It begins, as so many terrible trends do, on the internet.
Somewhere between the rise of pastel-coloured mental health infographics and the collapse of basic attention spans, someone coined the word neurospicy. It was, ostensibly, meant to be charming. A playful euphemism. A glittery way of saying “neurodivergent” without actually committing to anything so serious as a diagnosis or, heaven forbid, lived experience.
You’ll have seen it in Instagram bios: “chaotic neutral neurospicy babe”. Or as the caption to a TikTok video in which a twenty-something dances to a Dua Lipa remix while holding a sign that says, “me trying to focus on my boss talking while a pigeon outside reminds me of death.”
We are meant to find this endearing.
And yet, for many of us who are actually neurodivergent—who live with autism not as a curated online identity but as a lifelong negotiation with the world—it feels, frankly, like a slap in the sensory cortex.
I’m not neurospicy. I’m autistic. Not in a “fun and flustered” sort of way, but in the classic, exhausting, chronically-masking, please-do-not-approach-me-at-networking-events sense. I’m autistic in the way that means fluorescent lighting gives me a migraine, casual conversations feel like performance art, and I’ve spent the last thirty years mentally rehearsing how to say goodbye without sounding abrupt.
That’s not spice. That’s survival.
But “neurospicy” is only the surface gloss on a deeper problem—the creeping, cheerful rebranding of neurodivergence as something fashionable. Something whimsical. Something that pairs nicely with oat milk and mild social anxiety. Once a clinical term, autism is now being filtered through the same lens that brought us “hot girl walks” and digital detox yoga. It’s a vibe. An aesthetic. A way to say “I’m not like other girls” with the added flair of a DSM-5 reference.
And the consequences are more than semantic.
Because as soon as something becomes trendy, it becomes diluted. Neurodivergence is being stripped of its medical and social complexity and repackaged as quirkiness—a lightly worn identity one can try on like a vintage cardigan. And as the meaning becomes more flexible, the people who actually live within its boundaries find themselves increasingly misrepresented, or worse, ignored.
Which brings us—inevitably—to parents.
Specifically, the modern breed of performative parent who diagnoses their child with ADHD based on one sugar-fuelled outburst in the car park of a National Trust café.
We’ve all encountered them. Their child is busy turning a lemon drizzle into a projectile weapon, and when confronted with this alarming display of sociopathy, the parent responds with a sigh and says:
“He’s just got a touch of ADHD.”
A touch. As though ADHD were a seasonal condition, like hayfever, or something one contracts from licking too many iPads.
It would be amusing if it weren’t so staggeringly unhelpful. Because what’s really being diagnosed here isn’t ADHD—it’s the parent’s unwillingness to say “no.” A fundamental failure to establish boundaries has now been rebranded as neurodivergence. Forget tantrums, forget poor diet, forget the fact your child has never been spoken to like a person—just slap a label on it and head back to your flat white.
I want to be clear: there are absolutely children with ADHD. Children who need support, structure, and understanding. I am not denying the condition exists—I am saying that not every act of defiance, disobedience or dramatic biscuit-throwing is a cry for medical recognition. Sometimes, it’s just a child being a bit of a knob.
What makes this trend all the more infuriating is that for decades, autism and ADHD went undiagnosed—particularly in girls, working-class children, and people of colour. The system failed countless people. And now that these diagnoses have gained visibility, they’re being treated like personality accessories. Something to mention on a podcast, or scrawl in bubble writing on a tote bag.
And then there’s the phrase that inevitably follows any conversation about autism:
“Well, we’re all on the spectrum somewhere, aren’t we?”
No. We’re not. And that’s precisely the problem.
Autism is not a quirky personality trait. It is not a mood. It is not shorthand for being awkward at dinner parties or enjoying spreadsheets. It is a neurological condition that affects perception, communication, and sensory processing. It is a lived reality that affects every moment of every day. To suggest that everyone is “a little bit autistic” is not just wrong—it’s insulting. It’s like saying everyone’s a bit pregnant. It shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what autism actually is, and what it isn’t.
When I say I’m autistic, I’m not inviting you to relate. I’m asking you to understand. I’m not telling you I’m quirky—I’m telling you that your office lights are giving me chest pain and your small talk is emotionally exhausting. I’m not saying I’m a special snowflake—I’m saying that your child’s diagnosis shouldn’t be based on how inconvenient he is at a Pizza Express birthday party.
So no, I’m not neurospicy. I’m neurodivergent. And I don’t need my reality repackaged as digestible content for people who think diagnosis is a trend.
And your child?
Might just need an earlier bedtime.
And fewer fruit shoots.
Let’s stop pretending that everything awkward is autism, and everything excitable is ADHD. Let’s allow neurodivergent people to define ourselves without having our terms co-opted, aestheticised, and drained of meaning.
We are not flavours. We are not content.
We are people. And frankly, we’re tired.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in. Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.
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