Have you ever been part of a workplace or a community led by people who are deeply passionate about what they do? The kind of leaders who sacrifice time, energy, even their own wellbeing because they believe in the mission. They’ll be the first to tell you they’re not perfect, but they’re trying their best. And they are. They’re good people, doing good work. For many of them, this work is core to their identity. Without it… who would they even be?
I’ve often admired people like that.
And I’ve dreamed of being like them—responsible for something big and meaningful, making a difference on a large scale. But the truth is, the executive function, social influence, and sheer energy required for that isn’t me. Still, I’ve found myself drawn to these organisations. I want so much to be a part of that—values-driven, people-centred, “we’re building something better” kind of spaces.
And I’m not alone in that. I’ve noticed how often neurodivergent people find their way into these settings. Maybe because we’ve never quite fit into conventional systems. Maybe because many of us are bottom-up thinkers, sensitive to dissonance, hungry to align ideals with practice. We value authenticity, honesty, and meaningful connection. We long to contribute to something that matters. And so, we do.
I’ve worked and volunteered in a number of spaces like this—mostly faith-based organisations and non-profits—and I’ve recognised others like me in those rooms and seen the gifts we bring with us. We ask “why?” a lot. We notice patterns, we flag misalignments between stated values and actual practice. We point out unintended consequences. And often, we say things out loud that others were only thinking.
The leaders of these spaces often say they welcome feedback. They’ll ask for it. They know they’re not perfect, they say again. They invite different perspectives. Everyone is encouraged to contribute.
But only up to a point.
Because when you actually speak up? When you name the things that aren’t aligning, or highlight something uncomfortable?
It can shift, fast.
You might get told, directly or not, Who do you think you are?
Do you have any idea how much we’re carrying? What we’ve given?
Can’t you see that you’re making things harder for us?
And just like that, you’re not seen as someone trying to help. You’re a threat. A problem. A “troublemaker.”
I’ve been through this pattern more than once. And every time, the impact has been deeply personally affecting. It’s isolating. Who do you talk to about it? Saying it out loud can feel like criticising good people who are doing important work in a complex space—and nobody wants to be that person.
When it’s happened multiple times, it’s hard not to start thinking: Am I the common denominator? Is there something wrong with me?
But I’ve noticed something else. Those issues I tried to raise start to surface more widely. Others begin to notice. Things get worse than they needed to. And suddenly, the organisation is forced to reckon with them.
A while ago, I read a line by Lindsey Mackereth that stopped me in my tracks:
“Neurodivergent employees aren’t fragile. They’re just early indicators of dysfunction. We’re the canaries in the coal mine.”
We’re not just reacting more sensitively for no reason. We’re often picking up on things others haven’t yet. A confusing process. An unsafe dynamic. A mismatch between values and practice. And yes, we may be the first to sound the alarm, but it doesn’t mean we’re wrong. It just means we’re early.
Last year, I sought a counsellor to unpack some of this with. I realised I was now coming into new workplaces already wary, already on edge. I found myself stressed around certain leaders, struggling to regulate in their presence. I wondered if this was something broken in me—a trauma response sensing danger when there wasn’t any. Something I needed to work on healing.
But in the time between noticing this and connecting with a counsellor, I was already seeing familiar patterns repeating. Other people were raising concerns. And those concerns were being minimised or dismissed.
That physiological stress response? It wasn’t dysfunctional. It was finely tuned intuition. I wasn’t the problem.
So… is it a curse or a gift, to see what others don’t (or won’t) see?
My counsellor asked me, “Does it have to be one or the other?”
And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a part of who we are. Not inferior or superior—just wired to notice certain things, sometimes before others do. It’s not always appreciated, but it’s still real and valuable.
In the Christian tradition, there’s the figure of the prophet—someone who is part of the community, but never quite belongs. Prophets are those who see the truth of what’s happening and where things are heading, and feel compelled to speak. But they’re not often liked. They’re not thanked. And, more often than not, they’re not listened to.
Then there’s the concept of the scapegoat, as described by René Girard. When a group or society is under pressure—when tensions rise and problems become too uncomfortable—there’s a tendency to look for someone to blame. Often, that blame falls on someone who is vulnerable, different, or on the edges of the group. The idea is that if this one person were removed, things would return to harmony. It can feel like resolution—but it’s only temporary. The root issues go unaddressed.
I don’t think of myself as a prophet. But I do think many of us carry something of that role, and many of us have also experienced what it is to be scapegoated. Especially in neurodivergent communities, I’ve heard this story again and again: someone asks the hard questions, names the tensions others feel but can’t yet articulate, or calls attention to a misalignment between values and actions—and pays the price. These are not people being “difficult.” They’re people being honest. But honesty isn’t always welcome. And when the message threatens the fragile balance of the organisation, the easiest fix is often to turn on the messenger.
So if you’ve lived this—if you’ve been the one who spoke up, who named the truth, and paid a price for it—I want you to know: I see you.
We can’t always control how people respond. Sometimes they’ll listen. Sometimes they won’t. Sometimes they’ll course-correct later and pretend they thought of it themselves. That part’s not in our hands.
But we do get to choose when to speak, what to stand for, what we’ll be part of, and when to step away.
You’re not too much. You’re not imagining it. You’re not alone.