Lately, I have been thinking deeply about how the standard school day is simply not built for the neurodivergent mind. As an individual who is confirmed ASC and highly suspect ADHD—meaning AuDHD—I have lived this reality from both sides of the desk: first as a student trying to survive the system, and until recently, as a specialist teacher trying to protect the children within it.

When people critique the modern educational system, a common counter-argument often arises. Reader, you might even be thinking it right now: Hang on, you are talking about conformity as a negative here. I thought autistic students need uniformity and conformity.

Well, yeah, they need routine, yeah, that’s like page 1 of any book written about autism. But they also need connection and safety.

They need teachers who allows them as much time as possible to complete a task. They need the teacher who can engage them in a monotropic flow state of subject knowledge. Yes, chunking information is important, but so is the skill of engaging pupils in deep, meaningful discussions. So what if a particular delivery takes 20 minutes? If the kids are locked in and engaged, then great. Lesson learnt.

And if that discussion then bounces beyond the standard curriculum into material which has been boxed off for GCSE, and those kids get it, despite only being 10 years old and not Year 10? Even better. When you can take a room of 10-year-olds, hook them into a discussion so deeply that they are effortlessly absorbing GCSE-level material, you aren't just teaching a curriculum—you are fostering genuine scientific curiosity, ensuring they are met with a challenge rather than boredom because they have already mastered the Year 6 knowledge and are hungry for more.

True safety for a neurodivergent mind does not come from a rigid spreadsheet or a uniform PowerPoint template; it comes from authentic human connection and the freedom to let their intellectual curiosity breathe.

I must be clear from the outset: I am not critiquing any of my former teaching colleagues here. I know that six brilliant teachers can work in six unique ways, tailored beautifully to their specific subjects, to create a special and consistent environment for their students. For many neurodivergent kids, that one teacher in that one consistent environment in their favourite lesson can be an absolute lifeline.

The issue lies entirely with upper management forcing an artificial, blanket conformity across completely different disciplines. How can an English lesson, a drama lesson, a science lesson, and a music lesson possibly be comparative when entirely different pedagogical approaches are needed? When a system prioritises bureaucratic uniformity over genuine connection, the environment becomes hostile.

Over the next three posts, I am going to break down exactly how this rigid insistence on conformity dismantles both the neurodivergent children trapped in the cycle, and the specialist teachers who try to shield them from it.

Yesterday, after applying for nearly eighty jobs since February, I was offered and accepted a new role as an Information, Advice, and Guidance Officer with South Gloucestershire Council. It is a hybrid role involving three days working from home and two days visiting SEND support services. While it represents a significant pay cut from the M6 teachers' pay scale, it is enough to cover the mortgage. You have to start a new career somewhere when other doors have been closed to you.

This position will inevitably mean adjusting to a new routine and balancing it alongside tutoring and clubs through my Somerset Tribe venture. Interestingly, in the lead-up to the interview, South Glos were the only employers out of dozens who actually provided the simple reasonable adjustments I requested: questions in advance to allow for scripting, a swivel chair for proprioceptive feedback, and the ability to request breaks to refocus.

Unsurprisingly, these simple changes allowed me to show the best of myself. They allowed me to answer with a natural flow, break down the hidden requirements of the panel, and ultimately resulted in a job offer. No other interview panel fully allowed those adjustments. It proves that when an AuDHD mind is accommodated, we can outperform.

The exact same was true during my teaching career. When I was allowed adjustments and consistency, I flourished. My students had won regional and national competitions, reached international finals, and benefited from countless extracurricular clubs, trips, and career speeches. However, during my final six months in the classroom, those adjustments were systematically chipped away in the name of conformity. My tutor group was collapsed at the end of Year 7, despite the initial plan to take them through from Year 6 to Year 8. I was forced to teach in four different classrooms, sometimes seeing the same class three times a week in three different rooms. I was denied a home base. Then came a crushing 'support plan' designed to completely dismantle a teaching style that had delivered some of the best results in the trust. No wonder I was completely burnt out.

My dad pointed out yesterday that I will need to rapidly adjust to a new way of working because I never really left school. He is right. I went from secondary school to sixth form, then straight to university. After a brief spell of poor mental health following university, when I was thrown out of routines and into applying for corporate or research jobs, I moved into my PGCE, navigated the chaos of the pandemic, and then spent years teaching where I was initially allowed to flourish with autonomy.

My history shows that when routines and adjustments are present, I succeed. Come July 1st, a new chapter begins, and we will see what happens next.

Finally, I want to thank my family and my amazing friends and colleagues from my former school who saw the real me and supported me throughout the last few months. I would not have been able to cope if the support I had was not there.

I’ve had a brutal week. Four job rejection phone calls—including two in the space of thirty minutes this morning—and a mountain of generic emails. You know the ones: "After careful consideration, we regret to inform you..." or "We were blown away by the calibre of candidates, but..."

The feedback is always the same: “You are an incredibly talented person.” “You are very employable.” “You were one of our strongest candidates.” “We love your vision for the community.” But.

There is always a "but." Someone else was "stronger" on a specific point. As an autistic person, I am already entering these interviews at a deficit. How am I supposed to guess the "hidden curriculum" of the interview? How am I meant to decode exactly which specific phrasing or unwritten answer the panel is looking for? In the UK, 70% of autistic adults are unemployed. It is a brutal statistic, and weeks like this make me understand exactly why.

There is an extra layer of irony here. I know I could apply for almost any science teacher job in the country and smash the interview today. But I can’t. The reference I have from the "Trust" has effectively slammed those doors shut, leaving me unable to return to the classroom in the way I once did.

So, I’m pivoting. I’m applying for private tutoring roles—which I am permitted to do—but the administrative lag is exhausting. My DBS check is taking an age to process. A hard-won lesson for anyone in my position: get yourself on the DBS Update Service and don't let those direct debits for the annual updates lapse.

While I wait for the paperwork to clear, I’m trying to launch a CIC (Community Interest Company), but the responses have been agonisingly slow. Meanwhile, the mortgage still needs to be paid. The financial pressure is real, and the Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) that often comes with ADHD and autism makes every "no" feel like a physical blow.

In the middle of this, I keep looking at a pebble on my desk. It says, "Never Give Up." I bought it from one of my Year 6 girls back in 2023, a student who had gone through immense hardship over the last few years but kept moving forward.

That has to be my mantra. Never give up. Something will happen. Someone will eventually open the door and see the value in the "brilliance" everyone keeps telling me I have. But in the meantime, the wait is heavy.

Thinking back to my own secondary school days, I often wonder if I would have benefited from an earlier diagnosis. There were so many signs missed before I was finally diagnosed in 2019 at the age of 24. I was fortunate then; it took less than a year from my GP appointment in November 2018 to my final assessment on the NHS.

Today, I likely would not be so lucky. I am currently facing a wait of over two years for an ADHD assessment unless I choose to go private. That delay is half of a child’s secondary education spent in a state of System Latency. My diagnosis actually came during my PGCE, which I ended up completing over two years rather than one. Looking back, the data points were everywhere.

The Safe Space Lattice

In Years 7 and 8, my internal circuit was kept stable by the school library. The librarian was a friend of my grandad from church, which provided a much-needed Social Anchor. I even had a small group of friends who would join me there. It was a friendship group dictated by the seating plan: two boys with surnames starting with R, with me following as an S. It is funny how a simple alphabetical register can provide the logical structure an autistic brain needs to form connections.

However, by Year 9, the physical and social lattice collapsed. The school was remodelled and the building housing the library was demolished. My tutor changed, and my friendship group drifted away as they grew out of the library and wanted to do "cooler" things. I remember a group cycle ride where they challenged me to a race. I took the challenge too seriously and, while I was racing ahead, they decided to go the opposite direction and abandon me. Their interests shifted toward stereotypical teenage boy things, while I stayed individually me: none the wiser and ridiculously innocent.

The Gifted and Talented Cloak

This is where the Gifted and Talented Cloak comes into play. Because I was academically successful and never in trouble, my SEN needs were never flagged. I stuck religiously to the rules and my high grades acted as a protective coating that hid my internal struggles. To the teachers, I was a success story. To my own system, I was a high-performance engine running without any coolant.

I never set foot in the new library once it opened. There was too much unfamiliarity; the rules had changed, it was loud, and the new librarian did not allow food. Instead, my safe space became my tutor's classroom. I had a deep-seated fear of the playground. I knew that if I stepped near the football pitch, I would be used for target practice or "piled on" by the neurotypical boys.

I spent my lunch times eating sandwiches and reading in my classroom seat, even when detentions were being held around me. My tutor eventually started giving me the keys to lock myself in while she went to get her lunch. As a qualified teacher now, I recognise what a massive safeguarding risk that was, but at the time, it was an essential life support machine.

Missed Signals and Historical Data

There were technical markers, too. My French teacher, Miss Sobey, once pointed out a mark next to my name on her register. It turned out I was Code M or Historic SEN due to speech therapy I had received in primary school. That early intervention is a classic indicator. Even today, I speak ridiculously fast when I am excited. She understood this and adapted her lessons for me, which is why I eventually took French at A-Level.

I was lucky to have several Anchors: Mr Simmons, a science legend who inspired me, Mr Lortell, My science teacher from Y7&8, who was also the teacher who later interviewed me for my PGCE at Bath Spa, and my Year 6 teacher, Mr Todd, who was the first male role model I had in education. They saw the "Whole Child" even when the system only saw the grades.

Building the Anchor: From "Find Your Tribe" to Somerset Tribe

When I entered the classroom as a qualified teacher, I was determined to be that Anchor for the next generation of students. I built a neurodiversity celebration club called Find Your Tribe. It was more than just a lunchtime club; it was a physical manifestation of the lattice I had lost in. It was a space where students did not have to wear a cloak or hide their internal mechanics just to survive the 45mins. 

However, I realised that a club within a school is still subject to the school’s physical and social architecture. If the building changes or the leadership shifts, the safe space can vanish.

I am now building Somerset Tribe to be the permanent, independent anchor I needed. By taking this mission beyond the school gates, I am creating a community offer and a specialist tutoring service that prioritises neuro-affirming stability. I want to provide the coolant for high-performance students before they hit the point of burnout.

No child should have to lock themselves in a classroom just to feel safe. At Somerset Tribe, we are building a new lattice, one that cannot be demolished.