Quietly Present

Neurodiverse Voices in Worship

I was diagnosed with dyspraxia and apraxia when I was five years old. Dyspraxia, or developmental coordination disorder, is a neurodevelopmental condition that affects movement and coordination. Apraxia of speech is a neurological disorder that makes it difficult to plan and sequence the movements needed to produce speech. These disorders affect how the brain’s messages are transmitted to the body. They affect speech, language, motor planning, and the ability to perform daily activities. As a result, I found it incredibly hard to speak, be mobile, and socialize.

As a child, I experienced a lot of stigma and isolation that came with being neurodiverse. As an adult, I have come to reimagine ability and potential, and learned to broaden my understanding of what it means to be normal. I like to think that as society has progressed, so too has its general understanding and perspective.

I was constantly subjected to speech therapy and physical therapy, and though they are practices meant to help, sometimes the approaches can seem outdated and feel inherently ableist. I was reminded daily that I needed to be “fixed” and that my productivity and capabilities would determine my usefulness and relevance in society.

Silent worship was the biggest challenge for me. One of the many aspects of neurodiversity is a constant flow of thoughts, which makes it difficult to focus and creates a restlessness inside. There would be an outward silence but an inward chaos. 

Paradoxically, growing up going to a Quaker church, I was taught the importance of simplicity, peace, equality, compassion, and social responsibility. Church—or meeting—was one of the only places I felt a true sense of acceptance and belonging. I attended Sunday school with everyone else; I didn’t need “special” guidance or to be kept separate. There was almost a fundamental difference in how people at church approached and dealt with my disability. I still had trouble communicating at church, just as I did at school. But the difference was that when others had trouble understanding me, they didn’t see it as my disability; instead, they saw it as a challenge to their ability to listen. In the midst of misunderstanding, there seemed to be a kind of understanding.

I like to think the reason I am empathetic, understanding, and patient today is because of my experience as a neurodiverse Friend. I don’t see it as “going the extra mile” for someone else’s benefit; I see it as doing my part in order to get one step closer to living in a more harmonious society. Harmony is fundamentally about balance and coexistence, not uniformity. It’s about creating an environment where diverse perspectives, abilities, and experiences complement each other. And I like to think that that is a general Quaker perspective.

One of my favorite quotes was popular among nineteenth-century Friends (and has often been attributed to Stephen Grellet, a French-American Quaker missionary, though its true origin remains uncertain): “I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.”

This quote embodies Quaker values. It encourages us to embrace the uniqueness of each individual and reminds us to always treat others with kindness. It also invites and challenges us to practice active advocacy so that we might use our privilege to advocate for the marginalized or overlooked. Finally, there’s also a sense of urgency in addressing needs and differences. Opportunities to make a positive impact are limited by our time on earth. Inclusivity and compassion are principles to be practiced now, because we might not get the chance again.

There was nothing wrong with my school or my parents wanting me to learn how to communicate and socialize like other children, but I found understanding in the Quaker community. Conscientious Friends understood how hard communication was for me and wanted to give me a break when they could and take on the burden of understanding themselves. I always felt safe and accepted at church, and that made all the difference in my spiritual and personal journey.

Silent worship was the biggest challenge for me. One of the many aspects of neurodiversity is a constant flow of thoughts, which makes it difficult to focus and creates a restlessness inside. It’s hard for me to be still, quiet, and focused for long periods of time. I had imposter syndrome every time I sat in silence. There would be an outward silence but an inward chaos. I would look around the room and think how everyone else was so much better at silence than I was. I would invalidate myself because I thought I wasn’t actually doing it “right,” and I felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized everyone experiences intrusive thoughts during silent worship; some just struggle with it more than others. I have since learned to embrace the noise: to treat the thoughts in my head as clouds in the sky and acknowledge them without judgment, observe them as they pass, and gently let them go without getting caught up in their content.

I have since learned to treat the thoughts in my head as clouds in the sky and acknowledge them without judgment, observe them as they pass, and gently let them go. . . . Whenever I struggle with restless energy in worship, I like to think of it as an invitation to be present with the mind as it is, as God made me.

I’ve also learned the importance of reframing. What many see as limitations or disabilities, some see as gifts from God. Self-acceptance and remembering that God made me this way help me navigate living the Quaker way as someone with neurodiversity. I now see every distracting thought as a type of divine intervention.

As Quakers, we believe that every person has an Inner Light, a term that refers to the Divine Presence that guides and enlightens the soul. It’s always important to pray and meditate intentionally and to try to still our wandering minds, though I’ve come to understand that as a neurodiverse Friend, my connection to God is different from others.

Sometimes silent worship isn’t quiet, and it’s okay to feel distracted; silent worship doesn’t necessarily mean a total absence of sound, nor is it about closed eyes and darkness. It’s about finding time to be open and listen for God’s voice. God speaks to people in different ways, and I have come to believe that those thoughts and feelings can be seen as part of the inner experience. Whenever I struggle with restless energy in worship, I like to think of it as an invitation to be present with the mind as it is, as God made me.

Though disabilities like dyspraxia and apraxia are invisible to the eye, they deeply shape how I experience the world. Neurodivergent Friends should not have to announce or explain their disabilities or need for their boundaries to be respected. I hope that the Quaker community continues to be mindful of this and works to create and maintain a culture where people are attentive to each other’s needs, even when they are not immediately apparent. We may engage in worship differently, but our spiritual journeys and connection to our Inner Light are no less valid. Just because someone is not engaging in the way the majority would—whether it’s not speaking, not standing, or not participating in a particular way—doesn’t mean they are “doing it wrong.”

Quaker worship is inherently a deeply personal and individual practice, and each person’s method is his or her own. Silence before, during, or after meeting should never be mistaken as disengagement but rather as an indication of active reflection or personal participation. The Quaker practice of waiting in silence may look different for everyone, but that diversity of experience should be embraced rather than questioned or pressured to conform.

Additionally, gentle encouragement for participation can make a huge difference. Many neurodivergent Friends may find it difficult to join a conversation or share their thoughts during worship. Asking them directly if they have any thoughts they would like to share can be a powerful way to make them feel seen and included, while respecting their boundaries if they choose not to share. Sometimes all it takes is a simple invitation, such as “we’d love to hear your thoughts,” to help someone feel more comfortable contributing to the discussion. This would create a more inclusive and supportive environment where everyone’s voice is valued, even if it takes extra effort for someone to speak.

By practicing compassion and attentiveness toward neurodivergent Friends, Quakers can better reflect the principles of equality and community. Fostering a space for diverse ways of engaging in worship, conversations, and fellowship helps us remember that all are welcome. These efforts are not about performative inclusivity but about deepening our collective spiritual experience.