I recently experienced what felt like a whole different iteration of virtue-signaling when I joined a professional WhatsApp group intended for neurodivergent counselors. The prospect of a ‘person-centred’ space that actively valued and practiced person-centred principles felt very, very exciting to me, and I was genuinely looking forward to engaging with the growing number of participants.
The first opportunity to connect presented itself quickly. Someone asked if anyone had read a particular scholarly book focusing on the intersection of queerness and neurodiversity. Excited to have recently started it, I chimed in, stating that the beginning chapters really resonated with me – so much more so than the few excursions I had read by ‘Dr’ Devon Price, intentionally putting the academic title in quotation marks.
Not ten minutes later, I received a response from the group moderator. Rather than asking what specifically had resonated with me in the text, they demanded to know why I had stylised the ‘Dr’ in that way.
I explained my perspective: I view the medical model of diagnosis as an important, validating aspect of both ADHD and autism. Consequently, I struggle with a Doctor of Social Psychology being used as a blanket authority to completely challenge and nullify that medical model.
The response I received read something like: ‘I have a PhD myself, but I do not tell my clients that because they do not need to know.’
Confused, I tried to diffuse the tension. I apologised, stating that I did not mean to question anyone’s personal qualifications, but was simply trying to share my views and compare what resonated with me in one book versus what I felt was missing in the other author’s blog posts and videos.
The moderator’s response was sharp: ‘I understand what you are saying, but this is coming from a very privileged standpoint.’
The Illusion of a Safe Space
Ouch. That felt entirely personal. I began typing a message defending why I myself had struggled for decades to get support, and how vital valid clinical and medical reports are for people trying to survive. Then, thinking better of it, I deleted the draft.
Instead, I typed another apology, stating that I had clearly misunderstood the meaning of the initial question and had not meant to offend. A few messages from other members followed, dryly discussing the general advantages or disadvantages of diagnosis, or commenting on how difficult it is for clients to access assessment pathways via the NHS these days. Everything felt distant, intellectualised, and completely removed from actual lived and felt experience.
I still do not understand, nor do I want to agree with, figures who use non-medical academic credentials to completely dismiss diagnostic tools while simultaneously using that very title (‘Dr’) to insulate their own theories from criticism. In that space, I felt my lived experience was reduced to zero simply because it disagreed with the accepted ‘expert.’
While I understand that certain neurotypes crave absolute certainty because it provides a baseline of safety – as it is much easier to follow a rigid script or theory than to allow a deeply wounded self to come to the surface – this dynamic felt like a system fiercely protecting its own dogma. I entered a designated safe space, only to find it felt surprisingly unsafe the moment I was lectured on why I had to agree with a mainstream pop-psychology narrative.
The Weaponisation of Theory
To me, it felt like a masquerade. My lived experience includes finding immense peace, clarity, and the literal right to access support through a formal, clinical diagnosis. My ADHD medication (which authors like Price often critique heavily through a purely systemic, anti-medical lens) provides me with vital cognitive clarity. I have to stress: on medication, I feel more like myself than I have for a very long time.
Taking medication and owning my diagnosis was my way of unmasking. Yet, in an supposedly inclusive space, my views were weaponised against me. I was made to feel as though I was displaying ‘internalised ableism’ or simply not doing the neurodivergent theory correctly.
This experience exposed a painful reality: many neurodivergent and queer spaces have established their own rigid, unwritten orthodoxy. It is often easier to live in an echo chamber that has been long-established and accepted by the vocal majority. But when this happens within a community setting that brands itself as ‘supportive,’ it feels incredibly isolating.
Challenging the Cancel Culture Narrative
In reality, this dynamic is no different from the broader ‘cancel culture’ we see playing out across social media. For example, a podcaster I follow was recently forced to take down an episode featuring a controversial figure in the yoga world because of historical allegations that they openly discussed during the interview.
I believe that everyone should be allowed a voice… that does not mean I automatically agree with what they say. If I find someone’s perspective fundamentally wrong or offensive, I would rather personally unsubscribe from their platform than participate in a pop-narrative that alleges the interviewer is inherently promoting a predator simply for hosting a conversation.
When ‘inclusive’ groups require you to adopt a complete package deal of dogma just to belong, they cease to be person-centred. True solidarity doesn’t mean swapping a neurotypical mask for a radical one. It means creating a space vast enough to hold the entirety of our conflicting, lived realities – without needing an expert’s permission to exist.