I’m not normal... but why do I need a label for you to tolerate me?

In 1835, Belgian astronomer and statistician Adolphe Quetelet changed the world forever. The impact of his work is felt every single day of our lives. 

Adolphe liked to measure things. In fact, you could say that measuring stuff was his personal brand. One day, whilst measuring the average chest circumference of Scottish soldiers (for fun) he decided to see what would happen if he added each individual measurement together and then divided them by the total number of soldiers. In doing so, he created… an average.

Through such a simple and seemingly harmless process, Quetelet invented something which didn’t exist prior; the average man.

Through such a simple and seemingly harmless process, Adolphe Quetelet had invented something which didn’t exist prior: l’homme moyen; the average man. And, with this, the concept of ‘normal’ was born. Adolphe was obsessed, and believed the more average a human, the better. “If an individual at any given epoch of society possessed all the qualities of the Average Man he would represent all that is great, good, or beautiful,” the guy once said. 

Above: Adolphe Quetelet was the originator of 'the average man'. 

He started measuring the averages of loads of stuff, like (an average) man gone mad! Average heights, weights, annual births, volumes of crime and people in poverty. He even invented his own index. The Quetelet Index - aka the body mass index, or BMI - is a calculation that determines a human’s average, ideal size. To those who deviated from the norm, he gave the affectionate nickname “la monstruosité”. I’ll translate that for you: a monstrosity. 

Nicknames are fun, aren’t they? A term of endearment or private joke; a sign of closeness and familiarity. You shorten the first name (Ames) or do something jazzy with the surname (Keano). You might even get descriptive with a nod to character traits or significant events; something like Roundabout Dave or Hasty Susan. An old boss used to call me Bipolar.

To those who deviated from the norm, he gave the affectionate nickname “la monstruosité”. I’ll translate that for you: a monstrosity. 

“Hi Bipolar, sit down”, he’d smirk when I walked into meetings. 

“There she is! Bipolar!” shouted across the canteen at lunch.

The nickname caught on and other colleagues started calling me Bipolar, too. This was 15 years ago - the discussion around mental health embarrassingly immature - and the word ‘bipolar’ had only just come onto our cultural radar as a punchline in the bully’s humiliation handbook. Eventually a few people summoned the courage to ask me direct: 

“So… Do you actually have bipolar?”

“I don’t think so,” I‘d reply. “I’ve never checked.”

Above: The result of Adolphe Quetelet's compulsion to measure gave us the body mass index. 

At the crux of it, the boss was laughing at my high energy levels. As a passionate advertising strategist I was genuinely happy to be there. I’d bounce into a room all smiles, laughing, joking and full of vim. Other times you’d find me quiet, locked at my laptop researching insights and writing decks, focused and working hard. 

Apparently, swinging between these two modes was pathological levels of anomalous. You’re joyful and living life to its fullest? That must be a syndrome! Do you need drugs for that? Anyway, he needn’t have worried. A few years at that company made me soul-numbingly stressed and depressed. As things should be.  

I’ve been described as bubbly, loud, in-your-face, shy, anti-social, awkward… but never normal. 

No one’s ever called me normal. I’ve been called lots of other things; weird, odd, peculiar, strange, crazy. My ex-boyfriend called me a psycho (and all his previous girlfriends, too). I’ve been described as bubbly, loud, in-your-face, shy, anti-social, awkward… but never normal. 

Something extra has always been bubbling away inside my mind tank. An oomph, or special sauce. I’m incredibly superstitious. Bizarrely so. When I was a kid, I had a thing about the time 22:22. With a 24-hour clock next to my bed, if I ever saw the time 22:22 I’d have to look away three times, and if I didn’t see 22:23 on the third go, it’d give me bad luck the next day. I was convinced that certain songs - like Alanis Morrisette’s Ironic - gave me bad luck when I heard them on the radio. Which was tricky in 1996, when it spent 13 weeks on the UK Official Singles Chart.

Above: Moving between being upbeat and high energy, to laser-focussed needn't be a syndrome. 

I’ve always been described as “too direct”, or “blunt”, or “abrasive”. In the last few years of running my own business, I’ve been informed (by other women, mostly) that my tone “isn’t nice enough” and that I’m “too honest". I have a rigid sense of right and wrong, and a preoccupation with social justice. I’m really bad in social situations. Small talk is my nemesis unless I’m drunk and, even then, I have a tendency to binge for confidence. 

Most of the time, I just want to be alone. My emotions are speedy and intense. When I’m sad, I grieve. When I’m happy, I’m over the moon. I’m either hella distracted or hyper-focussed. I can churn out work, or my assistant has to remind me every day for two weeks to do one single thing. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had to work on how much I interrupt people, how fast I talk, and how late I am. I become violently preoccupied with hobbies and trends and immerse myself in them entirely, before losing interest a couple of weeks later. And yes, I know what this sounds like.

If I wanted, I’m sure I could get a diagnosis, or multiple diagnoses. But why the fuck should I?

Most of this stuff I’ve internalised and hidden for decades, but if you’re well-versed in the neurodiverse you’ll have diagnosed me by now. Whilst I couldn’t say I’m an expert, I’ve educated myself on the different flavours of neurodiversity, the various strands of each, and how they can be spotted in others. I know the facts, and I know my feelings and behaviours. If I wanted, I’m sure I could get a diagnosis, or multiple diagnoses.

But why the fuck should I? I feel fine. I’ve spent my entire life navigating the normal - this thing I am, apparently,  not - to the extent that I am happy and healthy and successful. If I were to receive a diagnosis it would make no difference to my life whatsoever. So, for whom would the diagnosis be?

Above: Some people might feel comfort with a medical diagnosis, others might not. And who is the diagnosis for, the patient or the people around them?

For many, neurological revelations can change everything. I have friends who wondered since childhood what was ‘wrong’ with them, and when they received clarification it was like a ten tonne weight had been lifted. We’ve all heard the accounts of ADHD-ers taking the drugs for the first time and experiencing an entire mind full of bees flying away. 

Lives have been saved by these diagnoses. Between 1998 and 2018, the UK saw a 787% rise in autism diagnoses, and ADHD diagnoses have increased 20-fold during that time, with medication prescriptions in England increasing by around 18%. The raised awareness has done a lot of good. Some people need and want a diagnosis, and that’s amazing. But not everyone does, and that should be fine too. 

Every week I meet a new woman in floods of tears trying to navigate the feedback that she’s not nice enough. It’s not an issue for them. It’s an issue for other people.

How our brains work inevitably shows up in how we communicate. I teach public speaking for a living and so I see it all; the speeds, and habits, and inner monologues and various tendencies. These days the most common issue I encounter is women at breaking point because they’ve been described as “too direct” when they speak at work. 

Every week I meet a new woman in floods of tears trying to navigate the feedback that she’s not nice enough. It’s not an issue for them. It’s an issue for other people. Their colleagues don’t think they’re soft enough. Personally, I love direct communication and would choose that any day over fluff, waffle and over-explanation. But assertion and directness in women is rarely celebrated.  

Often these women tell me they’re waiting for an autism diagnosis - because they’ve been told by HR to seek one - which can take years. Nearly 80% of women with autism are initially misdiagnosed, often with conditions like borderline personality disorder, eating disorders, bipolar disorder, or anxiety. Research suggests that it takes, on average, six years longer for autism to be diagnosed in girls and women compared to men. 

Above: How our different brains work shows up in how we communicate, and how we approach the world. 

So, for these women, it’s a waiting game. Waiting for a doctor to pronounce them neurodivergent instead of just un-nice. If it’s the former, then ok! We’ll allow it. If it’s the latter, you’re a bitch and we’ll be notifying the tone police. These women are serving time in some kind of diagnostic purgatory before they’re allowed to exist as they are. The label seems essential for everyone around them, to get their heads around a woman being slightly blunter than the pre-packaged cuddly and maternal stereotype we’ve been told to expect. Whilst waiting for a diagnosis, they’re waiting for permission to belong, and I don’t think that’s cool. 

This is about more than neurodiversity; it’s about who gets accepted and who has to fight for it. It’s about what kind of not-normal is allowed, and when.

I understand how neurodiversity diagnoses can be incredibly useful to understand and protect yourself, especially at work, where discrimination is illegal. But this is about more than neurodiversity; it’s about who gets accepted and who has to fight for it. It’s about what kind of not-normal is allowed, and when. The fact that women wait years - often through misdiagnoses, dismissals, and exhausting self-doubt - just to reach a point where society will cut them some slack is outrageous. 

And when the label’s earned?  They’re still expected to fit into a neurotypical world rather than the world adapting to them, with 94% of autistic women masking on a daily basis.

All this raises the question: why is a diagnosis the only key to understanding, flexibility, and acceptance? What if we just… believed people when they said they process the world differently? What if “too direct” or “socially different” wasn’t automatically seen as a problem, but just another valid way of being human?