Why I Built This Work Around Neurodiversity (And What That Means For You)

I didn't set out to build a neurodivergent-affirming ceremony practice.

I set out to build a practice that holds space, period. I trained as a doula. I trained as a celebrant. I studied ritual. I learned how to hold space for transitions. And then I started working with clients, and something kept happening. And happening. And happening. Many years of “happening”.

The people who found me were neurodivergent.

Not all of them. But a lot of them. Late-diagnosed autistic adults. People with ADHD who couldn't sit through traditional ceremonies. People whose nervous systems deserved attention. People who'd spent their whole lives being told their way of experiencing the world was wrong, and now they needed a ritual that said: your way is not just allowed here. It's understood.

And I learned something. As I was raising three neurodivergent children, I found out I'm neurodivergent too. In 2025, I was professionally diagnosed as autistic.

Once I understood my own neurology, I couldn't unsee it. Everything I'd been learning about ceremony, about empathy, about holding space suddenly made sense.

So I made a choice. I stopped trying to adapt myself to traditional ceremony frameworks. And I started building ceremony frameworks that were designed for neurodivergent people from the ground up.

What "Neurodivergent-Affirming" Actually Means

You hear a lot of buzzwords these days. Neurodivergent-affirming. ND-inclusive. Autism-friendly. These terms get slapped on everything and often mean little to nothing.

So let me be specific about what I mean when I say this work is neurodivergent-affirming.

It means understanding that neurodivergent people experience the world differently. Not wrongly. Differently. ADHD brains need movement and novelty. Autistic brains need predictability and clear information. Dyslexic people process language visually. Dyspraxic people navigate space differently. People with sensory processing differences experience sound and light and texture in ways that can be overwhelming or soothing depending on the input.

A neurodivergent-affirming ceremony acknowledges all of this.

It doesn't say "sit quietly and feel your feelings." It says "here are your options for how to participate. Some people sit. Some people stand. Some people move. Some people write. Some people draw. All of those are valid."

It doesn't say "here's the script, here's how you should feel." It says "this is the structure. Here's where we're flexible. Here's where things are set. Here's what you can control."

It doesn't assume one sensory environment works for everyone. It asks: what helps your nervous system feel safe? Some people need silence. Some people need soft acoustic background music. Some people need heavy metal music, up front and center. Some people need to be able to leave and come back. Some people need to fidget. Some people need clear sightlines to an exit.

It doesn't rush toward resolution or positivity. It says "grief is work. Transition is disorienting. You don't need to feel better by the end of this. You just need to be witnessed."

It doesn't expect you to perform. It says "the room was built for you. Exactly as you are. Your neurology isn't a bug to work around. It's part of what makes you you."

What This Looks Like in Practice

Let me give you an example.

I worked with James, who has ADHD. He was coming out as trans, and he wanted a ceremony to mark that transition. A traditional celebrant might have planned something like this: 30 minutes in a quiet room, everyone seated, James speaks about the transition, people speak blessings, maybe a ritual element, gentle music, closure.

From the words of James, that would have been torture.

Instead, here's what we designed: James's ceremony happened in a space where he could move. He sat for the opening, but then he stood and walked around as he talked about his transition. We had low music so there wasn't that heavy silence that makes his ADHD brain anxious. People who wanted to listen closely could, but we didn't expect everyone to sit perfectly still. We had fidgets available (stim toys, things to hold). We built in a 10-minute break halfway through because James needed to move and reset his nervous system. We were very clear about timing: "This will be 90 minutes. Here's what happens at 0, 30, 60, and 90 minutes." No surprises.

The ritual element involved movement and creation. James wrote something on a piece of paper (the old way he'd lived), and we safely burned it. Then he planted a seed in soil (something new being born). He got to move, create, destroy, and plant. His body was involved. His nervous system wasn't fighting the ceremony. It was all part of the ceremony.

After, James told me: "I've been to a thousand ceremonies where I had to sit still and pretend to feel things. This was the first one where my nervous system could actually be present."

That's neurodivergent-affirming work.

It's not complicated. It's not mystical. It's just asking: what does this person actually need? And then building the ceremony around that instead of asking them to contort themselves into a shape that was never designed for them.

Why This Matters Beyond The Ceremony Room

Here's what I've learned: if you design ceremony for neurodivergent people, it works for everyone.

Neurotypical people appreciate choice and flexibility too. They like knowing what's coming. They benefit from clear communication. They sometimes need to move or process differently than the expected format allows.

But neurodivergent people have learned to hide. We've learned to mask. We've learned to force ourselves into spaces that don't fit. So when a ceremony is designed WITH us in mind, not despite us, it shows. And everyone feels it.

The room becomes calmer. People relax more. There's less anxiety about "doing it right." More authenticity. More presence.

Because the room was actually built to welcome everyone in it.

Many traditional ceremony spaces are built around one model: quiet, still, emotionally restrained, predictable script, sensory calm. This works great if you're a neurotypical person who processes emotion internally and doesn't need a lot of sensory input or movement.

If you're neurodivergent, it's often a minefield.

And that's not your fault. That's a design problem. And design problems can be solved.

The Training Implication

When I decided to offer the Full-Spectrum Celebrant™ training, I knew it had to be different from other celebrant trainings for this exact reason.

Most training programs teach one model of ceremony facilitation. Here's the structure. Here's the script. Here's how to move through it. If you deviate, you're doing it wrong.

That doesn't always work for training neurodivergent people. It doesn't work for training people who want to serve neurodivergent clients. And it doesn't work if you actually want to create ceremony that honors the full spectrum of human experience.

So our training is built differently.

We teach the philosophy first: why ceremonies matter, what they actually do, who gets left out of traditional approaches, and why neurodiversity matters. We teach the craft: how to design ceremonies, how to facilitate them, how to hold space when things go sideways. And we teach the approach: neurodivergent-affirming facilitation, which means options, flexibility, clear communication, and meeting people where they are.

We also model what we teach. The training itself is neurodivergent-affirming. We break up content with movement. We offer different ways to learn and process. We don't assume everyone learns the same way. We're transparent about what's coming and why. We build in quiet time and movement time. We honor different nervous systems.

Because if you're learning to hold space for neurodivergent people, you need to experience what it actually feels like to be in a neurodivergent-affirming space. You can't teach that from a lecture.

Who This Work Is For

I want to be clear about something: this doesn't mean I only work with neurodivergent people. Not everyone who comes through my doors is neurodivergent.

But all of them benefit from an approach that says: "Here's the container. You get to decide how you move through it."

That's appealing to everyone. Especially people in transitions. Especially people whose lives haven't fit the template they were handed. Especially people who are tired of performing for others.

And if you're neurodivergent and you've spent your whole life in ceremonies that weren't designed for you, a ceremony that actually is feels like coming home.

What I Want You to Know

If you're reading this and you're neurodivergent, I want you to know something: the fact that traditional ceremonies don't work for you doesn't mean ceremony isn't for you. It means those ceremonies weren't designed for you. That's not a flaw in you. It's a flaw in the design.

Your transition is real. Your becoming is significant. Your grief deserves to be witnessed. The way your nervous system works isn't something you need to overcome to access ceremony. It's something ceremony can be built around.

The room was built for you.

If you're reading this and you're a professional (doula, chaplain, coach, celebrant, anyone holding space for people), I want you to know: centering neurodiversity in your work isn't an add-on. It's not a special accommodation for some clients. It's how you build better spaces for everyone.

And if you're reading this and you're thinking "I want to learn to hold space this way for others," there's a path for that. The Full-Spectrum Celebrant™ training is designed for people who want to learn the philosophy, the craft, and the approach of neurodivergent-affirming ceremony facilitation. We train people to create ceremonies for every kind of person, every kind of transition, and every moment worth marking.

We start this fall.

Why I Built This Work This Way

I built this work around neurodiversity because my own neurodivergence showed me that traditional approaches weren't working. Not for me. And then I realized: not for a lot of people.

I built it this way because the people finding me needed someone who understood that their way of experiencing the world wasn't broken. It was just different. And different deserves ceremony too.

I built it this way because I want to change how ceremony works. Not by criticizing what came before, but by showing what becomes possible when you design for neurodivergent people from the beginning.

And I built it this way because I believe that everyone deserves to be witnessed in their transitions. Everyone deserves a room that was built for them. Everyone deserves ceremony that honors how they actually work, not how they're supposed to work.

That's full-spectrum. That's honest. That's the work I'm here to do.

Ready to Explore?

If you're considering a ceremony and you've never felt quite at home in traditional spaces, let's talk about what a neurodivergent-affirming ceremony could hold for you.

Learn more about a Full-Spectrum Ceremony

If you're a professional who wants to learn to facilitate this way, or if you're neurodivergent and you want to learn the craft of ceremony holding, the Full-Spectrum Celebrant™ training starts Fall 2026. We're accepting applications now.

Learn about the certification program

The room was built for you. What will you bring into it?

This work exists because neurodivergent people deserve better. Not different. Better. And when we build for neurodiversity, we build better spaces for everyone.