What if success was measured by how well someone is able to thrive as they are, where they are?
I don’t tell everyone, but I have ADHD and Autism. People don’t see it—because really, can you? Neurodivergence doesn’t always look the way people expect it to. And for the most part, I’ve learned to navigate the world in a way that makes it nearly invisible.
I’m what some might call a high-performing neurodivergent person (though, honestly, I don’t love that phrase). The assumption is that if you’re excelling, you must not struggle. If you can keep up, then surely it’s not that hard. But that’s not how it works.
There’s a common misconception that neurodivergence has a certain look. That if someone is capable, successful, or organized, then they must not really be autistic or can’t possibly have ADHD. People say things like:
"You don’t look autistic.”
"You can’t have ADHD; you’re too organized."
It’s often meant as reassurance, but really, it reflects a misunderstanding of what neurodivergence actually is. It assumes struggle has to be visible to be real, that if someone is doing well, their challenges must not exist.
And the challenges do exist. I used to devour books, finishing them in a flash. Now? I can barely get through a page before my brain jumps to the next thing. I fast-forward through videos or rewatch sections just to retain information. My attention doesn’t work the way it used to—not because I don’t care, but because cognitive processing isn’t always linear.
I don’t think it’s just me, either. The way we consume information has shifted. The internet has trained all of us, neurodivergent or not, to skim, scan, and jump between tasks. But for some of us, it’s not just a habit—it’s how our brains have always worked. The difference is that now, the rest of the world feels like it’s catching up to this fragmented, nonlinear way of processing.
For me, focus isn’t just about willpower—it’s about energy. Every task comes with a mental load: Am I focusing too hard? Not enough? Am I processing this the “right” way? That’s something people don’t often see. They see productivity, not the cost of it. The overcorrection. The masking. The exhaustion of translating thoughts into a format that makes sense to others.
And that’s where things get complicated. Because when neurodivergence is acknowledged, it sometimes comes with a subtle shift. From colleague to exception. From leader to the neurodivergent one who manages to ‘keep up’. It’s well-meaning, but it carries an unspoken expectation—that one should either seamlessly fit in or become the reference point for those who don’t.
But neurodivergence isn’t something to be neatly categorized. Like many others, I mask. I push through exhaustion. I navigate spaces where I’m constantly assessing whether I’m being too much or not enough. The reality isn’t just in the strengths people see—it’s also in the sensory stress, the executive dysfunction, the careful balancing act of existing in spaces not built with us in mind.
So yes, acknowledgement is important. But true inclusion isn’t just about recognizing neurodivergent people when they excel—it’s about making space for the full spectrum of experiences, strengths, and challenges. It’s about moving beyond the idea that capability and neurodivergence are at odds with each other.
This isn’t just about workplaces, either. It’s about how society frames intelligence, success, and even how we process information. We praise deep work and long attention spans, but we also build systems that reward speed, adaptability, and multitasking. We want people to think differently, but only in ways that are comfortable and convenient.
What if we stopped asking who fits in and started asking what needs to change? Because maybe inclusion isn’t just about letting people exist—it’s about redesigning the spaces where they do. So, I ask again, what if success was measured by how well someone is able to thrive as they are, where they are?
It’s certainly a conversation worth having.