Time to Talk Day encourages conversation, openness, and connection. It invites people to speak, to listen, and to reduce stigma. But when I think about Time to Talk as a neurodivergent person, I don’t just think about what we talk about. I think about how we talk, who feels able to talk, and who has spent a lifetime being misunderstood when they do.

Because for many neurodivergent people, talking has never been simple.

Talking Was Never Neutral for Me

Growing up, I learned very quickly that the way I communicated was often seen as “wrong”. I talked too much or not enough. I went into too much detail or I didn’t explain myself clearly enough. I asked too many questions. I took things too literally. I missed things others seemed to pick up effortlessly.

Over time, I learned to edit myself.

Talking became something I carefully managed rather than something I did naturally. I watched faces, tone, timing and body language. I rehearsed conversations in my head. I learned which parts of myself were “acceptable” and which needed to be hidden.

So, when campaigns encourage people to “just talk”, it’s worth remembering that for neurodivergent people, talking has often come with correction, consequence or cost.

I Don’t Always Have the Words When You Expect Them

One of the most consistent challenges for me is that my thoughts don’t always organise themselves into neat sentences on demand. I often need time to process what I think, what I feel and how to express it.

Sometimes my thoughts arrive as fragments. Sometimes as concepts. Sometimes as a physical sense of knowing before language catches up.

This has been misunderstood as evasiveness, uncertainty or lack of insight. In reality, it’s simply a different processing style.

Time to Talk often assumes that communication is immediate and verbal. But for many neurodivergent people, clarity comes later, after reflection, writing or revisiting the conversation.

Being Heard Has Mattered More Than Being Articulate

The moments that have stayed with me are not the times I managed to explain myself perfectly. They’re the times someone slowed down enough to really listen.

Someone who didn’t rush me.
Someone who didn’t interrupt to “help”.
Someone who didn’t correct my tone or tell me what I meant.

Being heard without being reshaped has been rare and it has been powerful.

For neurodivergent people, communication is not just about expression. It’s about whether our meaning is respected even when our delivery doesn’t match expectations.

Talking Isn’t Always Verbal

Some of my clearest communication has happened through writing. Emails. Messages. Notes. Reflections written long after a conversation ended.

When I’m given the space to write, I’m more precise, more honest and more myself. When verbal communication is treated as the only “real” form of communication, I am less able to show up authentically.

Talking does not always mean speaking. Sometimes it means sharing a document, sending a message, or expressing something creatively.

Those forms of communication deserve the same respect.

Masking Changed How People Heard Me

I’ve spent years masking my neurodivergence. I learned how to appear confident, capable and articulate, even when it took enormous effort.

Masking helped me fit in. It also meant that when I did try to talk about my differences, they were often dismissed.

“You don’t seem like you struggle.”
“You communicate just fine.”
“But you’re so capable and organised.”

What people didn’t see was the energy cost. The preparation. The recovery time. The internal effort it took to appear “easy”.

Time to Talk should remind us that neurodivergence isn’t always visible, and communication ability isn’t a measure of how hard someone is working to be understood.

Choice and Safety Are Essential

I’ve learned that talking only works when I feel safe. When I know I won’t be interrupted, corrected or analysed. When I know I’m allowed to say “I need time” or “I don’t know how to explain this yet”.

Choice matters.

Neurodivergent people are often expected to adapt their communication to others, with little curiosity about what they need in return. Inclusive communication means meeting in the middle, not expecting one side to do all the work.

Rethinking Time to Talk

For me, Time to Talk isn’t about encouraging more noise. It’s about encouraging better listening, more flexibility and more respect for difference.

It’s about recognising that neurodivergent communication may be slower, quieter, more detailed, more direct, more written or more unconventional.

It’s about understanding that when a neurodivergent person talks, they may already be taking a risk.

Sometimes Time to Talk is Time to Pause.
Sometimes it’s Time to Write.
Sometimes it’s Time to Sit Side-by-Side Without Forcing Words.

Sometimes the most supportive thing we can do is stop talking.

As a neurodivergent person, I have learned that not every moment of difficulty needs words, advice or solutions. In fact, some of the most connecting and regulating experiences I have had came from someone simply being there, without trying to fix anything.

There is a quiet power in active listening. It is not passive or absent. It means staying present, resisting the urge to fill silence, and allowing someone else’s thoughts to arrive in their own time. For neurodivergent people, who may process information more slowly or differently, silence can be a gift. It creates space to think, to feel and to find language without pressure.

Too often, silence is treated as awkward or unhelpful. We rush to reassure, explain, or problem-solve. While well-intentioned, this can feel overwhelming or dismissive, especially when someone is still trying to understand their own experience. Solutions offered too early can shut down communication rather than open it up.

Active listening says, “I’m here. You don’t need to perform, justify, or explain yourself perfectly.” It allows someone to speak when they are ready or not speak at all. It communicates safety without demands.

Silence is not the absence of support. It can be support.

When we choose listening over fixing, we respect autonomy and difference. We recognise that not every experience needs to be tidied up or resolved immediately. Sometimes what helps most is being witnessed exactly as we are.

Silence, when it is intentional and compassionate, can speak louder than words.

 

What I Hope We Learn

If Time to Talk is going to include neurodivergent people, I hope it becomes less about encouraging people to speak in a particular way and more about creating spaces where different ways of communicating are welcomed.

I hope we stop equating confidence with competence, fluency with insight and silence with disengagement.

Most of all, I hope we learn that communication is not about how closely someone matches a norm. It’s about whether they are given the chance to be understood.

Beverley Nolker

Education, Empowerment and Advocacy Manager