Advocacy is a deeply personal journey, especially for those of us in the neurodivergent community. It’s a path often paved with anger, frustration, and the weight of systemic injustice. But it’s also a path that can be illuminated by hope. Different kind of hope: the hope for change, the hope that we will finally be understood, and hope for a future where all are supported, no matter how those support needs are expressed.
The conversation around tone policing and advocacy highlights a critical tension: the expectation that marginalised voices must conform to certain standards of communication to be deemed valid. Or indeed to be taken seriously.
Anger as a Catalyst for Change
Anger is a powerful emotion. It is an action emotion, one that propels us forward and demands that we confront injustice head-on. For many neurodivergent individuals, anger is not just a reaction; it is a reflection of years of being misunderstood, dismissed, and oppressed. It is a valid and necessary response to the harm that has been done to us. Particularly within systems that often don’t adjust for our needs, or even, actively, don’t take them into account.
Anger does not look the same for everyone. For some, it is loud and unapologetic, a loud, passionate cry that refuses to be ignored.
For others, it is measured and reflective, a quiet determination that carries just as much weight. Both forms of anger, and in all honestly, everything in between, are totally OK.
They are the very real expressions of lived experience, shaped by individual nervous systems, histories, and contexts.
Some of us are privileged enough to be able to do work on our nervous systems, both helping to understand them, and learning what is regulating for us. This might help us to remain regulated in our anger while we fight for those that we love.
And sometimes, the abuse we receive is too much, and we cannot do that. We haven’t the resources after years of frustration, or not being listened to.
I’ve seen this play out in my own family. Sometimes frustrations pour out in ways that can be misunderstood by others. Anger is raw and unfiltered, and it’s often dismissed as “behavioural” rather than being recognised as a valid response to the challenges that our loved ones are facing.
We need curiosity to help understand that anger.
I’ve spent years advocating in my family, trying to help others see anger is not necessarily an aggression. It is communicating an unmet need. It’s somebody’s way of saying, “This isn’t working for me,” or “I need help.”
And yet, time and time again, needs can be overlooked because the way of expressing them doesn’t fit into the neat, palatable box that society expects.
The Complexity of Regulation
The idea of regulating anger is a nuanced one.
For some, learning to regulate their emotional responses is a deeply personal choice, driven by their own goals and needs. It is not about masking or conforming to societal expectations. It is about finding a way to advocate effectively within their unique circumstances.
Personally, I’ve worked hard to regulate my anger for my neurodivergent family.
It’s not masking for me; it’s real, hard change that has taken a long time to achieve. It was personal choice, not something I was made to do. I had autonomy over my decisions to regulate as much as I could around my anger.
However, it is crucial for me to acknowledge that not everyone has the privilege, capacity, or desire to regulate in the same way.
Trauma, systemic barriers, and individual neurodivergent traits and experiences all play a role in shaping how we express and process anger. Expecting everyone to regulate in the same way, or at all, can indeed be ableist. It assumes a level of privilege and ignores the diversity of experiences within our community.
For me, learning to regulate my own anger has been a journey. As someone with lower support needs, I’ve worked hard to find ways to express my frustration in a way that feels authentic AND effective. This has been especially important in my advocacy for my family. It’s an unfair reality, but it’s one I’ve had to navigate to ensure needs are more likely to be met. At the same time, I recognise that this is a privilege, not everyone has the capacity or the opportunity to regulate in this way, and that doesn’t make their advocacy any less valid.
It is important we listen to all those who are oppressed, however they are expressing themselves.
Hope Looks Different for Everyone
Hope is a central theme in advocacy, but it is not a one-size-fits-all concept. For some, hope lies in the possibility of learning to regulate their emotions in a way that feels empowering and authentic.
This was the case for me, and it feels possible that it will be the case for other neurodivergent people.
For others, hope is found in the freedom to express their anger without judgment or the need to conform.
Expressing hope for one group of autistic people, by suggesting it IS possible to be angry without being aggressive and this is achievable for some autisitic people, does not mean ignoring or silencing another group that might struggle to do this.
Hope looks different for everyone, and perhaps it is our responsibility as advocates and professionals to honour that diversity.
This means creating spaces where all forms of advocacy are valid, whether they are calm and reflective or loud and passionate. It means listening to and learning from each other, even when our experiences and perspectives differ. And it means recognising that the fight for justice is not about tone or delivery.
It is about the truth of the harm being named.
Simply stating that it IS possible to be angry without being aggressive, does not mean that we are suggesting that one form of anger and advocacy is better than another. It is suggesting that there is hope, for those that want to embrace it, to advocate in more than one way. If systems are stacked against us, advocacy comes in different shapes and sizes. And it needs to be to bring about the changes that we all need.
Our systems need to change, and in order for that to happen, advocacy will need to come from within the very systems we are fighting against.
I’ve seen this duality in my own advocacy work. As someone with lower support needs, I’ve often felt a responsibility to use my voice to advocate for those with higher support needs. I’ve also had to learn that my way of advocating isn’t the only way. Advocacy isn’t about speaking for others. It’s about amplifying their voices and ensuring they are heard, in whatever form that takes.
Moving Forward Together
The neurodivergent community is rich with diversity, and that diversity is our strength. But it also means that we will not always agree. There will be tensions, misunderstandings, and moments of discomfort. These are not signs of failure. They are opportunities for growth, including personal growth.
As we move forward, let us hold space for each other’s anger, hope, and humanity. Let us fight for a world where all are heard, not just the ones that conform to arbitrary standards of tone or delivery. And let us remember that hope is not a singular path either. And suggesting one thing is possible doesn’t mean that we are silencing those that cannot achieve it through no fault of their own.
Hope is critical, and it may look different for everyone. How it looks is up to us as professionals and advocates to find, and it won’t be a one-size-fits-all.
Leave a Reply