neurodiversity – I am James' mum

But He Looks ‘Normal’: Elopement, Autism, and Neurodiversity

This post began as a joyful moment I shared online: a video of James and I signing in Makaton at Heathrow, with a caption that read:

“The world is changing in a magnificent way. We didn’t have these self-service wheelchairs in December, and now we do! The stress relief and anxiety reduction is immense. Happiness is peace, understanding, accommodation and acceptance.”

That change—wheelchairs available to borrow like luggage trolleys—sparked another thought.

When are we enabling agency, and when are we quietly reinforcing exclusion?

We’ve seen similar setups in supermarkets lately, the choice to help yourself without a lengthy registration process. It’s a small but powerful step toward everyday inclusion.

This was our first time using this service. Although I don’t plan to do it often or take advantage of it, I was grateful it was there. I want to encourage James to adapt when he can. But sometimes, circumstances dictate. And this time, it was the safer, easier, and kinder choice for both of us.

Still, I wondered if people were confused—seeing James in a wheelchair when he’s perfectly capable of walking. To be honest, I didn’t have time to worry about what others thought. He managed to dash off anyway. Specifically, he eloped.

Elopement

Eloping is the SEND (Special Educational Needs and Disabilities) term for this sudden, fast, unplanned running off. It’s a type of fight-or-flight behaviour often seen in autistic children, especially those with intellectual or learning disabilities.

Eloping, in the context of children with special needs, evokes a deep, instinctual panic. It is the kind that freezes your heart. It turns your stomach to stone. It happens in seconds. Your child slips from your grasp and bolts.

It’s not misbehaviour. It’s communication. Or it’s overload. Or it’s fear. Or sometimes, it’s just the only response a child has. We’ve experienced elopement in shopping centres, schools, restaurants, playgrounds. It’s scary. Avoiding these places altogether isn’t sustainable—or healthy. So we build a toolkit, and we remain alert.

Parenting or supporting a non-speaking autistic child with learning disabilities requires constant micro-decisions that are both ethical and practical. Each decision sits within a continuum:

Support vs. over-support
Protecting safety vs. restricting autonomy
Reducing demands vs. reducing opportunity
Adapting the world vs. unintentionally narrowing it

In this sense, inclusion is an ongoing negotiation. Families must continually evaluate the line between enabling agency and reinforcing passive dependence — a line that is influenced by risk, resources, social expectations, and their own emotional capacity.

Our airport ‘toolkit’

We don’t usually book special assistance services at airports, but we do carry a doctor’s letter explaining James’s needs. We book night flights. We pack familiar snacks and toys, print airport pictures in advance, and bring sensory items. Sometimes, I take anti-anxiety medication, not just for myself, but to ensure my fear doesn’t amplify his. That’s the hidden layer behind invisible disabilities and “He looks fine.”

Neurodiversity: Seeing the Bigger Picture

I sometimes prefer to talk about neurodiversity through characteristics rather than diagnostic criteria. From my own experience, I’ve found that the “defining characteristics” of autism have sometimes overshadowed James’s other learning needs—especially speech and language delay, apraxia, and global developmental delay.

Invisible or unseen can mean we often don’t know the full extent or cause—and we certainly can’t measure potential based on what we know so far.

The Unseen Population

There is a whole group of children and young people who rarely make it into the centre of conversations about autism, learning disability, or inclusion — not because they are small in number, but because they are harder for the world to see.

Children who don’t speak. Children without a reliable communication system. Children whose bodies don’t move the way they want them to.
In classrooms, they are sometimes placed in the corner with good intentions, but low expectations. In society, they are praised when compliant, overlooked when curious, and misunderstood when distressed. None of these are the failures of the child. They are failures of our society and system.

There is still so little research into children without speech or formal communication. This population—those with the most complex disabilities—are often overlooked, omitted, or researched upon rather than with. They become theory, not fully recognised and respected lives.

Presuming competence sounds simple on paper.
But in the real world, it bends and blurs.
Capacity rises and falls with noise, hunger, fear, fatigue, environment, chemistry, chance.

Some days we stretch the world to meet our children.
Some days we shrink their world to keep them safe. When are we nurturing agency — and when, without meaning to, are we teaching helplessness?

When are we opening doors — and when are we simply decorating the walls of a small room?

There is no universally “correct” position because every child and context is different. However, the critical question remains:

Are we creating conditions that allow the child to be an active participant in their life, or are we — intentionally or not — positioning them as passive recipients of care?

The difference between the two is profound. One supports growth, identity, and self-determination. The other reinforces the long-standing pattern in which disabled people are managed, spoken for, and ultimately viewed as objects of intervention rather than subjects of experience.

Mental Health, Migration, Mitigation and Motherhood

How does migration affect mental health and motherhood? And how can we prepare and protect ourselves from the risks we don’t always see coming?

We’re living in the age of globalisation. I was young when low-cost air travel exploded in the 1990s. Suddenly, flying became accessible to many more people—sometimes cheaper than a train ticket. Before then, migration tended to follow certain patterns: highly skilled professionals, intra-regional low-wage workers, or those seeking refuge.

But companies like EasyJet and Ryanair changed the game in Europe—making travel cheap, cheerful, and frequent. Migration became more casual, and cultural diversity more widespread. I think immigration and migration are great. It is fantastic to have the opportunity to experience different people and cultures.

I write this because mental illness can have many roots—and migration is one of them. As an expat, a mother, and an advocate for autism awareness, I think it’s important to explore how migration affects mental health, especially for families and parents of neurodivergent children.

My son is autistic. My family has a long history of migration. My grandparents migrated into a war zone. My parents later migrated out of one. And I became an expatriate myself when James was two.

Migration often means losing what feels familiar and safe. You trade family, structure, language, and predictability for the unknown. That uncertainty doesn’t always feel dramatic at first, but over time, it can chip away at your sense of stability and confidence. The social systems you once relied on—healthcare, education, childcare—are suddenly different, or gone entirely. You have to rebuild your support networks from scratch.

We moved to Thailand not long after my son’s diagnosis. But even before we left the UK, I was already feeling isolated. We had moved house in search of space for our growing family—a kind of local migration, but one that meant my nearest support was over an hour away by public transport. Motherhood had already brought challenges I hadn’t anticipated—and migration only magnified them.

Later, through James’ diagnosis, I began to recognise traits of neurodiversity in myself. As I explored autism and mental health more deeply, I started writing about them too. I wish I’d known more earlier—about the systems, the symptoms, and the ways neurodivergence and mental health can quietly intertwine. That’s why I now advocate for awareness, acceptance, and above all—prevention and preparedness.

There’s space, I believe, for better parental primary care. Not just post-partum, but pre-natal too. Especially for those who may already carry hidden or unspoken risk factors.

For me, mental health is a balance between physical wellbeing and self-awareness. I’ve found support in sharing my story, in connecting with others who understand, and in allowing myself space to reflect—without shame.

What helps:

1. Planning (especially around family)
Before migrating, it helps to understand the healthcare landscape—not just in theory, but in practice. What does a paediatric appointment look like? Is there insurance coverage for developmental or mental health support? What sensory experiences might come up in a hospital setting? For me, the healthcare system in Thailand was nothing like the GP-led care I was used to in the UK. Language barriers, traffic, and unfamiliar systems all added stress when I was already stretched thin.

2. Support systems
Online communities were a lifeline. The Expat Mummy Club, in particular, gave me space to find information and connect. Over time, more groups emerged—some focused on parenting, others on mental health or neurodiversity. These groups remind me that help can come from unexpected places.

3. Relaxation
Finding calm isn’t optional—it’s essential. I try to choose activities that give my mind rest. It’s not always easy to notice what’s stressing you out, but recognising it is the first step. Learning to stay present—without constantly anticipating disaster—has helped me cope better, both as a person and as a parent.

4. Action plans (with flexibility)
Plans do help—when I can write them. But I don’t punish myself if I can’t always follow through. Self-acceptance is key. I plan when I can, and when I can’t? I try to go gently. As my mum used to sing to me when I was little: que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.

This post is just one part of a much bigger conversation—about the mental health challenges that can arise with expatriate life, especially for families, and about the invisible layers that come with neurodiversity and motherhood.

As I prepare to join a panel to discuss neurodiversity and mental health, I hope to explore not just the difficulties—but the possibilities. How can we build systems of care that recognise complexity? How can we support parents before, during, and after migration—not just in crisis, but as part of meaningful, preventive care?

One topic close to my heart is Preparedness in Parenting. For me, it’s not about manuals or rigid frameworks. It’s about empowering parents with the awareness and tools to proactively navigate neurodiversity. How can systems become more inclusive, more compassionate, and more prepared? How can we foster stronger community connections and greater understanding for families in transition?

If any of this resonates with you, you’re not alone. Let’s keep the conversation going—across borders, across differences, and with compassion.

Step into my Spectrum

A reflection on agency, aggression, and the growth in between

I was going through old drafts and found a diary entry from four years ago. It shook me a bit to read it. In some ways, not much has changed. But in between, there has definitely been growth.

The Link Between Aggression and Agency

Today, the topic is aggression and agency.

Our sense of agency is foundational to our mental and emotional well-being. It’s not just about taking action—it’s about choosing which action to take.
Read more on agency: Inherent Yet Fragile

To avoid spiralling into reactive behaviour—my own or my son’s—I had to choose my response.
Today, it was to consciously step into my spectrum and understand myself.

When I’m tired, I often feel unsure about how to engage with James, entertain him, or support his learning.
This gets worse when we’re stressed, hungry, hot, or dysregulated.

I try to be consistent, while quietly battling a constant low-level anxiety:

Am I letting him stim too much? Is it helping? Hurting? Should I be doing more? Less?

The Crossroads of Parenting

I’ve been at a crossroads in my thinking for a long time.
I want him to rest.
His life has been full of therapy because I didn’t—and sometimes still don’t—know what to do.
But the more I learn, the better our relationship becomes.

On tough days, though, I feel like I’ve been getting it wrong from the start.
Mistake after mistake.
Those thoughts keep me up at night.
Sometimes crying. Sometimes fighting.

The diary entry from 2021 was an explosion of overwhelm into a screen. It brought back memories of the early COVID-19 pandemic.
I’d had a miscarriage. We’d just moved house. I couldn’t shake the grief. And in the middle of it all, James began to self-injure. He would pinch himself, leaving red and purple marks across his skin.

Studying Inclusion, Feeling the Weight

In 2022, I began studying inclusion.
I was becoming more confident, but also more frequently heartbroken.
It was hard to detach from the raw vulnerability of children’s lives.

I’d been studying for years, but maybe I’d missed the key point.

A Moment of Aggression

It was a hot day. James asked to go down a street we’d never been on.
Our routine was out of sync, Jonathan was travelling, and I was alone.

I said no. It was a busy road, and I was scared.

Thwack, thwack—there goes my head.
Another time, he dug his fingernails into my face and pulled my hair.
Then, moments later, he climbed into my lap and kissed me.

It’s difficult.

I know he is inherently good and that he needs to be taught.
Read more: on Presence not Panic

It’s hard to stay calm—and yes, I get angry too.

I can usually handle it.

The pain subsides. The bruises fad

The regret?
That’s harder to push away.

Forgiveness comes easily.
But I know that I must help him.
If I don’t support him in learning in the way he can, his independence will be limited.

Speaking Openly About the Hard Stuff

With hindsight, I wish the professionals who diagnosed James had found a way to reach me—and treat me at the outset too.

But truthfully, the diagnosis was a relief.
It took away the weight of being labelled a “bad parent.”
And it slowly helped me rebuild my confidence to act as a capable parent.

A diagnosis doesn’t mean despair or unhappiness.
But still, I sometimes wonder if James’s childhood has been less joyful than I wanted for him. Maybe because of all the therapy. The systems. The watchful eyes.

I speak a lot about acceptance on my site. I allow myself to talk openly about the hard times, because I also celebrate our joy.
But sometimes, I still feel paralysed. I feel like an imposter, dependent on medication to keep my brain in balance. Because when depression pulls the metaphorical trigger, it erases all the good and leaves me spiralling.

And I know these things impact James.
They limit my ability to be the parent I want to be.

Step Into My Spectrum

The title of this post comes from one of my favourite T-shirts:
Step Into My Spectrum.

It’s my way of storytelling.
A need to express connection, even without conversation.

This is me, sharing part of my spectrum.
This is part of my advocacy for neurodiversity, for acceptance, for change.

If you’ve found yourself resonating with any part of this, then we’ve connected.
Like listening to a song, passively yet deeply, and finding yourself inside someone else’s story.

It reminds me that emotions are fundamental to being human.
That our experience of life exists on a spectrum, shaped by both nature and nurture.

My brain is also what makes me kind.
Empathetic.
Creative.
Joyful.

And that joy is contagious.
Most importantly, for James.

That’s the type of emotional contagion we need.

Innsaei

Back to today. I decided to trust myself. The Icelandic word for this is innsæi. James didn’t want to go to bed. Not many pre-teens do. I guessed that the day had simply been too full of demands for him. It was a bit difficult at first. We’ve been on a good run lately. But that’s life—ups and downs.

To cut a long story short, he reclaimed a tiny bit of agency.
And so did I.

Why? How? Beliefs, Belonging, Burnout and Beyond

Beliefs shape how we see the world.
Belonging shapes how we survive in it.
And if we can’t always answer how, maybe we go back to why.

Today I attended a business workshop where we discussed passion, burnout, and bouncing back. It helped me connect some of the things that have been quietly sitting in my brain for a while: beliefs, belonging, burnout – and what comes next.

But let me backtrack. A new stim appeared today. I found myself wondering—was James trying to show something he couldn’t yet say? These are the kinds of questions I ask myself often. I overthink. But sometimes, that overthinking helps me notice patterns, to piece together signals that might otherwise go unseen. That brings me back to beliefs and burnout. I burn out because the load is heavy—juggling life, learning, teaching, and creating tools. Even things I love can weigh me down when there’s no room to pause.

Lately, I’ve been experimenting with AI tools—training image generators to create meaningful visuals for my projects. I hoped it would make things easier. The results are inconsistent: brilliant one moment, bizarre the next. In a way, it reminds me of autism and the term spiky profile. Like that term, these tools can be great in one area and miss the mark in another.

It also reflects something deeper: expectations.

We often expect people—especially children with additional needs—to “perform” to certain standards. We do this without pausing to understand the gaps in comprehension, communication, or cultural background.

Take a sandwich, for example.

If you give someone butter, bread, chicken, and egg, what do they make? That depends on where and how they were raised. Do they toast it? Does the butter go inside or outside? What goes first—the chicken or the egg? How would an untrained Artificial Intelligence Bot make it? (Ha.)

The point is: the “rules” are cultural. Learned. Assumed. Alien to some! Yet sometimes, experimenting outside those rules leads to something beautifully unexpected.

If the response is supportive—“that’s a creative idea,” or “tell me more”—it becomes part of a learning process. But if the response is “not like that” or “that’s wrong,” it can feel alienating. This can erode confidence. Imagine the frustration. Imagine facing that type of reaction with almost everything, all the time.

The challenge deepens when rules change depending on where you are too. I navigate language and systems in a culture that isn’t my own. My lifestyle doesn’t always fit the norm. The strain of not quite fitting in is something I feel often. This is especially true in this international world. Many of us are raising third-culture or even fourth-culture children. The layers add up. Different languages, different social cues, different systems. It’s no wonder burnout is common. Burnout isn’t just tiredness. It’s a state of mental, emotional, and physical depletion. It’s the slow erosion that comes from constantly adjusting to expectations that weren’t designed with you in mind. I see it in my child. I feel it in myself. And I read about it in parent communities.

I do overthink. I do burn out. But to counteract the signals, I’ve built myself a first-aid kit for those moments. I exercise, listen to music, read, sing, or work. I remind myself it’s okay to not be okay. It’s not perfect, but it helps. Sometimes I still hide. Tomorrow might be the day I’m a little less afraid.

Maybe the answer is simple: We are human. We evolve. We are the species that invented aircraft and landed on the moon. We can make life better for those living with depression or anxiety, or those who feel like they don’t belong. We can build systems of communication that meet people where they are. We can create roles and spaces that value what people bring, not just measure what they lack. People have the power to make meaningful change.

I write to make sense of it all—for myself, and for James. To find a way move beyond his current way of communicating.
For every child and parent who feels like they’re getting the sandwich sign wrong, but keeps trying anyway.

And maybe, through it all, we can create a space for hope, answers, belonging, and a little magic. Maybe tomorrow that stim will have gone away. TBC 🙂

Reframing, rewiring and repair – On PDA , parenting, and finding peace

This post picks up from a recent Facebook post about singing, stimming, and choosing my battles (actually, not choosing to battle), touching on what it means to accept preferred behaviours—mine and my son’s—and the power of being present. A recent Uniquely Human Podcast on Neuro-affirming care and PDA brought these thoughts into sharper focus, so I wanted to reflect more here.

Looking at the title now, it could just as easily be a DIY home improvement post—and in many ways, it is. It’s about the rewiring we do as parents when we’re raising children who don’t fit into neat boxes. A personal repair.

From Pathology to Autonomy

Although I dislike the terminology of PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance), the discussion struck a chord with me, particularly in the linguistic and diagnostic origins. Dr. Taylor Day pointed out that PDA is still a theorised profile, and that it’s the idea rather than the label that often best reflects lived experience.

Reframed as a Persistent or Pervasive Drive for Autonomy, the description feels closer to the truth. It shifts the focus from disorder to understanding. From behaviour to the influencing context. It invites the question—not “what’s wrong with this behaviour?” but “what is influencing this reaction?”

It’s Not Defiance—It’s Survival

Dr. Day spoke about PDA as a nervous system response: a cascading stress that affects the entire family. Not one trigger, but many, layered, compounding causes. A build-up in a hypersensitive system that’s on alert, that is fight or flight, freeze, fawn, overwhelm, and shutdown. All combinations of which can result in a state of chronic stress, often invisible, increasing over time, for both parents and children. She proposes it stems from insecurity. From my personal point of view, it has been panicking and not knowing what to do. And when that happens, demands and triggers of any kind can feel like too much.

The idea that some of our kids are “super sensors” feels closer to the truth. These are children (and adults) who are exquisitely attuned to tone, emotion, and stress, often without the capacity to regulate or respond in ways that look typical. And when they can’t comply, they get labelled as manipulative or defiant. It’s heartbreaking. They’re not trying to control the situation. They’re trying to survive it.

Reframing, for us

Dr. Day invited us to rethink how we make demands, and why. A child’s “big reaction” might be the result of years of subtle (and not so subtle) pressures, often unknowingly passed down by us.

In the same podcast, Dr. Barry Prizant asked: Who should really be teaching us? It is so easy for professionals to assume their way is best. Their language, their diagnosis, their model. But shared human experience is essential. As human beings, we all come with our own lens. Our own wiring. Lived experience is no less valid than academia. Lived experience doesn’t need a PhD to be valid. It’s valid because it has been lived, a space and truth beyond textbooks. It was refreshing to hear that acknowledged. And that’s where conversations like this matter. It is the bridge to better understanding, improved approaches, and pivotal and pragmatic steps forward in DIY therapy and empowered parenting.

Repairing the system, too

Looking back, so much of the early support we received was compliance-focused. Sit still. Tick the boxes three times consecutively to pass for normal. But at what cost? With hindsight, my neurodivergence is something I understand better now. This isn’t about blame. It’s about a review. About asking: Why did I think that was the right path? What parts of me were just trying to survive, too? Neurodivergence, Autism, and related challenges don’t discriminate. They touch every class, background, and IQ level. It’s not about capacity. It’s about support. There is no hierarchy. And there’s no universal “right way”—only ways that work (or don’t) for each individual. It is a phenomenon that we continue to learn how to approach, theorise, and try out.

Letting Go of “Normal”

The repair work I’m doing now is more about shifting the focus away from neurotypical benchmarks—function, assessment, normalcy—and asking: What actually helps him?

So many therapeutic models still frame success as compliance. We need to ask—what’s actually serving our child? Not what makes others comfortable. Not what ticks boxes or looks good on paper.

As my son enters the next phase of his life—physically the size of a man, on the edge of his teenage years—I think constantly about how the world can include him. He may need substantial support in daily life, but does that mean that life skills should be his priority? I’m more interested in developing his expression, communication, and preserving his youth. In nurturing self-advocacy. Of course, when safety isn’t the immediate concern.

He is where he is, in part, because of a larger inclusion problem. That’s why I keep doing this work: to keep changing how I see, how I respond, and how I show up for him.

Presence, Not Panic

One of the most powerful grounding tools Dr. Day shared was beautifully simple:

“Ask yourself, where are my feet right now?”

It’s so easy to live in the future as a parent, especially when your child’s future feels uncertain. What will happen when I’m gone? How will they cope? But anxiety steals the moment. And in the moment is where our children need us.

Instead of spiralling into all the unknowns, I try to focus on now. Enjoying our time together, and this sometimes means doing our own thing, but still checking in. Finding calm. This isn’t avoidance—it’s presence. And it’s powerful. It helps rewire my panic (neurological) pathways that have existed for a long time. It isn’t easy and it takes time, but the good news is that neuroplasticity can continue throughout our lives. Another leap of understanding in the field of neuroscience and neurobiology.

What really matters?

So instead of thinking in goals, guilt, outcomes, and “what should be,” I now try to think in contentment and connection. What helps my son feel safe? How can I support his autonomy? I turn to blogs, textbooks, and good news stories. And ultimately his behaviour tells me we are on the right track, for now.

Neurodivergent-affirming care starts with this:

Seeing the person in front of you as whole and worthy.
Understanding strengths and support needs, not just deficits.
Prioritising quality of life over performance.
Asking: Do they want to work on this? Not just: Do they need to?

This is respect and repair.

Not choosing battles—choosing peace

We hear a lot about “choosing our battles” in parenting. But maybe it’s time to step out of the battle altogether. If we see the stage our children are at, not as something to manage, but to meet with curiosity, then everything softens.

And it’s not just the child who needs care—we do too. Especially when neurodivergence runs in the family. Support needs to start with us, not end with us.

Uniquely Human Podcast

This podcast is full of insights—too many for me to cover here. I highly recommend listening to it. It’s one of those conversations that leaves you not with a checklist, but a shift in how you see things. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

Cinderella and a little every day magic!

Today’s story was inspired by a post by a smart lady and a psychologist whose thoughts about Cinderella helped me consider choice.

I retold the Cinderella story for James. I told without a script, as part of the chatter and narrative we have together. I presumed competence. I do this as James does not communicate in a traditional way, and it may appear that he is not capable of understanding the story I told him. However, I enjoyed myself in the storytelling. The magic that happened was a simple celebration of connection and understanding. I talked about choice and the things we can choose to do. James surprised me with his independent choice to get himself ready for bed. He made me smile. I’m very proud of him.

Here is the story written up, AAC supports (visuals, key word Makaton signs, signed story and sensory enhancements) to follow 🙂

Cinderella 2025 A story for James

Once upon a time, there was a girl called Cinderella.

She was a quiet girl. She stayed at home and did not go to school.

Her mother had died when she was very young. Her father married another woman—a very mean one.

We know not all stepmothers are mean—but this one was unkind, bossy, and cruel.

Cinderella had lots of jobs to do every day. She felt tired and sad.

One day, the people in the town said,
“There will be a big party!”
“Everyone is invited!”

But Cinderella didn’t think she would go.
She sat down, feeling weary from all her chores.
A tear ran down her face.

Then—POP!—a voice said,
“Why are you crying, dear child?”

Cinderella looked up.
There in the air was a round, smiling, floating lady.
She had sparkly shoes and smelled like flowers.

“I don’t know,” said Cinderella.

“Is it because of the party?” the floating lady asked.
“Do you want to go?”

Cinderella thought,
No. I’m too tired. I have too much homework. I can’t leave the house.

“I’ll tell you what,” said the kind lady.
“Close your eyes and you’ll get a surprise.”

“No thank you,” said Cinderella.

She had been taught:
Don’t talk to strangers.
Don’t close your eyes just because someone says so.
That is good advice.

The lady smiled kindly.

“I understand,” she said.
“I’m your FGM— a Fairy Godmother. That means I’m a magic, nice helper.”

“Look over there!” she pointed.
Two mice were carrying bananas!

Then—POOF!

Suddenly, a beautiful dress appeared.
A shiny mask floated in the air.
And the mice now held sparkling yellow shoes.

“Put these on,” said the Fairy Godmother.
“Go to the party.
I will clean the house for you.
Just come back by midnight.
Will you take the chance?”

Cinderella looked at the dress. She thought of a night without cleaning.
“Yes,” she said, “I will go.”

Outside, there was a carriage waiting.
It looked a lot like a big pumpkin.

At the party, Cinderella had a great time.
She ate a lot of food.
She danced a little.

The mice were so happy at the cheese fountain!

Cinderella’s joy showed, even behind her mask.
She made the whole room shine.

Then—DING DONG—the clock struck twelve.

Cinderella had a choice.
Should she stay or go home?

She thought,
It’s late. It’s dark. It’s a long way to walk. And… my shoes might turn into bananas!

So she ran to the carriage.

Back at home, everything turned back.

The dress became an old sack.
The carriage became a pumpkin.
There was only one banana left.

Cinderella smiled and laughed.
“That was fun,” she said.

She got out her notebook, wrote down the story, and smiled again.

The Moral of the Story (with Key Ideas)

Some things are hard to change—but it’s good to try and stay hopeful.
Don’t talk to strangers, and don’t do something just because someone tells you to.
Think about your own safety, your choices, and what’s right for you.
You can feel happy inside, even if things around you are difficult.
Sometimes life brings a little magic—not like fairytales, but still real.
We all have the power to choose and to hope.
Stories help us learn, dream, and connect—so let’s tell happy stories.

Joyful Storytelling for All Learners

When working with children who have complex learning difficulties and disabilities, we may not always receive clear, verbal feedback. But that does not mean the child is not listening, learning, or engaging. This is where the principle of presuming competence becomes essential.

We tell stories with trust in our learners. Even if they don’t appear to be responding, we open the door to unexpected moments of connection. A smile, giggle, a subtle shift in posture or look. These are all signs of engagement and meaning-making.

Storytelling also provides a safe space to explore important life themes: choice, safety, resilience, and joy. When stories are offered with no pressure to perform, they create inclusive spaces. Every child can participate in their own way.

You might be surprised by what happens if you take a chance. A story shared with warmth and humour might unlock a reaction you’ve never seen before. A child who rarely interacts might suddenly light up at a certain phrase. Or a previously silent listener might begin to vocalise, gesture, or initiate.

These are not just moments of entertainment—they are moments of communication, connection, and belonging.

Why Storytelling Matters

Storytelling is a powerful tool for all learners, especially those with complex needs. When stories are shared with joy, laughter, and sensory richness, they create accessible entry points into learning. For some children, understanding might come through:

The sound of a repeated phrase, rhythm, or voice
The visual repetition of a symbol or gesture
The feel of a prop (a soft sack, a smooth mask, a textured pumpkin)
The emotional tone of shared laughter or surprise
The comfort of a routine storytelling structure

In this context, comprehension doesn’t always look like answering questions or retelling the story.

A thought on presuming competence

Presuming competence is not about ignoring a child’s needs—it’s about believing in their possibilities. When we tell stories with kindness, sensory depth, and a dash of magic, we send a message:

“You belong in this story. You are expected to understand. And we will meet you where you are.”

Presuming competence means approaching every child with the belief that they are capable of thinking and understanding. They are also capable of feeling and communicating in their own way. It shifts our focus from deficits to potential. Instead of asking “What can they do?”, we ask “What can we offer to support deeper engagement?”

Let’s tell stories full of joy, curiosity, and open-heartedness—and let’s be open to the beautiful, surprising responses they can invite.

Makaton Key Word List for Cinderella 2025

Here’s a suggested list of key words to sign during storytelling (you can adapt based on vocabulary level):

Makaton Key Word Table for Cinderella 2025

Spoken Word	Makaton Sign (Suggested)
Cinderella	Name sign or fingerspell
Girl	GIRL
Home / School	HOME / SCHOOL
Mother	MOTHER
Father	FATHER
Quiet	QUIET
Mean / Unkind	MEAN or BAD
Chores / Jobs	WORK
Tired	TIRED
Sad	SAD
Know / Help	THINK or LEARN / HELP
Party	PARTY
Dress	DRESS
Shoes	SHOES
Carriage	CAR
Pumpkin	PUMPKIN
Magic	MAGIC
Midnight	CLOCK + 12
Happy	HAPPY
Dance	DANCE
Cheese	CHEESE
Mouse	MOUSE
Banana	BANANA
Choice	CHOOSE
Write / Notebook	WRITE / BOOK
Story	STORY

Every thing is information (introducing Interoception)

Playing With Words: What “Information” Really Tells Us

Today I’m playing with the word in words.

Adding “in-” in front of a word often seems to mean not. This is evident in examples like invisible (not visible) or incomplete (not complete). But language, like life, is full of exceptions and rule-breakers. Take different and indifferent: they don’t just mean “different” and “not different.”
Indifferent actually means not caring or showing no interest, which isn’t the same as being the same. It’s about emotional disconnection or detachment.

Back to information. Information is not the negation of formation—it’s a formed piece of meaning. A fact or idea that’s taken shape, ready to be shared, understood, and used. And with that in mind, let’s use information to reframe how we think about neurodiversity.

Indifferent—or Just Different?

People with autism are often mislabelled as indifferent.
Even worse, the once-popular puzzle piece symbol for autism suggests there is something missing—an incomplete puzzle. Sadly, this symbol is still in use.

But what if what looks like indifference is actually a difference in processing?
What if it’s not a lack of interest, but a different way of showing it?

Can we truly remain indifferent—disconnected or detached—from that truth once we’re armed with better information?

What if we replaced that narrative with positive symbolism—symbols that advocate, assist, accommodate, and amplify acceptance of neurodiversity?

Introducing Interoception

The piece of information I want to share today is about interoception. It’s not a common word—appearing in only 0.2 occurrences per million words in modern written English—but it’s a vital concept, especially when parenting a neurodivergent child.

Interoception is your internal body awareness. It’s part of the somatic sensory system—the senses that relate to what’s going on inside your body, rather than outside. Interoception tells you:

When you’re hungry or thirsty
If you’re too hot or too cold
If you’re in pain or need the toilet
How tired, nauseous, or tense you feel

It’s the quiet feedback loop that connects your brain to your body, helping you regulate, respond, and self-care.

Why Interoception Matters

When interoception is underdeveloped or processed differently—as is often the case for many neurodivergent individuals—it can create very real challenges:

Emotional regulation
Managing discomfort or pain
Feeling safe and settled in your own body
Reaching learning potential

Understanding James’s interoception helps me understand his behaviour. It also allows me to reflect on my own interoceptive awareness. To support him, I need to tune into myself, too. This week I forgot to eat, didn’t sleep well, became overwhelmed and this fatigue followed me into the following days. I had less energy for him. So today I chose to stay at home, rest, recuperate and write. We’re learning together—co-regulating in tandem, decoding the signals our bodies send us in different ways.

Everything Is Information

Let’s return to the word everything. Everything = every thing. Each sound, sight, feeling, action—every sensory input is a piece of information.

So:

Every thing in the world is information.

If behaviour is a response to that information, then we must begin with understanding. Our behaviour is shaped by how we sense, interpret, and process the world. When we recognise that some behaviours stem from interoceptive or sensory differences, we can begin to rewrite the way we respond.

These behaviours may not signal defiance.
They may not signal disinterest.
They may simply be different responses to different internal information.

That understanding can change the way we teach, parent, and include.

When the Rules Don’t Fit

Learning is hard. And sometimes, the rules we rely on—social, educational, inherited, parenting, medical, textbook rules—don’t fit every child.

This is where we need a shift in thinking. Especially around our expectations of behaviour, communication, and connection. If we can look at autism and neurodivergence through a new lens—one shaped by compassionate information, not outdated assumptions—we may finally begin to:

Learn
Include
Accept

Instead of:

Diagnose
Pathologise
Exclude

Invisible Differences

Autism can sometimes be an invisible disability.
Not because it’s not real, but because it doesn’t always show in the ways people expect. It can be invisible in the classroom, in the workplace, or even at home. Often, stigma, misunderstanding, or the quiet pressure to “mask” what’s not considered “typical” means autism stays hidden and repressed. And this invisibility is made worse by a lack of information or negative attitudes. When we don’t understand something, we often overlook it—or worse, judge it. But language and knowledge can change that.

From Information to Transformation

This post is an example of how language, meaning, and understanding evolve over time. Some ideas are inherited and taken for granted. That’s how many of us learned. But that’s not how everyone can—or should—be expected to learn. We can use better information to build greater understanding.

Because “in-” isn’t always a negation. And neither is autism.
And information, like inclusion, is a celebration of something shaped, meaningful, and ready both to inform and to form.

While “invisible” or “incomplete” are negations, words like inspire, inform, inclusion, or incarnate don’t negate. Instead, they add depth, presence, or action. Both “inform” and “include” are generative acts. They don’t take away—they build, connect, shape. To inform is to give form. Autism isn’t a negation or absence—it’s not the lack of something but a different presence. This post suggests a new perspective. It aims to create a different approach. The shift is from deficit-based thinking to give form to value, diversity, and identity.

My hope is that by better understanding interoception, I can continue reshaping my own behaviour. I want to meet my son where he is. I aim to break down barriers, both personal and societal. To help James not just survive, but thrive, as we navigate this journey—together.

And on that note, it’s time for bed! 🙂

As simple as ABC? (addressing barriers collectively…)

Addressing Access Barriers Collectively “To share a little of each other’s world so that all might gain through a broadening of their horizons” (Grace, 2020)

Did you know that some groups globally do not have access to comprehensive communication and literacy education? Historically, this group of disabled individuals was termed ‘subhuman’ and ineducable. Thankfully, the mindsets that contributed to this bleak landscape for disabled people have changed substantially.

Yet, despite major advances in social equality and human rights for people with disabilities, many are still limited by either their capacity to learn or the methods in which they are being taught. In reality, it’s a combination of both.

My son is one of these children. He is the reason I read and research, advocating for collective consciousness and community change. I share my perspective as someone who is still trying to filter the pragmatics from the complexities encountered over the years, from one specialist to the next. After much exploration, we have finally settled upon inclusion as a universal/specialist approach to adopt and embrace.

My son is someone you could consider to be a ‘sensory being.’ This term, coined by Inclusion Specialist Joanna Grace, is used to describe individuals with multiple learning disabilities in a positive light—highlighting their primary experience of the world, which is sensory (Grace, 2017). While no label or terminology can fully encapsulate the essence of who a person is, this term is sufficiently descriptive of some of his abilities and challenges, and it can support a wider understanding of how to interact with him and others like him.

The core meaning of this term for me is being. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, “being” refers to the state of existing, a person or thing that exists, or the essence or nature of something. People with profound and multiple learning and physical disabilities exist and continue to live in a society that often misunderstands and mistreats them. The stories of abuse and neglect in care homes, at the most tragic end of the spectrum, are heartbreaking.

If my son is a ‘sensory being’ and I am a ‘linguistic being,’ we need to find a bridge. We must ‘share a little of each other’s world’ to both of our benefit. This helps us appreciate and celebrate each other’s essence, our humanity, our relationships, and our existence together. This brings us to core words and how they can be used collectively in the community to create that bridge.

Language, Interaction, and Being

By definition, the description ‘sensory being’ implies that language is elusive for this group of people. It highlights the delicate balance between using too much language or too little. Imagine being completely ignored on one end of the spectrum, or overwhelmed and confused by too many words and commands on the other. Where is the middle ground?

Observation, the selective use of core words, Intensive Interaction, and Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) can be the bridge to understanding this balance. These techniques involve using fewer words but with greater meaning—focusing on the most important, essential vocabulary that can facilitate communication and connection.

Understanding where the child is in relation to the basic (typical) phases of communication development and function can help design the core words to use. For example, non-intentional communicators may use indiscriminate body motions, crying, smiling, or vocalisations. What should you look for? How is the communication related to a sensory responsiveness to something internal or environmental? When the child cries, what do they need? When the child smiles, what makes them happy? What sounds do you hear in their vocalisations—do they vary? How is the tone? What can we adjust in the environment to respond to their initial pre-intentional communication?

Core Words Modeling: Example core words could include: “I,” “see,” “you,” “hungry,” “tired,” “happy,” “hot,” “cold,” “thirsty,” “want,” “play,” “oh no,” “better,” “more,” “help,” “stop.”

These core words can offer children like my son the opportunity to express their needs, preferences, and desires.

Collective Community Change Through Core Words

The collective use of core words across communities can make a tangible difference. It means that children like my son don’t have to rely solely on a few specialists or carers for their communication needs. Over time, this creates a web of understanding, enabling people with sensory processing differences to experience consistent, meaningful interactions across various settings. It’s not just about teaching language—it’s about fostering mutual understanding.

This shifts the dynamic from a top-down “I speak, you listen” model to a more collaborative, two-way exchange of meaning.

Emotional Regulation and Well-Being

This approach doesn’t just benefit children with sensory or communication challenges—it can be adapted to support everyone across a broad spectrum of needs. When communities adopt inclusive practices, everyone gains by broadening their understanding of how people experience the world. Children with sensory processing differences often struggle with emotional self-regulation due to the mismatch between their sensory experience and their environment. Some responses to these frustrations manifest as self-injurious behaviours or physical reactions. By incorporating timely and fewer, well-chosen words and responses, we help them process their experiences in ways that feel safe and manageable.

One concrete example is the improvement in my son’s regulation when I observe he is feeling overwhelmed. With the use of core words and signs like “calm,” “quiet,” or “break,” I can observe my own physiological change in response to the imminently stressful situation, and regulate both his and my own emotions more effectively. This emotional vocabulary isn’t just about words—it’s about co-regulation, modelling, and giving him the tools to communicate complex feelings and navigate the world with more agency and confidence.

Research has shown that using techniques like Intensive Interaction or AAC can significantly improve emotional regulation, well-being, and communication, while supporting literacy development and addressing the challenges of isolation and frustration that often accompany communication difficulties.

Universal/Specialist Approach: A Path Forward

The inclusive, universal/specialist approach we’ve adopted is about meeting children where they are, regardless of their individual challenges. For my son, this means embracing both specialised interventions (such as speech therapy or sensory integration techniques) and community-wide approaches that empower everyone—adults and children alike—to communicate more effectively.

Advocating for a Broader Understanding

I speak from a place of lived experience. As a parent advocating for my son, I experience firsthand the overwhelming range of emotions that come with being misunderstood or trapped inside a mind and body without an outlet. I know that interpreting my son’s behaviour is not just about finding a right “way.” It’s a constant journey of learning and unlearning, filtering through the complexities of the systems around us to arrive at a place where inclusion, understanding, and respect are the foundation of how we interact.

Sustainability, Suicide and Self-Esteem

Advocates Apparel is joining the Women Change Makers Fair. We aim to celebrate neurodiversity and its crucial role in shaping a more inclusive, sustainable future. Our focus is on raising awareness of the strengths and unique perspectives of neurodivergent individuals. Embracing neurodiversity, our goal is to drive innovative thinking, creativity and increase well-being. We strive to create lasting change for everyone.

What Does a Sustainable Future Mean to You?

For me, a sustainable future is about safeguarding human well-being alongside protecting the physical environment we live in. It means prioritising mental health—especially for children and individuals at risk of suicide, trauma, and isolation. A sustainable future for me involves empowering people with the tools to understand themselves. This creates self-sustaining ways to regulate and educate. It’s also about supporting people and organisations dedicated to providing these resources and creating supportive communities.

Avoiding a Growing Health Emergency with Awareness, Advocacy, and Affirmation

Suicide rates are a growing global concern, especially among young people. This growing population of individuals feeling disillusioned or in a state of malaise points to the need for urgent action. One major cause for this sense of disconnection might stem from unrealised expectations. The rise in deficit labelling and diagnoses may be compounding this issue. Many children, young people, and adults may feel they have failed to meet societal ideals. These ideals are either their own or those imposed by parents or society. Ironically, even those who achieve their goals also report feelings of emptiness. Ultimately, the rising sense of dissatisfaction stems from a loss of positive identity.

A Social Shift in Mindset

At Advocates Apparel, our products are designed to promote solidarity in understanding and the need for change. The logo is the message we share the same values and passions.

The neurodiversity movement calls for people to aggregate, understand, and affirm human variation and differences in different areas of ability. With this collective understanding and agreement, we can shape and influence access to appropriate resources. We can provide teaching materials. We can advocate for better social systems. We aim to create communities where people feel accepted for who they are. We have made great strides throughout history in achieving historic shifts in gender equality. Now is the moment to stand up for neurodivergent individuals. They are the largest, most underrepresented, and diverse group in our society.

Ultimately, understanding neurodiversity parallels understanding the things in life we can change, can’t change, and aspire to change. The neurodiversity mindset is a huge shift in thinking. It needs mass agreement to make this change. This change is like the issues of sustainability and gender equality shifts we have seen. It takes an enormous effort. If enough people believe it’s possible, we can create a brighter, more empathetic understanding of neurodiversity. This understanding encompasses all its forms and variations. By changing how we understand and support it, we can make a significant impact.

Our Products: Advocacy-Inspired Products for a Sustainable Future

Our products are designed to celebrate neurodiversity while promoting sustainability. Each item is crafted with advocacy in mind, blending creativity, functionality, and eco-conscious materials. By supporting these products, you’re not only embracing diversity but also contributing to a more inclusive, sustainable future. Whether it’s art, accessories, or tools, every piece reflects the power of individuality and environmental responsibility.

Together, we can build a world where every mind is valued and empowered to contribute to a more sustainable tomorrow. Let’s affirm the power of diversity, inclusion, and equality for all people.

References

Agency, Burnout, and Action

Lately, I’ve noticed that my mind is tired. I’ve been sleeping either too little or too much. I feel happy one moment and easily agitated the next. I overthink, then become saddened and overwhelmed —all in quick succession. My energy, resilience, and motivation are low, and my perspective is clouded. I tend to underestimate my energy levels. I also overlook my ambitions. I forget that change rarely happens quickly or in a straight line. These feelings are clear signals of burnout, and as a result, I metaphorically fell over.

Burnout can affect neurodivergent individuals, neurotypical people, and those on the spectrum. It’s something caregivers and teachers experience as well. I’m grateful I was able to retreat and recover, taking a full day off duty. It was a much-needed day of respite, allowing me to reset. Now, I find myself writing again about agency and my special interests… as a reminder for the next time this happens.

The Sense of Agency

To recover it was important for me to reclaim my sense of agency. The concept of sense of agency is powerful for me. It’s something inherent to us as humans, much like our sense of sight, hearing, or touch. But when we’re in a state of burnout, our sense of agency can feel impaired. It is similar to how someone might feel helpless if they lost their sight or hearing.

Our sense of agency is shaped by many things: our personal narrative, environment, the people around us, and societal structures. It’s not fixed. It’s a dynamic force that can be reactivated. It is like a muscle that needs rest and care to function at its best. People on the neurodivergent spectrum and caregivers often face systemic challenges. These challenges can strip away their agency. This is especially true when mental health or burnout is involved. These individuals are navigating a world that doesn’t always support or understand their needs.

Resting and redirecting my mind helps, click here to read my blog post ‘Agency and Anxiety’.

Shifting the Narrative and Collective Agency

When we acknowledge the commonalities faced by those dealing with neurodiversity, caregiving, and mental health challenges, we open our minds. This understanding creates space for empathy. We also foster collaboration and action.

The history of social movements shows us how powerful collective agency can be. We are working to tackle global challenges like climate change. We also face mental health crises and systemic inequalities. We must recognise that these issues are interconnected. Our personal struggles—whether related to neurodiversity, caregiving, or burnout—reflect broader societal issues. By recognising this, we can change the narrative towards a more positive, neuroaffirming perspective.

We are all part of a larger agency—society. Our individual actions, when combined, can have a profound effect on the world around us. This understanding supports the neurodiversity movement. It empowers individuals to recognise their value and demand inclusion. This shift can create spaces for neurodivergent individuals to find their rightful place in society.

Click here to read more about Neurodiversity affirming messages and practices.