There’s No Such Thing as Neurotypical: Neurodivergence, The Myth of Normal, and the Pressure to Conform

Jude Carn
Jul 23
4 min read

Updated: Aug 25

What if no one is truly neurotypical — and what we call “normal” is just a measure of how well we’ve adapted to fit in? In this post, I unpack the idea of neuroconformity and explore what a more spacious, affirming approach to therapy could look like.

A white flower stands out in a vibrant lavender field. The scene is lush and serene, filled with green stems and purple blossoms.

“No one person is neurotypical, we just vary in how much we neuroconform.”

I said this in a conversation recently, and it’s been echoing ever since. We throw around the word “neurotypical” as if it points to a real, fixed category, a kind of brain that just works properly. But what if there’s no such thing…?

What if “neurotypical” is just a name for the people who’ve managed, consciously or not, to adapt well to the social rules and sensory demands of the world around them? This is the neuromajority, outside of which lies neurodivergence.

What we call “normal” is often just what’s expected, and those expectations have everything to do with culture, class, education, race, gender, and what’s rewarded in a particular time and place. They change over time and culture.

Normal is not neutral. It’s a moving target.

A single green leaf among brown, dry leaves on the forest floor, creating a contrast in colors. Natural and earthy setting.

What even is neurotypical?

Neurotypical isn’t a clinical term. It’s not a fixed neurotype. It’s a social construct, a comparison, a performance, a moving target. It’s the word we use for people whose nervous systems are better able (or more willing) to comply with dominant norms around emotion, productivity, communication, and attention. But no one person is neurotypical.

As Nick Walker writes: “Nobody is actually neurotypical. ‘Neurotypical’ is just the word for people who can pull off performing neuronormativity well enough to avoid being pathologized.” (2021)

The performance is real. The privilege is real.

It's just that many of us do not fit into this category. And so we have to spend more energy contorting ourselves into what's expected.

There’s a kind of daily shape-shifting that happens, masking, adapting, toning things down, or tuning things out. And often, people don’t even realise they’re doing it, because it’s all they’ve ever known. That’s neuroconformity. And it’s exhausting.

The pressure to fit

Neuroconformity is baked into so many parts of life: school, work, relationships, even therapy. We learn early on that certain behaviours are acceptable and others aren’t. Some ways of processing the world are praised. Others are pathologised or punished.

And if you’ve grown up constantly adjusting yourself to fit in, slowing your speech, making more eye contact, smiling when you feel numb, you start to think that you are the problem. That you’re too much, or not enough, or just fundamentally wrong.

It’s no surprise that so many neurodivergent people (whether they are aware of their neurodivergence or not) end up in therapy with a deep sense of shame and confusion. Not because something is broken inside them, but because the world has taught them to mistrust their way of being.

Therapy isn’t always a safe space for neurodivergence

And here's the hard bit. Therapy, even with the best intentions, can reinforce this. Many of us were trained in models that assume there’s a “healthy” or “integrated” way to be, and it often looks suspiciously like being neurotypical.

I’ve worked with so many clients and therapists, who’ve carried the unspoken message that they’re resistant, avoidant, or uncooperative simply because they process things differently. Or because their parts need to tell the full story before they can go inward. Or because they freeze when asked “how do you feel?” because the answer isn’t simple or accessible in that moment.

Even within Internal Family Systems (which I love and use every day), there can be a kind of subtle ableism. The invitation to “just drop inside and connect with a part...” can feel alienating if someone needs to stay with the story first, or overwhelming if there are many parts jostling for attention, or just make no sense.

Looking up at a large oak tree with rough, textured bark and green leaves. The twisted branches create an intricate pattern against the sky.

Towards something more spacious

What I’m interested in, what I try to practise, is therapy that doesn’t assume normal. That sees all minds as valid, all parts as welcome, and all ways of processing as worthy of respect. I am not perfect at this, and I don't claim to be. All the therapy modalities I have trained in have had that same neurotypical bias, and I have to unlearn that too.

This means letting go of rigid ideas of how therapy should look. It means being open to longer stories, tangents, silences, sensory needs, stimmy movements, big feelings, flat affects, hyperfocus and boredom and disconnection, all as part of the landscape of being human.

It means understanding that even ND therapists (myself included) have parts carrying ableist beliefs. We’ve all been soaked in a culture that equates productivity with worth, and neat answers with insight. And it takes ongoing, uncomfortable unlearning to meet each client and ourselves where we really are.

What if no one’s actually neurotypical?

What opens up if we stop chasing normal?

What if we begin from the assumption that there’s no “right” mind only a range of beautifully complex ways to be in the world?

What if therapy were less about correcting or fixing, and more about listening, witnessing, and honouring?

If not one person is neurotypical, then we have a specturm instread of people who have found it easier, or harder to 'fit in.' What if some people have simply had to do less bending? The rest of us, especially those who’ve only found language for their neurodivergence in adulthood, are still untangling ourselves from all the contortions.

Postscript

After publishing this piece, I received thoughtful feedback that helped clarify something important: while neurotypical privilege is real, neurotypicality itself isn’t. It’s not a neurological identity; it’s a performance of “normal” rewarded by dominant systems. As Nick Walker writes in Neuroqueer Heresies:

“Nobody is actually neurotypical. ‘Neurotypical’ is just the word for people who can pull off performing neuronormativity well enough to avoid being pathologized.”

I’ve updated the text to reflect this more clearly and I’m grateful for the conversations that continue to shape and sharpen this work.

If this post resonated, you’re warmly invited to stick around. I share reflections on therapy, neurodivergence, nature connection, and being human at the messy, beautiful intersections.

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