Just knowing a bit can mean a lot

Hey friends,

It’s been one of those weeks at Neuromantics Towers.

The kind where a few seemingly unrelated moments line up like breadcrumbs and lead you somewhere unexpected. The type of week that reminds you how a little bit of knowledge - offered in the right way, at the right time - can quietly transform everything.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

It started with a headline...

“Offer ADHD help before diagnosis,” said an NHS task force.

Obvious, right? But it made me pause.

Despite this substack sort of being all about that, I hadn’t actually considered the idea fully before. The label isn’t the thing. The real power lies in meeting the need, not waiting for the paperwork.

It hit me like a warm but slightly patronising slap. Yes, of course. You don’t need to wait for the diagnosis to start being kind or to design better. But given that that’s how we are forced to feel, that’s why we feel like that.

And then the work we’d just done made more sense.

We’ve just wrapped up Phase One of a project with a group of train operating companies, aimed at using tech to ease the load for people with hidden disabilities. This time, our focus was ADHD.

The intervention was simple: provide passengers with passive information (such as how busy the train is) so they could make choices without needing to disclose any personal details.

During feedback sessions, people kept saying the same thing:
“I love not having to explain I have ADHD.”

They didn’t want a separate process, or a badge, or a special app. They just wanted help - quietly, discreetly, respectfully.

I was quietly proud of what we’d made. Until…

Enter: the wise friend.

I had a conversation with someone I’ve seen discuss this topic for a while - an expert in accessibility, disability advocacy, and not letting me off the hook.

She listened to what we’d built and said:

“If you’re asking someone to use a different app, that’s segregation.”

Oof.

She’s right. That word felt big and sharp. I’d never framed it like that before. Why not? A small cocktail of privilege and a dash of unexamined ableism, probably. (Ableism: the often unconscious bias that sees disabled people as the ones who need to adapt to the ‘normal’ world, rather than the world adapting to accommodate all of us.)

And that’s when it all clicked: inclusion isn’t just about access. It’s about equity, dignity, and ease. No hoops. No hurdles. just… help.

Somewhere between trains and truth bombs, there was a party.

A 47.5th birthday party, to be exact.

One of my old uni mates threw it, because why should milestone celebrations be limited to round numbers? I’d been properly stressing about going—overthinking it in that way I always do - but I’ve started to see the pattern now. The pre-stress is often worse than the thing itself. I’ve got strategies. I use them. They help.

It was lovely, in the end. Funny how that works. I may even through a 50th now.

Also - small thing - I’ve started writing a book.

A proper one. With a big question at the heart of it, and a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, it might help someone else feel seen.

If you fancy being part of it, I’d love your input. Here's the research form:
👉 https://forms.gle/tDYyJW7EeLx9Mzds9

This book project started because I decided to become a writer. Not just one who dreams about it, but one who… writes. Because it’s the one thing that gives me the opposite of Sunday dread, when I’m writing, I feel like myself. Fully.

Thanks for reading. I’m trying to stay curious, ask better questions, and unlearn what needs unlearning.

Maybe that’s the best we can all do. Just keep asking. Keep listening. Keep trying to make things a little bit easier for someone else, whether or not they’ve got the right paperwork.

Peace, love, and the eternal joy of learning,

Michael

P.S. Every day is a school day, if you ask the right questions.