Commodifying Neurodivergence: Mindfulness Offers a Better Path
Every time I open Instagram, someone’s pitching a step-by-step guide to “embracing your neurodivergence” like it’s a 12-week fitness challenge that’ll give you washboard executive functions. Scroll a little further and there’s always a coach offering to “unlock your ADHD superpowers” in three easy payments, complete with fancy fonts and highly focused reels, ironically shot on about 47 takes.
I say this with affectionate exasperation, not judgment. I know the appeal because I’ve been that target audience my entire life and I’ve got the receipts. ADHD and dyslexia aren’t abstract terms for me; they’re the frequent, sometimes uninvited guests at my mental dinner table. And I understand how easy it is to want a framework that explains why the mind does what it does.
There’s been a real cultural shift in the last decade. Where once these labels were whispered in school hallways or buried in special-ed files, now they’re worn proudly in bios. TikTokers talk about “neurospicy” brains with a wink and a ring light. Twitter threads break down executive dysfunction in clinical detail while also selling coaching packages at the bottom. Entire industries have emerged around diagnosis, support, and self-help, from formal therapy to $20 downloadable PDFs promising “the ultimate neurodivergent planner.”
And to be fair, there’s an upside. The rise of public identification with neurodivergent labels has brought long-overdue visibility and validation to people who spent decades feeling defective or simply “lazy.” ADHD, Autism Spectrum, dyslexia, and OCD are real neurodevelopmental differences with real impacts. Greater awareness has meant more people seeking assessment, accommodations, and evidence-based support. It’s helped normalize conversations that, for too long, were hidden under shame.
But with mainstream visibility including influencer branding comes the risk of flattening the complexity of what these labels mean. Neurodivergence has become a brand and a niche to be marketed. When a diagnosis becomes both an identity and a monetized product, we have to ask what we’re gaining, and what we might be losing.
Estimates of the “neurodiversity” industry are hard to pin down exactly, but it’s big business. There are diagnostic services, private coaching, special-ed products, self-help books, and even corporate “neuroinclusive” training. All of it adds up to billions globally. It’s no surprise entrepreneurs and influencers want to carve out their piece of that pie. And while some of them do meaningful, research-informed work, others are selling what amounts to digital snake oil.
Let’s be clear: none of this is to dismiss the real needs of neurodivergent people. I’m not here to say that ADHD or autism are imaginary, or that seeking community is wrong. I’m not interested in returning us to the days when a kid like me was just told to “try harder” or get used to being labeled the problem. What I am interested in is asking better questions about how we talk about these labels, how we use them, and how much we allow them to define us. How commodification shapes our understanding. Whether we’re empowering people to know themselves more deeply, or selling them a fixed identity they can show off on social media.
This article is my attempt to do just that. To hold space for the reality of neurodivergent experience while also questioning the influencer economy that’s sprung up around it. To share some of the research that complicates the easy narratives. And, most importantly, to suggest a more mindful approach to understanding who we are, what our brains do, and how we might live with a little more curiosity and a little less brand management.
Genuine Needs
Before I start pointing fingers at influencer hustle culture, it’s worth pausing to say something clearly: these conditions are real. They’re not trends or cute personality quirks. They’re neurodevelopmental differences that have been carefully studied, described, and, for many people, profoundly shape the way daily life works, or doesn’t.
Let’s start with a bit of definition. The DSM-5, that beloved doorstop of modern psychiatry, describes Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) as a persistent pattern of inattention and/or hyperactivity-impulsivity that interferes with functioning or development. For less informed individuals, it could be brushed off as just “being bored easily” or “liking shiny things.” It’s trouble sustaining attention in tasks or play, difficulty organizing, forgetfulness, restlessness, impulsive decisions; all the stuff that can derail education, work, and relationships.
Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) in the DSM-5 is defined by persistent deficits in social communication and social interaction across contexts, along with restricted, repetitive patterns of behavior, interests, or activities. Again, some individuals might brush this off as “being quirky” or “socially awkward” in that cute, TV-friendly way. It can mean challenges with reading social cues, sensory sensitivities, rigid routines, and deep, consuming interests that shape life in ways neurotypical people often don’t understand.
These aren’t marginal issues. According to the CDC, the estimated prevalence of ADHD in children is around 9.8% in the US (CDC, 2022), and many carry symptoms well into adulthood. Autism diagnoses are around 1 in 36 children (CDC, 2023). The WHO estimates dyslexia affects about 5-10% of the population globally, often underdiagnosed in lower-resource settings. That’s millions of people whose lives are shaped, sometimes made harder, sometimes made richer, by differences in processing, communicating, and focusing.
The impact is real. Challenges can include academic difficulties, a higher risk of anxiety and depression, strained relationships, workplace issues, and others. For many, there’s a sense of alienation and shame built up over years of being told they’re lazy, careless, rude, or just “too much.” The mental health costs are well documented.
This is why clinical diagnosis and professional support matter. A thorough evaluation is required so we’re not slapping on a label for fun and, more importantly, understanding a pattern of traits over time, ruling out other conditions, and considering cultural context. When done well, diagnosis can unlock access to therapy, medication, educational accommodations, proper coaching, and community support.
And here’s where I get a little personal.
I wasn’t some case study waiting to happen. I was just a kid who couldn’t sit still, whose teachers wrote the same note home every week to my parents that I was disruptive in class; a troublemaker only labeled as such in various euphemistic adjectives. ADHD at the time was called misbehavior and dyslexia was simply “you’re not trying hard enough.” It took years to understand that these weren’t moral failings but differences in how my brain processes information. That realization didn’t fix everything overnight. But it did reframe how I approached learning, work, even my marriage.
I still have days where I leave the stove on so long it turns into an industrial artifact, or when my mind jumps from outlining this article to wondering what the 17th-century pirates of the South China Sea were doing on a Tuesday. But knowing there’s a framework behind it helps me work with my mind instead of endlessly fighting it. That’s why I’m careful about this conversation. These aren’t buzzwords or lifestyle accessories for me. They’re concepts that can change the relationship with work, learning, and family if they’re treated seriously and understood with care.
Because before we talk about how the market can exploit these labels, we need to acknowledge why they exist: to help people who genuinely need support.
The “Randy Marsh Effect”
Let’s talk about what I like to call the “Randy Marsh Effect.” If you’ve seen South Park, you’ll know Randy is the master of trend-chasing. One week he’s a weed mogul, the next he’s selling artisanal beer, then he’s performing a sold-out concert as Lorde. He’s always reinventing himself, always selling something, always discovering his “true calling” until it’s time for the next big thing.
It’s funny on TV because it’s uncomfortably familiar. And I see a similar pattern in the influencer economy around neurodivergence. One minute someone’s a productivity guru, the next they’re a “certified neurodivergent coach” offering workshops on “ADHD Superpowers” and “Autism Acceptance for Entrepreneurs” for a tidy subscription fee. The content pivots, but the sales funnel stays the same.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think people setting up a Patreon to talk about their lived experiences are evil masterminds. Sharing our struggles and strategies can be genuinely helpful. Community can save lives. I’ve benefited from it myself. But somewhere between honest storytelling and high-conversion marketing copy, things can go sideways.
Examples of commodification are everywhere:
Self-help books filled with pop-psychology but lacking any real clinical grounding. They promise to decode your “neurodivergent advantage” in 10 easy steps but skip over the messy parts, like how executive dysfunction doesn’t care about your color-coded planner.
Online courses and coaching programs that market “hacks” for ADHD, autism, and dyslexia, often with breathless testimonials but no peer-reviewed evidence. They sell certainty and transformation while ignoring complexity.
Corporate “neurodiversity” initiatives that reduce human differences to a branding exercise. Instead of accommodating nuanced needs, they slap “We’re Neurodiverse!” on their website and call it a day, ticking the inclusion box without changing the culture.
There’s academic critique of this trend, too. Jaarsma and Welin (2012) talk about “neurodiversity-lite”, a feel-good branding of neurodivergence that celebrates difference while ignoring real barriers and supports. It turns systemic challenges into individual marketing opportunities. Critical Disability Studies has long warned about co-optation, where concepts designed to liberate people with disabilities get watered down, commercialized, and sold back to us. What began as a rights-based movement becomes another product on the shelf.
And here’s the real consequence: it risks trivializing genuine needs. When “neurodivergent” becomes a personal brand first and a clinical reality second, people who need evidence-based support can get lost in the noise. Worse, they might internalize simplistic narratives that reinforce fixed identities. It can promote a kind of badge-collecting approach to self-understanding: “I’m this type of brain, so I do things this way. Period.” It’s a mindset that I have been fully guilty of in the past and I know many in my community feel the same even today. There’s a loss of curiosity about how traits interact, change, and show up differently across contexts and cultures.
One high-profile example of self-diagnosis that’s stirred public conversation is Jake Paul, the YouTuber-turned-boxer, who has frequently claimed he has ADHD without any formal diagnosis. In interviews and social media posts, he frames his “crazy energy” and impulsive choices as classic ADHD traits, often using the label to justify erratic or controversial behavior. While he insists he relates deeply to ADHD symptoms, he’s also monetized the persona by selling content that capitalizes on the idea of being “unfiltered” and “uncontrollable.” For many with clinically diagnosed ADHD, this kind of self-branding can feel dismissive, trivializing a complex neurodevelopmental condition into little more than a marketing hook.
Because the truth is, these are dynamic differences and not static roles to play. And while owning your identity is important, selling it as a one-size-fits-all lifestyle brand is something else entirely. That’s why it’s worth calling out this Randy Marsh Effect, not to shame individuals trying to make a living, but to examine how these commodified narratives can flatten complexity, sell easy answers, and leave people with fewer real tools for understanding themselves.
Problems with Pop-Neurodivergence Narratives
As tempting as it is to roll our eyes at the influencer-coach hustle, there’s something deeper and more subtle at play in the pop-neurodivergence conversation. Even well-intentioned, community-driven content can slide into patterns that flatten complexity and reduce human difference to easy soundbites.
One of the biggest issues is binary identity-building. So much of the online discourse frames it as a yes/no question: “Are you neurodivergent or not?” It’s like a Hogwarts sorting hat for your brain chemistry. But human psychology doesn’t work that way. Russell Barkley’s work on ADHD, for example, emphasizes dimensional models; traits like inattention, impulsivity, and executive dysfunction exist on a spectrum across the entire population. It’s not a simple on/off switch.
By pushing a binary, we risk creating rigid in-groups and out-groups. People may latch onto the label as an all-explaining identity which is helpful for belonging, yes, but also limiting when it becomes “this is who I am and who I’ll always be.” This can shut down curiosity about personal variability, growth, and the ways traits show up differently in changing contexts.
Community itself is a double-edged sword. On the positive side, online neurodivergent spaces can be incredibly validating. For people who spent their lives blamed for differences they couldn’t control, hearing “You’re not broken” can be life-changing. It was for me. But these communities can also become echo chambers that reinforce defeatist or rigid thinking. Stories of struggle are important, but sometimes they turn into mantras of inevitability: “I can’t do this because I’m ADHD,” “That’s just my autistic brain,” with no room for exploring tools, strategies, or accommodations that actually help. Support can quietly shift from empowering to limiting if it treats identity as static rather than dynamic.
Another issue is the simplification of complex traits. Many pop-neurodivergence narratives ignore intersectionality altogether. How do race, class, culture, and gender shape the experience of being diagnosed (or not diagnosed)? Marginalized communities are often underdiagnosed, misdiagnosed, or excluded from the dominant narratives entirely.
For example, in the United States, ADHD is often formally recognized under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), which defines disability as any condition substantially limiting one or more major life activities. This legal framework allows students to receive academic accommodations and employees to negotiate workplace adjustments, but it also fuels ongoing debates: How severe must symptoms be to “count”? Does self-diagnosis undermine legitimate claims? In contrast, Vietnam lacks any standardized legal recognition or formal definition for conditions like ADHD. There’s no policy mandating educational accommodations or workplace flexibility, and awareness remains limited among teachers, employers, and even healthcare providers. As a result, while Americans argue over the precise boundaries of disability law, many Vietnamese children and adults navigate these challenges almost entirely unsupported, relying on personal networks and informal strategies rather than systemic understanding or protection.
There’s also a tendency to gloss over co-occurring conditions like anxiety, depression, or trauma histories. You can’t always slice off “ADHD” or “autism” from someone’s whole psychological experience and treat it in isolation. That’s a dangerous oversimplification when the goal should be supporting the whole person, not just one label.
These theoretical critiques are echoed in research. Damian Milton’s (2012) “double empathy problem” suggests that communication breakdowns between autistic and non-autistic people are mutual misunderstandings, not one-sided deficits. That nuance often gets lost in influencer content that positions neurodivergent communication as a monolith.
And on an even broader level, sociologists like Michel Foucault and Nikolas Rose have examined diagnosis itself as a social practice; what Foucault called “psy-disciplines.” These frameworks help us see that diagnoses are not purely neutral, scientific labels. They’re shaped by culture, institutions, and power, which means they can be used to help, but also to control or categorize.
None of this is to argue against labels. Labels can help people make sense of their experience and advocate for what they need. I value mine. But we need to stay critical of any narrative that promises to reduce the messiness of being human to a branded, digestible identity you can drop into your bio. Because real understanding asks more of us. It asks us to hold nuance, embrace complexity, and recognize that while our brains may be wired differently, they’re still capable of change, learning, and connection.
A Mindful Reframing: Self-Awareness Over Labeling
After all this critique, it’s fair to ask: So what’s the alternative? If slapping a label on ourselves and making it our entire personality doesn’t serve us well, where do we go instead?
Here’s my proposal: mindfulness.
I don’t mean what most people consider to be mindfulness as a mystical state of being only felt on mountain tops or corporate buzzword plastered over posters with stock photos of serene beaches. I mean mindfulness in its rigorous, reflective sense: the practice of paying attention to our experience with openness and curiosity, without immediately judging, rejecting, or over-identifying with it.
It's true that labels can be incredibly useful, so we don’t want to deny them completely. They can help us understand our patterns, advocate for accommodations, and find community. But mindfulness asks us to decenter those labels. Instead of letting them become the primary lens through which we see ourselves; fixed, unchangeable, and even limiting. Mindfulness helps us notice our experience as it arises, here and now.
Take metacognition, the capacity to think about our own thinking. Mindfulness is essentially a form of trained metacognition. It lets us see that our thoughts are events in the mind, not absolute truths about who we are. That’s powerful for neurodivergent folks like us who may struggle with patterns of negative self-judgment or get stuck in rigid self-definitions.
Clinical research backs this up in meaningful ways.
Consider Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), which has been adapted for ADHD populations. Zylowska et al. (2008) conducted pilot studies showing that mindfulness training improves attention regulation and reduces hyperactivity/impulsivity. Participants learned to pause, observe distraction arising, and gently redirect attention which are skills that aren’t about eliminating ADHD but about working with it more skillfully.
Neuroscience adds another layer. Tang et al. (2015) reviewed studies showing that mindfulness practice is associated with changes in the prefrontal cortex which is the region critical for executive function, self-regulation, and attention. Regular meditation seems to strengthen these networks over time, offering a practical, non-pharmaceutical way to support attentional control.
Beyond ADHD, meta-analyses (e.g., Gu et al., 2015) have shown mindfulness-based interventions reduce emotional dysregulation across various clinical populations. That’s especially relevant for neurodivergent people who may struggle with mood swings, frustration tolerance, or anxiety. Mindfulness doesn’t erase these challenges, but it offers tools to relate to them with more flexibility and less reactivity.
But let’s move beyond the research and talk practical principles.
First, mindfulness encourages awareness of thoughts without overidentifying. Instead of “I am broken,” it becomes “I’m noticing a thought that says I’m broken.” That tiny shift creates space between you and the story you’re telling about yourself. Second, it teaches self-compassion instead of self-critique. Neurodivergent folks often internalize harsh judgments: lazy, weird, and incompetent. Mindfulness-based practices like loving-kindness meditation explicitly train us to offer ourselves the same care we’d offer a friend. Third, mindfulness is working with rather than against traits. Instead of fighting distractibility as a moral failing, you might notice its arising, understand its triggers, and make more intentional choices.
And I’ll be the first to admit, this isn’t always easy.
It turns out that labeling myself “terminally distractible” is less helpful than actually noticing the moment my attention drifts into planning my next podcast episode while my wife is describing tile options for the new house. (Yes, I’ve been there. Multiple times. We’re lucky to have any tiles at all.)
Mindfulness doesn’t mean ignoring these patterns. It means seeing them as they are, with honesty and perhaps a little humor, and deciding how to respond. Importantly, mindfulness does not want us to erase difference. It respects that some traits are hardwired, that sensory sensitivities or social communication styles aren’t going to vanish in a puff of incense smoke. But it offers tools to meet those experiences with less resistance, more curiosity, and greater choice.
In this sense, mindfulness is an act of radical self-honesty. It says: Yes, my brain works this way. Let’s see what that’s like right now, without pre-written scripts or influencer marketing copy telling me who I’m supposed to be. That’s why I think mindfulness is a better framework than the commodified, branded versions of neurodivergence. It invites us not to reject our labels, but to hold them lightly. In metaphorical terms, it helps us see our labels as helpful maps but not the entire territory.
Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t to be a perfect example of “neurodivergent identity.” The goal is to know yourself deeply enough to live with intention, kindness, and maybe even a bit of grace for your wandering mind.
Research-Backed Strategies for Mindfulness
If mindfulness offers a better approach than simply adopting a branded identity, the obvious question is: how do you actually do it?
Mindfulness theory offers a set of trainable skills, honed over centuries from all cultures around the world and now increasingly studied in rigorous clinical settings. The good news is there’s no secret handshake or platinum subscription required. Just consistent practice and a willingness to meet yourself exactly where you are.
Let’s talk about a few concrete practices that research suggests are particularly helpful, especially for neurodivergent folks who wrestle with distractibility, emotional swings, or internalized stigma.
Body Scan for Emotional Regulation
This is one of the most common and well-known techniques in this space. The body scan is exactly what it sounds like: systematically bringing awareness to different parts of the body, noticing sensations without judgment. Sounds simple, even dull. But this practice teaches interoceptive awareness which is the ability to feel and name internal states, critical for emotional regulation.
Neurodivergent people, especially those with ADHD, often experience heightened emotional reactivity. The body scan acts like a training ground for noticing tension, restlessness, or agitation before it hijacks behavior. Clinical research in Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction (MBSR), pioneered by Jon Kabat-Zinn, has shown the body scan reduces stress and improves emotional self-awareness (Kabat-Zinn, 1990; Grossman et al., 2004).
Breath Awareness for Focus
This one is so simple and obvious, it’s often overlooked and forgotten. At its core, breath meditation is about gently attending to the sensations of breathing. It sounds laughably basic, until you try it for more than 30 seconds and realize your mind is planning dinner, revisiting yesterday’s argument, or writing an entire novel in your head.
This is the point. The goal of breath awareness shouldn’t be stopping thoughts. Instead, it’s training the capacity to notice distraction, let it go, and return attention to the present. For ADHD brains wired for novelty and quick shifts, this gentle cycle of noticing and returning is like mental weightlifting. Zylowska et al. (2008) showed mindfulness training improved sustained attention in adults and adolescents with ADHD.
Noting Practices for Distraction
A variation of mindfulness training involves noting, consciously labeling what arises in the mind: “thinking,” “planning,” “hearing,” “feeling restless.” Some in the mindfulness world refer to this technique as “Name it to Tame it”. This simple move creates metacognitive distance. Instead of being caught in distraction, you’re aware of distraction.
For neurodivergent people who can feel swept away by racing thoughts or sensory input, noting builds awareness without judgment. It shifts the goal from “never getting distracted” (impossible) to “noticing distraction quickly and kindly.” This is the foundation of self-regulation.
Loving-Kindness for Self-Stigma
Many neurodivergent folks carry years of internalized stigma: “I’m lazy,” “I’m weird,” “I’m too much.” Loving-kindness (or metta) practice directly counteracts this self-critical conditioning by systematically cultivating goodwill toward oneself and others. Clinical studies (Hofmann et al., 2011) have shown loving-kindness meditation reduces self-criticism and increases positive emotions. For someone who’s internalized shame about their difference, this could be a form of emotional repair through affirmation.
These ideas are built on decades of research.
Jon Kabat-Zinn’s MBSR Model is the most studied secular mindfulness program. Developed in medical settings, MBSR combines body scan, breath awareness, mindful movement, and informal practices to help people manage pain, anxiety, and stress. While not designed for ADHD specifically, its emphasis on present-moment awareness and acceptance is highly adaptable.
Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT) adds structured cognitive components, showing promise for ADHD in Zylowska et al.’s studies (2008). Participants learned to notice rumination and redirect attention, leading to reductions in impulsivity and improved emotional regulation.
Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) is another evidence-based model that integrates mindfulness explicitly. ACT encourages noticing thoughts and feelings without entanglement, building psychological flexibility. For neurodivergent individuals, this flexibility is gold as it offers ways to hold one’s traits lightly while staying connected to chosen values.
But a mindful reframing also demands cultural humility.
Mindfulness didn’t start in a therapist’s office or an academic lab. It has deep roots in Buddhist traditions, where it’s part of a broader ethical and philosophical system. Indeed, elements of traditional mindfulness can be found in nearly all major religions throughout the world going back thousands of years. It’s easy for Western models to strip mindfulness from this context, repackaging it as a stress-reduction technique while ignoring the traditions that carried and preserved it.
It’s important to acknowledge this history with respect. Secular adaptations like MBSR have done much to make mindfulness accessible, but they also have limits. They often focus on individual-level change without addressing structural or systemic issues.
For neurodivergent people, this matters. Mindfulness won’t make the world magically accommodating. It won’t replace the need for systemic changes in education, employment, or healthcare. What it can do is help people understand and work with their own minds more skillfully, while still advocating for the broader changes needed to make society genuinely inclusive.
I sometimes tell my students and clients that mindfulness is both deeply personal and quietly radical. It’s personal because it invites you to see yourself clearly and with compassion. It’s radical because in a world that loves fixed identities and marketable labels, simply noticing and accepting your present-moment experience is an act of quiet defiance.
In the end, mindfulness is less about fixing who you are than meeting yourself honestly, with curiosity, and learning how to navigate life with just a little more grace even when your mind wants to do anything but stay put.
Reflection
If all this sounds like a sermon from the pulpit of Mindfulness, trust me, I didn’t arrive here by reading one research paper and deciding to brand myself “Mr. Zen.” My own relationship with these ideas has been anything but linear. For most of my life, I didn’t have words for why certain things felt harder, or why I’d walk into a room and forget why I was there, or why focusing on tasks felt like wrestling an octopus, or why my brain could spin off into five different plans while someone was mid-sentence.
When I first encountered labels like ADHD and dyslexia as a young boy in the 80s, it felt like relief and insult all at once. On one hand, they explained things that felt inexplicable. On the other, they threatened to become prophecies: “This is who you are. Forever.” My own learning curve has been realizing that labels can guide understanding without having to build the entire house. They’re road signs, not destinations.
Mindfulness entered the picture, ironically, at a time when I wasn’t looking for it. I went to a yoga class, thinking I’d stretch my tight hips and call it cross-training. Instead, I found myself forced to actually pay attention to what was happening, moment by moment. I didn’t love it. My brain wanted to make shopping lists, write lectures, and rehearse arguments.
But over time, I noticed something. The moment I caught myself wandering and brought my focus back, just a “oh right, I’m here” That moment felt like a tiny freedom. It was the first crack in the story that I had to be defined entirely by my distractibility. That simple skill didn’t just change my solo practice. It changed the way I teach. It’s even changed how I collaborate with friends, colleagues, and my spouse: less talking over them in enthusiasm (well, sometimes), and more leaving space for their ideas to breathe.
So, when I say mindfulness matters here, it’s not because I think it’s a silver bullet. It’s not a cure for ADHD or autism. It’s not going to delete your differences or make the world more accommodating overnight. But it can offer tools for living with those differences more consciously. You don’t have to reject your diagnosis, but you don’t have to center it either. You can hold it as one important part of who you are, without letting it define the entire story.
That’s the invitation I want to make here. To experiment with practices that build awareness, compassion, and cognitive flexibility and to see yourself with a bit more kindness and a bit more accuracy. Because at the end of the day, that’s what mindfulness is: the practice of being present for what’s actually happening, rather than what you’re convinced it means about you.
If you’re reading this and feeling skeptical, good. Skepticism is welcome here. Try it out. See what fits. Drop what doesn’t. But if there’s one hope I have, it’s this: that we can move away from selling ourselves neat, marketable identities, and toward building a more spacious, nuanced, and honest understanding of our own minds.
Conclusion
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for staying with me through what might feel like wandering corridors of psychology, critique, personal confession, and practical advice. It’s a fitting structure, really, reflective of the mind’s own tendency to explore, circle back, get distracted, and eventually land somewhere meaningful.
At its heart, this entire reflection is respecting real differences. Neurodivergent experiences are lived realities that shape how people learn, work, love, and simply be. They come with challenges that deserve acknowledgment and real resources. Pretending otherwise is dishonest and unkind.
But alongside that respect, I think we have a responsibility to question the commodification of these differences. It’s far too easy for well-meaning movements to be flattened into branding exercises, for nuanced identities to become marketable products with easy answers and curated aesthetics. When that happens, we risk replacing one kind of marginalization with another new set of expectations about how to perform difference for approval, likes, or sales.
Instead, I want to propose that we embrace self-awareness and mindful flexibility. That we allow our understanding of ourselves to be dynamic and responsive to context. That we recognize labels as useful tools they are and not settle into them like prison cells.
Maybe we can all spend less time buying our identity off the shelf and more time meeting ourselves where we really are. I don’t pretend that’s simple or quick or universally appealing. It asks us to be honest with ourselves in a way that can feel uncomfortable. But it also offers a certain freedom and a way to inhabit our differences with less shame and a little more grace.
Author Bio:
Paul Allen Benavides is a university lecturer in business, media & communications, corporate trainer, author, and public speaker specializing in mindful leadership and human-centered development. He is the voice behind Walkabout Elevations, a reflective platform blending storytelling, scholarship, and soul to explore what it means to lead with presence. His broader creative journey lives through Walkabout Rojo, a long-running companion project rooted in global wanderings and personal transformation.
References:
Jaarsma, P., & Welin, S. (2012). Neurodiversity: On the moral force of respecting difference. Bioethical Inquiry, 9(4), 529–539. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11673-012-9402-y
Zylowska, L., Ackerman, D. L., Yang, M. H., Futrell, J. L., Horton, N. L., Hale, T. S., ... & Smalley, S. L. (2008). Mindfulness meditation training in adults and adolescents with ADHD: A feasibility study. Journal of Attention Disorders, 11(6), 737–746. https://doi.org/10.1177/1087054707308502
Tang, Y. Y., Hölzel, B. K., & Posner, M. I. (2015). The neuroscience of mindfulness meditation. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 16(4), 213–225. https://doi.org/10.1038/nrn3916
Milton, D. (2012). On the ontological status of autism: The “double empathy problem.” Disability & Society, 27(6), 883–887. https://doi.org/10.1080/09687599.2012.710008
Gu, J., Strauss, C., Bond, R., & Cavanagh, K. (2015). How do mindfulness-based cognitive therapy and mindfulness-based stress reduction improve mental health? A systematic review and meta-analysis of mediation studies. Clinical Psychology Review, 37, 1–12. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cpr.2015.01.006
