Finding What Works for Us

On Accommodating Neurodivergent Friends

I came to Quakerism long before I realized my neurodiversity, and in looking back, the attraction makes a lot of sense. I was drawn to the stillness first, enjoying the seated silence of worship. The church I grew up in required a stringent cycle of sit–stand–sing, and I resented it deeply. In Quakerism, I love the emphasis on equality, and especially the nonhierarchical nature of our meetings. I craved connection; in fact, Shakers and their tight communities have always been a special interest of mine, so being with Quakers felt exciting.

My meeting does not yet have an embodied understanding of what neurodiversity is, although I’m working to change that. Several years ago, I began a healing journey, unaware at the time I was doing so, and much of it involved participating in retreats run by Quakers. I had known for decades about my attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD)—I’m typing this 90 minutes before the magazine deadline—and had just come to realize and identify as autistic. As I discarded the shame and inferiority I felt in being different, I began to disclose my neurodiversity to those in my Quaker community. Others around me were following suit. 

I accommodate myself: I shift positions, since part of my ADHD means a lack of core strength and ability to sit up straight for very long; I journal; I bring knitting. I do whatever I can to keep myself in the room and occupied without distracting others. 

At the same time, I started getting more involved in my yearly meeting and in youth programming for my family. It became clear to me that more than half of the children and adults in my meeting and my yearly meeting were neurodiverse, although most don’t know it. I believe the neurodivergent adults around me are also drawn to the ways in which Quakerism accommodates them, with its emphasis on social justice, celebration of intelligence, and tolerance of social awkwardness.

As in many parts of my life, I now find myself in the role of translator. I walk with a foot in each world, the neurotypical and neurodivergent, explaining the attitudes and behaviors of each to the other. 

The meetings I have attended all over New England have children who are not only fidgety because they are kids but also because they are neurodivergent: they can’t not move. They have meltdowns, which are beyond their control and are not tantrums. They get bored and find this almost painful. 

Not only don’t the neurodivergent kids know their own neurotype: often their parents don’t either. Many of the parents don’t realize that they themselves are neurodivergent. I am a psychotherapist who specializes in working with late-diagnosed and “high functioning” autistics. As I often tell my clients, I’ve never met a neurodivergent person without at least one biological neurodivergent parent. It comes from somewhere. Even when parents do know about their children’s neurotype, they often don’t know what that really means. Understanding the subtleties and profound differences in neurodivergent ways of being is rapidly evolving, replacing a misinformed medical model. People wildly underestimate how crippling ADHD can be and misunderstand the ways that autism presents, based on the stereotypical and outdated ways they are portrayed on TV. 

I’ve come to be an advocate for both children and adults when it comes to accommodations. Some of these are not forcing or coercing kids to sit in a circle (many have a fear of being perceived but can remain in the room or participate in other ways); understanding stimming (self-stimulation for emotional regulation); and realizing that when a neurodivergent child appears to be controlling others, it often stems from a “pervasive desire for autonomy,” which is rooted in anxiety.

We neurodivergent folks work so hard to fit in, consciously or unconsciously wearing a mask in order to be accepted. Ultimately, even if the neurodivergence isn’t recognized, it still benefits everyone in a meeting to have the vocabulary for discussing needs and accommodations.

As I have come to realize what work for me, I also can now make sense of what hasn’t worked for my type of neurodivergence (underscoring here that neurodivergence is many faceted, not a linear gradient). What doesn’t work for me is the lack of accommodation for stimming and movement: such as knitting or rustling. Although I am not what most people would consider hyperactive, I am very restless. My mind and body are restless; I even have restless legs syndrome. I try to center my mind, but I get caught up in endless cycles of worry unless I actively meditate, and I don’t often want to do that. So I accommodate myself: I shift positions, since part of my ADHD means a lack of core strength and ability to sit up straight for very long; I journal; I bring knitting. I do whatever I can to keep myself in the room and occupied without distracting others. And it works for me, because otherwise I would not be able to be in the physical room where the messages are being shared.

I also don’t love the small talk after worship. I can do it, but it drains me. When I first came to meeting, I never went to the downstairs area for fellowship, or “coffee hour,” and for years I would just dart out the front door to avoid having to talk to anyone. What people don’t understand about me is that I’m a deeply social introvert. I’ll reiterate that I love getting to know people and spend time with them, but I dislike superficialities. I thrive in community, even if it’s just a weekend crafting retreat. One of my all-time favorite experiences in our meeting was an antiracism retreat where we interacted with tough and meaningful questions and spoke with each other about very intense and almost-taboo topics. After that, I felt exceptionally close to a few members of meeting whom I had known for decades but didn’t really know on such an intimate level. Relating to others and having structured ways of doing so is much easier and relaxing for me.

I want our meetings to get better at seeing and understanding neurodiversity, because those among the neurodiverse are an oppressed group, and we as Quakers have committed to advocating for other oppressed populations. Neurodiverse characteristics are not accepted socially or when they interfere with capitalism. I’ve met with many autistic professionals (including doctors, lawyers, and professors) who have been fired from their jobs and struggle with employment due to differences in communication style or unaccommodated sensory issues. We neurodivergent folks work so hard to fit in, consciously or unconsciously wearing a mask in order to be accepted. Ultimately, even if the neurodivergence isn’t recognized, it still benefits everyone in a meeting to have the vocabulary for discussing needs and accommodations.