I first realized I wanted to be a teacher around the same time I received my first mental health diagnosis. At the time, I was at an elite institution reckoning with class, imposter syndrome and chronic loneliness. I went through states of ruthless insomnia, dissociation and brain fog. I was tired and anxious all the time while feeling heartbroken over my condition.
My first year in education, my student teaching year, was incredibly difficult. Giving clear instructions when my brain could barely comprehend my surroundings was tough. Amid my anxiety, I could not read the room during classwide discussions. I had days where my mind moved a mile a minute and my instructions were jumbled, and others where I could hardly form a sentence. Most days, I stuttered when I spoke and was so uncomfortable in my skin that I could barely project my voice. For weeks, I would feel incredibly low, with sporadic days of high energy. Instead of seeking help, I would isolate myself and create self-destructive narratives about how awful of a teacher I was. I felt self-conscious about my failures every day.
To make matters worse, I had a mentor teacher who made sure I knew I wasn’t doing a good job. When hiring season came around, my mentor teacher told me, “You’re too timid to be hired.” When our time together ended, her final words were, “I’m not sure how long you’re going to last as a teacher with whatever you’ve got going on.” I knew I was struggling, and to temper the tension between us, I chose to be vulnerable and share my mental diagnoses with her.
I continued to struggle with the mechanics of teaching, especially the most essential part of being a teacher: presence. I felt increasingly ill-equipped for this profession. I left my student teaching year feeling genuinely broken. Whatever was going on with me left me feeling inadequate for this very difficult work.
Despite the obstacles in front of me, I knew all the anxiety and pain I felt wasn’t something spurred by my graduate school experience, but issues that had been there since I was a child. I realized that what I wanted to do with my life was be there for other people—people who struggle the same way I do, with the same experiences I have had. The person I wanted to be there for the most was the younger version of myself.
The truth is, there hasn’t been a day in my life where I haven’t struggled with my mental health. The only difference is that I now have the tools and discipline to manage it sustainably. When I first got into education, I wanted to be there emotionally for young people. Now I realize it is not only about being there for them, but about passing on the skills I have gained to live with my neurodivergence.
My mentor teacher’s words haunted me for years, but now, I am proud to say that I am a fifth-year teacher who has not only found a way to live with her neurodivergence, but has learned to accept it and even embrace it as a tool that helps me provide the best education I can for my students. Not only that, but I’ve been able to merge the scaffolds I’ve built for myself with the scaffolds I provide to students.
Tools for Students and Teachers
If there’s anything I’ve learned as a neurodivergent educator, it’s that an ableist world will not wait for me, so I must know what I need. Over the past few years, I’ve learned that I cannot simply “wing” a lesson plan. Due to my anxiety, I need to know exactly what I am doing well in advance to be present for my students’ needs. In order to be present, I prepare extensively because I accept that this is what I need to succeed.
As a result, I have created a graphic organizer where I script my instructions and think alouds. I write down the anticipated student responses to know when I hear what will allow me to assess student understanding. In addition, I color code the parts of my scripting where I must pause and check for understanding. I reread my lesson plans before I teach. I have built systems in my lesson planning approach that keep me organized because I know I cannot hold all this information in my brain.
I accept that I cannot deliver a quality lesson without significant preparation. With help from many therapists and psychiatrists, I have learned that this is okay. Not only that, but this level of preparation means I can share my lessons with others and support newer teachers if they need a reference.
The self-awareness and organization I’ve found are skills neurodiverse teachers can and should pass on to all our students, not just those with IEPs or 504s. We need to teach all of our students the tools that are available to them, whether it’s color coding, affirmations, graphic organizers, or extended time to help them become independent learners. These are all tools I utilize daily as an educator.
I now understand that I need to start a task much sooner to complete it on time. These hard lessons are ones I can pass on authentically to my students, not because I am trying to give them tough love but because I can speak from personal experience as someone who has had to find ways to scaffold professional expectations.
I still have days when I cannot communicate as clearly as I want. Since I know this, I write down the directions and expectations in a student-friendly checklist format on all my slides so that students can at least reference them if I am struggling to give coherent directions. As it turns out, the checklist format is a recurring accommodation given to many students with IEPs and is often discussed outside the context of special education as “chunking.” This level of preparation is one I know I have to have because of my neurodivergence, and not despite it.
Lastly, while I do not disclose my diagnoses with my students, I am honest and transparent when I am having a bad mental health day. I will literally say, “Sorry, you guys, Ms. E is on the struggle bus today.” And if students ask me what I mean by that, I’ll say, “I’m just struggling with my mental health.”
As a result, we have had honest conversations about some conditions, such as depression and anxiety. In choosing to be vulnerable and honest, I provide teachable moments about dis/ability for my students that they might not get otherwise. In telling them about myself, I open up a portal into a world where teachers are humanized instead of being seen as authority figures who just distribute grades at the end of the semester.
Our Differences Are Not Burdens
If I could go back to the person I was when I first started student teaching, I would tell her that all the things that make her different will end up being her superpowers as an educator—even the stuff that feels like it’s a burden.
I believe my disabilities are not a burden to my teaching practice because I know the importance of scaffolds, accommodations and universal design learning. I know what it’s like to wake up and feel like the day ahead is impossible and to use affirmations, exercise and meditation to support my mental resilience. I can tell my students the value of building strength in the face of pain because I also live that struggle.
My preparation, my heart and my diligence are all a result of my neurodivergence. For that, I am grateful and proud to say that I am writing this as someone who has found the tools and strength necessary to stay in education. Ultimately, everything I needed and continue to utilize to be successful as a teacher is exactly what my students need, too. I now believe neurodivergent teachers are an asset to the classroom because we have direct experience with the difficulties of receiving information and processing it. We know what it’s like not to register anything the teacher said and to be met with raised eyebrows—as if we are poor students who don’t pay attention. I know that students need radical patience, compassion, attention and curiosity, because that’s what I needed as a student in the classroom. In the end, “whatever was going on” with me is what kept me in the classroom and not out of it.
