breaks—offering choice, clear language, calm presence, and praise—the more resilient they become. Slowly, carefully, their world starts to widen. What used to feel like a cliff edge starts to feel like a steep hill. Still hard, but climbable.And here’s the lovely part: when you work this way, when you walk beside someone through their difficulties, you start to notice the wins. What once felt like a constant struggle starts to reveal moments of progress. Breakthroughs. Little victories.Because in the middle of the hard days—when the behaviour is challenging, when everything feels like you’re wading through custard—it’s easy to miss the light. But when you create space for small successes, and take the time to notice them, it helps you, too.You start to see that this isn’t just struggle. It’s growth.
And growth deserves to be seen.
Internal Voice
Not everyone has the same kind of internal voice. Some people have a strong, clear dialogue in their minds. Others experience more abstract thoughts, or none at all. For those with aphantasia, even visualizing or hearing an inner voice might be difficult or impossible. So when we talk about internal voice, we’re really talking about that private, personal space inside—how we speak to ourselves.For many neurodivergent people, especially those who’ve had to mask or push themselves through difficult situations their whole lives, that inner voice can become sharp. It might say, “Come on, stop being weak,” or “Just get on with it,” or “No one else is struggling—why are you?” That voice often forms not because they believe they’re broken, but because they had to survive environments that didn’t understand them.Now here’s where it gets tricky—when those same people become parents, and they see their own struggles reflected in their child, that same harsh inner voice can show up again. But this time, it’s not just turned inward—it leaks out. It becomes the voice they use with their child, even if they don’t mean to. Not out of cruelty, but out of habit. Out of fear. Out of a desperate hope that the child will “toughen up” and suffer less than they did.But the truth is, children don’t thrive under pressure—they grow in safety. That harsh voice, the one that might’ve kept you going, may not help them. They don’t need to be hardened. They need to be heard. And just as importantly—they need to be seen. For who they really are. For how they move through the world. For the effort it takes them just to be.Here’s something that often gets missed: when a young person shows us behavior that feels frustrating, overwhelming, or confusing, it doesn’t always mean they’re doing something wrong. More often than not, it means we haven’t done the learning yet.Think of it this way: if you were a chess master and your child wanted to learn chess, you’d know exactly how to teach them. You’d break it down into steps, show them the moves, help them practice. But what if they wanted to play rugby, and you’d never played a day in your life? You wouldn’t know where to start. You wouldn’t know how to train the skills because you’ve never had to build them yourself.That’s what happens with emotional regulation, communication, social interaction—especially when neurodivergence is involved. If you’ve never had to consciously break down those skills before, it’s easy to feel stuck or helpless. And when we feel that way, we often blame ourselves. Or worse, we blame the child.But here’s the truth: you can’t know everything. There are too many life skills for any one person to master. So when you find yourself struggling with a child’s behavior, take it as a signal—not that something’s broken, but that it’s time to learn. Learn about the process. Learn about what the child is experiencing. Learn about how you’re feeling, and why.Because once you learn it for yourself, you can start to share it. Once you build the skills in your own world, you’ll be able to offer them in theirs.Getting angry or frustrated doesn’t make the process faster—it just shuts it down. And yes, we all want to make life easier. But you can’t force someone into ease. You have to meet them. And when you do, when you offer that effort with care, you don’t just help them—you help yourself too.And for adults—especially those who are neurodivergent themselves or who’ve simply been shaped by hard things—there’s another layer to this.That sharp, cutting internal voice? It often isn’t yours to begin with. It’s the echoes of teachers, parents, peers, partners—people who said things that made you feel small, ashamed, or broken. Those words stuck. They burrowed into your self-talk. And over time, they started to sound like your own thoughts.But here’s the truth: that voice doesn’t help. It doesn’t guide you—it cuts you. And if it’s not helping, it’s time to change it.Start by finding the part of you that was hurt. That younger version of yourself—the one who didn’t know how to cope, or who was told they weren’t enough. Let them back into your life. Not to blame them. To nurture them. To hold them the way they should’ve been held.And the people who caused the harm? Let them keep their behavior. It’s theirs. Not yours. You wouldn’t take something disgusting off them—so why take their cruelty? Let it stay with them.Your job now is to create a different voice. A kinder one. One that sees the effort, not just the outcome. One that speaks to both you and the people you care for with compassion. Because when you change your internal voice, you don’t just change your self-talk—you change the tone of your whole environment.And look—this isn’t easy. It’s deep work. It takes time, and it takes honesty. Coming to terms with how your internal voice was shaped—and how it shows up now—can stir up a lot. Some old behaviours, especially the ones that were linked to survival, won’t go quietly. They’ve lived in you for a long time. They did their job once. But now?They’re not needed anymore. And they’re not helpful. It’s time to let them go.Because if you truly want to show someone compassion—if you want to help a young person build self-esteem, self-awareness, and trust—you have to be able to see it in them. And you can only do that if you’ve begun to see it in yourself.That’s where real change starts. That’s how kindness becomes a way of being, not just something you offer to others, but something you live within yourself.
How to Use the Toolkit
How to Use the ToolkitIf you’ve made it this far, there’s a good chance you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed—and that’s okay. That feeling makes perfect sense.Because what you’re holding here isn’t just information—it’s a shift in how you see things. A new way of noticing, thinking, responding. And when you’re caring for someone you love, whether you’re a parent, teacher, support worker, or friend, it can feel like there’s now a mountain of things you “should” be doing differently.You might even be thinking, “How am I supposed to carry all of this, every day, in real life?”The answer is: you’re not meant to carry it all at once. Nobody can.This toolkit isn’t something to master. It’s something to dip into. A place to return to when you feel stuck or tired or confused. It’s here to offer ideas, not pressure. Insight, not perfection.And if the size of it feels like too much—that’s a window into the experience of being neurodivergent. The layers. The overwhelm. The need to pause, to breathe, to break things down into manageable pieces. The very fact that this feels heavy? That’s understanding starting to land. That’s empathy, growing from the inside out.So here’s how to use the toolkit:Don’t read everything at once. Pick a piece that speaks to your moment.Revisit the same entry again and again if it helps. Some ideas need time to settle.Don’t treat it like a checklist. You don’t have to “complete” it.And most of all—be kind to yourself. Learn as you go. You’re not behind. You’re already doing the work.Every time you return to this, you’re building trust—with the person you’re supporting, and with yourself.And one more thing.Being neurodivergent doesn’t mean someone gets to behave badly, avoid responsibility, or take advantage of others. This isn’t about lowering expectations or removing challenge. It’s about removing the unnecessary barriers so that real challenge—real growth—becomes possible.Yes, people still need to be accountable. Yes, they still need to face the hard parts of life. But they should be allowed to do that with support, with dignity, and with their needs understood.Some people may read this and feel frustration. They might think, “This just gives people an excuse to get out of things.” If that reaction comes up for you, pause and ask yourself—why does that make me angry? Why does someone else’s need for support feel like a threat?Because often, that feeling says more about our own relationship to struggle than it does about the person in front of us.This toolkit isn’t about lowering the bar. It’s about lifting the floor—so more people can stand, try, and thrive.And yes—it’s work. This isn’t a shortcut. It’s more like learning a new language. You already know the alphabet, the basics. But putting it together—finding the rhythm, the nuance, the words that make sense in the moment—that takes time.Be patient with yourself. You’re not failing. You’re learning. One piece at a time.And one last thing.This isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. What works for one person might not work for another. That’s not failure—it’s just difference.Try what feels possible. See what helps. If it doesn’t land, don’t force it. You’re not doing it wrong—you’re learning what fits. This toolkit isn’t the whole answer. It might be your starting point. It might be just one part of what you build. The point is to keep looking. Keep growing. Keep making space for difference.Over time, you’ll build your own version of this toolkit—one that fits your life, your people, your rhythm.That’s where real support begins.
Clarity in Communication
Clarity in CommunicationWhen someone is already overwhelmed, language can quickly become another barrier. Often, we try to soften our requests or explain them more gently, thinking that kindness means more words. But in high-stress moments, more words usually mean more confusion.Instead of repeating a request in several different ways, keep it clear and consistent. Say it once, simply. Give the person space to process. Their pause isn’t defiance—it’s them trying to understand.This was originally described as the "Vocal Coach" concept: every time you change the tone, the pitch, the volume, or the language of a request, you create a new piece of information for the brain to process. For someone who is overwhelmed, anxious, or simply trying to keep up, that becomes exhausting. It slows down their ability to respond and increases the chance of shutdown or outburst.So instead of:
“Can you sit down, please?”
Then, “Come on, I've asked you to sit down.”
Then, “How many times do I have to ask? Please sit down.”Say: “Sit down.” Then wait.It’s not about being cold. It’s about creating the smallest possible processing load so the person can succeed.
Processing Delay
Processing DelaySometimes, a person doesn’t respond right away—not because they’re ignoring you, but because they’re still processing. This is especially common for neurodivergent people, where the brain might need a few extra seconds (or more) to hear, interpret, and form a response.In those moments, jumping in with another instruction or rewording your request can actually make it harder. Each new sentence restarts the processing loop. So what looks like non-compliance or rudeness might just be someone still working through the first thing you said.The most helpful thing you can do? Say it once. Then give space. Even a pause of ten seconds can make a world of difference. You’re not giving in—you’re giving time.
Distancing to Reduce Pressure
Sometimes we think support means staying close. But when someone is overwhelmed—especially a young person—our physical presence can actually add pressure. The closer we are, the more they feel watched. The more they feel watched, the harder it is for them to self-regulate.Backing off a little gives them space to breathe. Not abandonment—just gentle distance. It says, I’m still here, but I’m not pushing.You can still be present. You can still offer help. But give them the room to re-centre without the weight of your expectations sitting right on top of them.
The Power of Choice
For neurodivergent individuals, a break in routine or a sudden demand can feel like standing at the edge of a cliff. But when they’re offered even a small choice, it’s like being handed a rope. A way forward that feels safer, more grounded.Choice gives people back a sense of control—especially when everything else feels unpredictable. But it doesn’t have to mean unlimited freedom. In fact, too much choice can be overwhelming. What works best is structured choice—offering two or three clear, simple options.Instead of, “What do you want to do now?” try, “You can sit and read or come with me to the garden.” Instead of, “You have to come with us,” try, “You can walk with me or with your friend.”The goal isn’t to manipulate—it’s to invite. It’s to say, I see you. I know this is hard. Let’s find a way through it together.These moments of choice become moments of trust. And trust, over time, builds the confidence needed to face bigger transitions down the road.
Self-Regulation Isn’t a Switch
We often expect people—especially children—to be able to calm themselves down quickly.
But regulation isn't a switch you can flick. It’s a skill, and like any skill, it takes time to develop.
Some people pick it up naturally. Others need support, scaffolding, and space to learn it.When someone is already overwhelmed, they may not have access to their calm state.
Asking them to calm down in that moment might be like asking someone to run while their shoelaces are tied together.
They might want to—they might even try—but the tools they need just aren’t available yet.That’s where you come in.
By staying calm, keeping your voice soft, and giving them space, you’re not forcing them to run—you’re helping untie the laces.
You’re removing just enough pressure so they can find their footing again.Sometimes what looks like a meltdown is actually someone trying to regulate—but running out of tools.
They’re doing the best they can with what they’ve got, and what they’ve got might not be enough yet.What helps in the moment:
Use calm, clear language:
“I’m here with you.”
“Take your time.”
“We’ll figure this out when you’re ready.”Lower your expectations.
This moment is about safety, not success.Keep your own body calm—still hands, soft voice, quiet presence.
Create space if needed—but let them know you’re nearby.Over time:
Model self-regulation out loud:
“I’m getting a bit frustrated, so I’m going to take a breath.”Build calming routines: music, movement, fidget tools, favourite quiet spaces.Recognise effort, not just outcomes:
“You didn’t give up. That was really brave.”Check in with yourself, too:
Before you try to help someone regulate, ask yourself:
“How am I feeling right now?”
If you’re annoyed, frustrated, embarrassed, or stressed, that will leak out in your words, your face, your tone—even if you think you’re hiding it.You don’t have to be perfect.
But if you want to help someone else stay grounded, you need to start by grounding yourself.Regulation can’t be rushed.
It can only be supported.
And that support starts with presence, patience, and honesty—from both of you.
Emotional Overflow
Sometimes the world becomes too much. Not all at once, but drip by drip. A small frustration here. A moment of embarrassment there. A flicker of sensory discomfort that doesn’t go away.For many neurodivergent people, those moments build up quietly until the pressure breaks the surface. That’s emotional overflow. And when it comes, it doesn’t always look dramatic—it can be anger, silence, tears, laughter, withdrawal. The form doesn’t matter. The cause is the same: too much for too long.If someone suddenly reacts in a way that seems out of proportion, don’t just look at what triggered them—look at what came before. Overflow is rarely about the final drop. It’s about the whole day that led up to it.What to look for:Fidgeting, pacing, or restlessnessBecoming unusually quiet or withdrawnRapid speech or sharp tone over small thingsPulling away, hiding, or repeating behavioursSeeking sensory comfort—hoods up, headphones on, rockingHow to support someone in overflow:Avoid asking questions—keep language soft and minimalOffer reduced choices or simple reassurance: “You’re okay. I’m here.”Remove or reduce sensory input if you can—noise, light, movementIf they can’t speak, try gentle non-verbal options—thumbs up, nod—but be mindful of expression. Even a smile can feel overwhelming if someone’s hyper-sensitiveKeep your own body language calm, still, and openAnd most of all—check in with yourself
If you’re frustrated or anxious, that energy will carry.
Name it internally: “I’m frustrated, but this isn’t about me.”
Breathe. Reset. Then respond.Support in these moments isn’t about fixing—it’s about creating calm by being calm. Emotional overwhelm isn’t a problem to solve. It’s more like a river—constantly moving, shaping itself, flowing in its own direction. You don’t need to force it straight. Just keep it clear of blockages. Let it run. Be alongside it.Because most of the time, the safest thing you can be is steady.
Recovery Time
Just because the outburst is over doesn’t mean it’s over for them.After a meltdown or shutdown, the body and brain don’t just snap back into balance. They need time—sometimes hours, sometimes more. What looks like calm might still be shock. What sounds like silence might still be processing.Recovery time is essential. It’s when the nervous system recalibrates and the person starts to feel safe again. Pushing them too soon—asking for explanations, corrections, or apologies—can reignite the stress you’re trying to move away from.But what if recovery time isn’t available in full?
In places like school, work, or shared environments, someone might not have access to their preferred way of calming down. They may not be able to go home, lie in a quiet room, or sink into a familiar routine.In those moments, we can still offer partial recovery.A quieter cornerA reduced workloadTime with a trusted adultA few minutes alone with headphonesIt’s not perfect, but it’s something. And sometimes, something is enough to keep someone from falling further.Recovery doesn’t have to be complete all at once. It can come in layers. Support what you can in the moment, and work together to build a plan for when more time and space are available.Because the goal isn’t perfection.
It’s preserving safety.
And safety, even in pieces, helps someone carry on until they can truly rest.
Behaviour as Communication
Behaviour is often the expression—not the cause—of a problem. What looks like defiance might actually be anxiety. What seems like rudeness could be shame. And what appears to be laziness may be overwhelm. These behaviours aren’t random—they’re signals.Rather than jumping straight to correction, pause and look beneath. Ask yourself: Has something just changed? Could this be sensory overload, fear, or frustration? Is this behaviour familiar—have I seen it before?Support in these moments doesn’t mean doing more—it often means doing less. Reduce input. Soften your voice. Give fewer instructions. Offer quiet presence rather than pressure. Reassure simply, without expectation: “You’re okay. I’m here.” or “Want to take a break?”And be mindful—if even gentle support seems to escalate the situation, don’t assume you’ve done something wrong. It might just be that any input is too much right now. That’s not rejection. It’s a signal to step back, stay calm, and give space.And a quick note: don’t push for eye contact. It’s a natural behaviour, not something to force. When someone is in distress, even small expectations like this can feel overwhelming.You don’t have to fix the behaviour. You have to understand what’s behind it. When you meet someone with curiosity instead of control, you create space for them to feel seen—and that’s often where true support begins.
What Sits Beneath Behaviour
When we talk about behaviour in the context of neurodiversity, what we’re really looking at is emotional signals that are being sent in a way that’s not always easy to interpret.
Anger might be masking fear.
Defiance might be a cover for shame.
Withdrawal might be the result of overwhelm—not a lack of care.For many neurodivergent people, especially children, their emotional state often speaks louder than their words.
And if they haven’t yet developed the language or capacity to name what’s happening inside, behaviour becomes the language.And that’s where people often get stuck.
They try to manage or correct the behaviour—but behaviour is just the expression.
It’s the surface layer.
If we only ever respond to what we can see, we risk missing what actually needs our attention.Someone might be overwhelmed and acting out—but if the overwhelm is caused by, say, sound sensitivity, and all we do is address the outburst, then the source of the stress never changes.
The same thing will keep happening, over and over, because the root hasn’t been touched.In that case, maybe the real support isn’t a timeout—it’s a pair of noise-reducing earbuds.
Or maybe it’s permission to step away from the group for five minutes.
Maybe it’s simply recognising, “This classroom is too loud for them, and they’re doing their best to manage it.”What to ask yourself in the moment:
Has something just changed? (A sound? A demand? A person?)
Could this be fear, shame, or sensory overload?
Is this a new behaviour—or a familiar signal I’ve seen before?What to say or do:
“This looks hard—can I help?”
“You don’t need to explain. Let’s just pause for a second.”
Offer a reset: “Want to take a quick break and then come back?”And one more thing to watch for:
If you offer support—“Are you okay?”, “Can I help?”—and the behaviour escalates, that’s not a rejection of you.
It might be that even the smallest input—your voice, your movement, your presence—is just too much in that moment.That doesn’t mean do nothing.
It means do less.
Sit nearby. Stay calm.
Don’t push for conversation or eye contact—especially eye contact.
That’s a natural behaviour, not something to be forced.
Let them connect in the way that feels safe to them.Just let your stillness be the signal:
“You’re not alone, and I’m not going anywhere.”In a fight-or-flight state, the thinking brain goes offline.
Connection will come—but only once the storm has passed.And most importantly:
Not every behaviour needs fixing in the moment.
Stay curious. Look underneath.
Supporting the root often means the behaviour softens on its own.When someone feels truly seen—not just for what they’re doing, but for why they’re doing it—
they’re far more likely to reconnect, to trust, and to try again.
Masking
Masking means putting on a version of yourself to fit the world around you.
Everyone does it to a degree—you’re not exactly the same at work as you are with close friends.
But for many neurodivergent people, masking becomes constant.
It’s how they manage school, work, conversation, eye contact, tone of voice, body posture.
It’s exhausting.It’s important to recognise that masking takes energy.
That’s why someone might be fine all day in class, then fall apart the minute they get home.
The effort of holding it together drains their emotional batteries—and when it’s safe to drop the mask, everything spills out.We don’t need to get rid of masking entirely. Sometimes it’s necessary.
But we do need to notice when it’s happening and help create more spaces where people don’t have to perform.
More places where they can just be.That safety—of being seen, not just tolerated—can be the difference between surviving the day and actually living it.
Transitions
Transitions can be small on the outside, but huge on the inside.
Going from one activity to another, moving between environments, or even just shifting focus—these are moments that many people breeze through without thinking.
But for neurodivergent people, transitions can be disorienting, emotionally tiring, and sometimes even distressing.That’s because every transition asks the brain to shift gears.
To let go of what was and adjust to what’s coming next.
And when someone is already managing emotional regulation, sensory input, or social pressure, even a small change can feel like a lot to handle.What helps is predictability.
A little notice before the change.
A cue—verbal, visual, or physical—that the shift is coming.
And most of all—patience.
If a transition takes time, that doesn’t mean someone is being difficult. It means they’re still getting there.And here’s something often forgotten: while the situation might be changing, the people in it don’t have to.
Sometimes the most reassuring thing you can say is,
“Yes, we’re doing something new—but I’ll be right there with you.”
That reminder—that not everything is changing—can help someone feel steady, even when the world around them starts to move.It also helps to name it out loud:
“This is a transition. This part can feel hard.”
When someone hears that, they begin to recognise it for themselves.
Over time, they start to notice,
“Ah, this is why I’m feeling overwhelmed—something changed.”
And once they notice, they can begin to plan for it.
They might say,
“We’re taking a different route today—I’ll use my phone to help me cope,”
or
“I might need some quiet time after we get there.”That’s where real independence starts—not with forcing someone through change, but by helping them understand it, prepare for it, and recover from it.
Sensory Sensitivity
Sensory sensitivity doesn’t always look the way people expect.
It’s not just about volume, brightness, or texture—it’s about how sensory input is experienced.
And it’s often misunderstood because of what seem like contradictions.For example, someone might really struggle in a noisy classroom, yet happily watch a loud TV show or play music at full volume.
They might cover their ears when others speak loudly, but make loud noises themselves when they’re excited or overstimulated.That doesn’t mean they’re faking it, being inconsistent, or trying to cause trouble.
It means that chosen noise and unpredictable noise feel entirely different.When I make the noise, I know it’s coming.
My brain is ready for it.
It’s part of my self-expression, or it’s something I’m emotionally connected to.
But when the noise comes from someone else—especially when it’s sudden, overlapping, or emotionally charged—it hits differently.
It’s not just sound.
It’s pressure.The same goes for light, touch, smell, or movement.
Sensory overload happens when the input is too much, too fast, or outside our control.
That’s why something that seems small to one person can feel huge to someone else.Understanding sensory needs means respecting how individual and nuanced they are.
Just because someone can tolerate one type of input doesn’t mean they can tolerate them all.
And just because something looks “fine” from the outside doesn’t mean it feels fine inside.What helps:Offer sensory breaks or quiet spaces, even just for a few minutes.Let them use tools that help—like headphones, sunglasses, or comfort items—without judgement.If you notice distress, reduce input first—lower lights, lessen noise, reduce touch.Don’t question someone’s sensitivity just because it looks different in other settings.Involve them in creating a sensory plan—“What helps you feel safe when it’s too much?”And remember: verbal language is sensory too.
Too many instructions, too quickly, can feel like noise.
Keep communication calm, short, and clear when someone is under pressure.And above all—know that this is not one-size-fits-all.
What works for one person may not help another.
Some strategies may even increase stress instead of reducing it.
The key is discovery. Try things out together. Stay curious. Stay open. Keep listening.Because understanding someone’s sensory world doesn’t happen all at once.
It happens in moments—together.
Modelling Matters
Whether we realise it or not, we’re always modelling.
How we speak. How we cope. How we handle stress.
Every response we offer becomes a blueprint for the people around us—especially children. Especially those who are still learning how to manage a world that often doesn’t make space for them.Children don’t learn calm from being told to be calm.
They learn it by watching someone else stay steady—even in a wobble. That’s why the most powerful thing you can offer in a moment of distress isn’t a strategy. It’s you. Your steadiness. Your breath. Your tone.And in those moments, people will look to you—even without realising it. If a loud bang happens in a room, or something unexpected unfolds, everyone instinctively scans the space. Most of them will turn to the person they believe holds authority or safety. In a classroom, that’s the teacher. In a family, it might be a parent.
It doesn’t matter whether they say anything—what they do, how they carry themselves, will ripple through the room.This is why how you feel colours everything you do.
If you’re calm, it brings others toward calm.
If you’re frantic, nervous, or frustrated, that tone will spread too.Check in with yourself:“What am I feeling right now?”“What am I bringing into this moment?”If it’s frustration, fear, or embarrassment—pause. Breathe.
That emotion will shape every word, every look, every action you take next.You don’t need to be perfect. But you do need to be honest.
Because children—especially neurodivergent ones—read the world through people, not just instructions.What you can model in real time:Name your emotions: “I’m feeling overwhelmed, so I’m stepping outside for a minute.”Show regulation: “That didn’t go how I hoped. I’m trying again.”Use repair: “I spoke too sharply. That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”These moments aren’t small. They’re how trust is built.
They show that being human is allowed—and that even in hard moments, kindness and self-awareness are possible.And often, as you practice this kind of modelling, something unexpected happens.
Your own stress softens. Life feels a little lighter.
Because in learning how to help someone else stay grounded, you end up grounding yourself too.Modelling isn’t about being the perfect role model.
It’s about offering a steady presence—so someone else has the safety they need to learn, to grow, and to try again.
Caring for the Carer
Supporting someone—especially someone who is neurodivergent—takes energy.
It takes patience, thought, emotional flexibility, and an enormous amount of presence.
And most of the time, it takes those things on top of everything else you’re already carrying in life.That kind of giving can wear you down quietly.
It can chip away at your sense of self, your rest, even your joy—if you don’t make space for yourself along the way.Self-care isn't selfish. It isn't luxury. It's what allows you to keep showing up.Here’s what helps:Check in with yourself just like you’d check in with someone else:
“How am I actually feeling right now?”
“Do I need a break, a moment, a walk, a breath?”Notice when you’re overdoing it.
If you’re giving and giving but feeling resentful, that’s your system saying,
“I need care too.”Let go of the pressure to do it all perfectly.
Good support isn’t flawless—it’s consistent and kind.
Even if you’re tired. Even if you mess up sometimes.Have something that’s just for you.
A walk, a book, a friend, a song.
Something that belongs to you and fills your cup—not because it’s “productive,”
but because it helps you breathe.If you want to model regulation, calm, compassion, and patience—
you have to give those things to yourself first.
You don’t teach someone to be kind to themselves by pushing yourself to the edge.And sometimes, without meaning to, we teach more by what we model than what we say.
If you constantly push yourself to the edge, never rest, never pause, and never give yourself grace—
you’re showing the person in your care that this is what support looks like.They may copy that.
And when they start driving themselves too hard, forgetting to rest, or feeling like they’re not allowed to pause—
you might realise they’ve simply been learning from you.The way you treat yourself sets the tone for how they learn to treat themselves.Self-care doesn’t mean walking away from the work.
It means pacing yourself so you can keep doing the work with compassion.
It’s not an excuse to check out.
It’s what keeps you present without burning out.And honestly—if you’re even reading this, thinking it through, asking whether you’re doing enough—
you’re probably already showing up more than you realise.
© Neurodiversity University. All rights reserved.
This website and its contents, including text, design, and graphics, are the intellectual property of Neurodiversity University and are protected under UK copyright law. No part may be reproduced, distributed, or used in any form without written permission, except for personal and non-commercial use.