The Term “Neurodiversity” Won’t Pay My Son’s Rent—Or Come With the Compassion and Understanding He Actually Needs

Today I was standing in the grocery store when a well-meaning woman looked at Nick—who was repeating over and over, "It's okay, Mom," while shifting from foot to foot, excited about the snacks and favorite foods in our cart that he was earning. She initially looked put off, then adjusted herself when she realized he wasn’t a threat. After a moment, she smiled and said, “It’s great that we celebrate neurodiversity now! I love that the world is more accepting.”

I smiled, nodded, and pushed my cart forward.

Because, sure, it’s great. It’s great that we have new words, softer words, words that don’t cut quite as deeply. We’ve moved past calling people “mentally retarded,” “slow,” “weird,” “off,” or even just “autistic” in that dismissive, loaded way people used to say it. Now we say “neurodiverse.” We say “differently abled.” We say “on the spectrum.”

And, yes, those words are better. They’re meant to be kinder. They signal an attempt at respect.

But here’s the thing: words are easy.

Words don’t require action.

Words don’t require change.

Words alone don’t give my son a future.

So I ask—does the shift in language actually make life better for my son? For others like him? For families like mine? Or does it just make everyone else feel better?

Nick is 26 now. He volunteers at the Los Angeles Zoo three days a week, taking care of the animals he loves. He works in an office, organizing and shredding papers. He hikes with me, takes horseback riding lessons, piano lessons, goes bowling, watches movies, and enjoys theme parks. He has a full life.

And yet…

The world still isn’t built for him.

Neurodiversity as a concept is lovely, but it doesn’t change the fact that I have to be by his side 24/7 because he doesn’t understand how to keep himself safe. It doesn’t change the fact that while there are housing options for adults like him, they are grossly inadequate—built with rigid, impersonal criteria that don’t account for his needs. It doesn’t change the fact that I cannot die because, without me, I don’t know how this world would protect him.

We can call it whatever we want—neurodiversity, differently abled, uniquely wired—but if those words aren’t backed by real understanding and compassion, what good are they? If they don’t lead to better education, employment opportunities, housing, and actual support for people like my son, then they’re just noise.

The world can pat itself on the back for finding gentler words. But until those words come with real action, nothing has actually changed.