ADHD: Difference, Disability, or Both?

This month, I’ve been unpacking some of my more complex feelings about ADHD — from my often-strained relationship with the ADHD side of my AuDHD experience (compared to the Autistic side), to exploring when self-monitoring is helpful versus when it fuels shame, as well as last week’s dive into compensation strategies versus accommodations.

To be honest, this is the essay I’m most nervous about sharing. While I resonate deeply with much of the thinking in neurodivergent-affirming spaces, I also have some different takes, and I worry about offending or being misunderstood — or being called ableist for daring to diverge. I almost didn’t publish this one because it’s challenging to explore these topics in a way that feels both true and thoughtful. But I believe that part of affirming neurodivergent experiences is embracing complexity — honoring the nuances and contradictions within our own identities, even when it feels uncomfortable. So here we are.

Is ADHD a Disability?

When my children were younger, we were driving down a quiet, winding road when I saw a bright yellow road sign that read, “Caution: Disabled Child.” My ever-observant daughter noticed it too and, after a pause, asked, “Mom, am I disabled?” My mind flooded with thoughts — how do I explain the difference between the medical model and the social model of disability? The nuances of invisible vs. visible disabilities. This felt like a big moment, and as a neurodiversity advocate, I thought, Shouldn’t I have a script for this? My mind diverged in a thousand directions, but I held back from diving into a monologue. Instead, I asked her what she thought — did she consider herself disabled? From there, we unpacked how that word can mean many different things, depending on context and perspective.

So, is ADHD a disability? Technically, yes — it’s classified as such. But if you ask ADHDers this question, you’ll get a range of answers. And I understand why: disabled is a complex identity, one that some choose to embrace and others may not. I don’t believe there’s a right answer here; choosing whether to identify as disabled is deeply personal (1).

This question of identity connects to a language shift I’ve noticed in the ADHD community. Occasionally, I see someone insist that ADHD is not a disability but rather a difference. (To be fair, I think when this happens, the person is mistaking disability for disorder — an easy mistake to make.) (2) While I do find blanket statements like this problematic, I have more mixed feelings about a broader trend I’ve noticed: more and more, people are replacing words like “dysfunction” or “deficit” with “difference” to describe ADHD-related challenges.

While I’m not a fan of terms like “dysfunction” or “deficit” either (they carry capitalist undertones, implying that we should “function” according to certain societal standards), I feel conflicted about leaning solely on “difference” as an alternative. Personally, I find words like “disability” or “challenge” a better fit for my experience, capturing the daily personal strain I face. For example, I talk about my “executive functioning challenges” or my “sensory processing disabilities,” which, for me, more accurately reflect the impact these experiences have on my day-to-day life.

For many of the ADHDers I’ve worked with over the years — and for myself — ADHD feels like more than just a difference. When we’re struggling to organize our lives in ways that actually support our goals, struggling to maintain work, or when I find myself huffing and puffing in a stress response after spending half an hour searching for something I misplaced, it’s a reminder that the line between difference and disability isn’t always clear.

Understanding the Social Model of Disability

This conversation around language reflects a broader shift in disability studies — moving from viewing disability as something inherent to the individual to understanding it as a mismatch between individual needs and a society that doesn’t accommodate those needs. Known as the social model of disability, this approach can be both empowering and refreshing, emphasizing that with the right accommodations, many difficulties can be minimized. The model suggests that disability arises not from a person’s impairments alone, but from an environment that fails to meet those needs. The idea of an ability-environment mismatch is central here. For instance, research suggests that traits like distractibility in ADHD may have been advantageous in hunter-gatherer societies, where a shorter attention span might have made ADHDers more efficient foragers.

And yet, even imagining myself in those ancient contexts, I know some core challenges would remain: I’d likely still misplace tools, struggle with sequencing tasks, and get lost in daydreams during conversations. There’s no doubt that modern society amplifies ADHD challenges, but a change of environment doesn’t make them disappear entirely. For this reason, while I consider the social disability model my foundation, I also recognize its limitations and the risk it carries of minimizing individual suffering.

Disability and Identity

One concern I have with the recent shift in some neurodivergent spaces — particularly among those with fewer support needs — from “disability” language to “difference” language, is that it may inadvertently erase the reality of our challenges. While I understand the desire to avoid pathologizing ourselves, the language of disability offers important legal protections and helps validate the lived experience of those who struggle (I also don’t see disability as a pathologized word). To me, disability isn’t a bad word, especially when we hold it within the nuanced perspectives offered by different models of disability. This shift makes me wonder: In the name of being neurodivergent affirming, are we at risk of minimizing the very real difficulties that the most marginalized in our community face?

A Pendulum Swing

Social movements, like pendulums, swing wide — and neurodivergent advocacy is no exception. We’ve seen the narrative shift from tales of tragedy to reframing neurodivergence as a gift, even a superpower (3),  or in some spaces, as an indication that ADHD or Autistic individuals are more highly evolved.

While there's real value in celebrating neurodivergent strengths, I find myself wondering: How do we hold space for both joy and challenge, pride and pain? How do we honor the experience of having a brain that brings both unique strengths and significant struggles? And can we do this without casting neurotypicals as the "other" in our search for belonging? Must we other others to find a place for ourselves?

Where is the line between celebrating identity and slipping into something closer to toxic positivity? When does honoring ADHD or Autistic strengths start to feel like pressure? If a young person isn’t the wildly creative ADHDer or the Autistic pattern-finder, does it leave them questioning if they’re somehow “failing” at being who they are?

A Beautiful, Messy Paradox

The ADHD mind can be a source of beauty, alive with creativity and fresh perspectives — but it also holds real, ongoing struggles. My heart goes out to those who are newly diagnosed, standing at the edge of this vast identity. If their first response is grief or frustration, will they feel there’s space for it?

So, where do we draw the line between difference and disability? Is there a way to celebrate neurodivergent identity while acknowledging the challenges it brings?

These are the questions I’m exploring as I continue to unpack my relationship with ADHD. And as I sit with these questions, I also anchor in this truth: at the heart of neurodivergent-affirming work is the principle of self-determination — the belief that each person has the right to decide what their experience means to them, to set their own goals, and to identify in ways that feel authentic. So whether someone sees their ADHD as a superpower, a challenge, or a bit of both, that’s ultimately their call to make.

For me, as I self-determine, I do experience my ADHD as disabling in many ways — and not just in today’s world but likely in other contexts, too. At the same time, I appreciate the creativity and novelty it brings to my life. I hold this beautiful, messy paradox and embrace it with all its complexity. I invite you to hold your identity in all the nuance that feels true to you and your context.

So, is ADHD a disability, a difference, a disorder? Legally speaking — yes, it’s a disability. But in terms of your personal experience, you get to decide what best captures your lived experience. Ultimately, it’s your identity to define.

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Footnotes

(1) To learn more about disability as an identity and the history of disability rights and disability pride, this is a great podcast episode with Guinevere Chambers on Disability Sociology.

(2) Disorder vs. Disability: In general, the Neurodiversity Paradigm tends to reject the language of "disorder" due to its pathologizing implications, as in "you have a disordered brain," while "disability" is more widely embraced. "Disorder" frames neurodivergent traits as inherently flawed or deficient, implying that something is fundamentally wrong with the individual. In contrast, "disability" acknowledges real-world barriers and mismatches without positioning the neurotype as intrinsically "broken." The neurodiversity framework emphasizes that neurodivergent experiences are valid forms of human diversity, with challenges often arising from an unaccommodating environment rather than a defect within the individual.

Personally, I’m comfortable using "disorder" for certain mental health conditions that I see as situational and or treatable like my OCD, anxiety or depression. However, I avoid "disorder" when referring to my ADHD or autism—my neurology that I view as part of my fundamental wiring.

(3) Superpower rhetoric, particularly common in ADHD communities, is often seen as problematic from a disability justice perspective. Disability scholars and advocates argue that framing neurodivergence as a “superpower” can reinforce the notion that one must be exceptional to be valued or accepted. This narrative places pressure on individuals to constantly "perform" or emphasize their strengths, potentially obscuring the real challenges and support needs they may have. Disability theorists also highlight that superpower language can unintentionally uphold ableist standards by suggesting that only those who demonstrate exceptional abilities are deserving of accommodations or respect. In contrast, the disability justice framework advocates for recognizing the inherent worth of all individuals, affirming that everyone — regardless of their abilities — deserves dignity, respect, and support. For these reasons, those deeply engaged in the neurodiversity movement often avoid superpower rhetoric, which tends to be more prevalent among those newer to the community or mainstream narratives about ADHD and autism.