The concept of neurodiversity acknowledges the natural variety of brain types among individuals, while the term “neurodivergence” was collectively coined by neurodivergent people themselves to describe those whose neurotypes differ from what society deems typical. The researchers note that the category is not meant to be diagnosis specific; it can include autistic people, those with attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, dyslexia, dyspraxia, obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress or traumatic brain injury, among others. Neurodivergent people have always existed but have historically experienced many forms of ableism, including institutionalization. Pressure to “mask” — to camouflage oneself as neurotypical — has also made it hard for neurodivergent people to find one another. The development of the Internet created unprecedented ways to connect and share knowledge, and out of those encounters the neurodiversity movement was born.

The study addresses a conspicuous gap: the vast majority of education research on neurodivergent people in higher education focuses solely on students. Yet existing survey data suggest faculty have much at stake. Only 38 percent of neurodivergent faculty and staff reported feeling comfortable being open about their neurodivergence in academic spaces, according to prior research cited in the study. In that same survey, 79 percent of faculty said they structure their classes, programs or offices to meet the preferences of a neurodivergent student population, and 79.6 percent routinely provide communication options including speaking, text and visual representations. A separate study by Bressman and colleagues found that 78.5 percent of neurodivergent faculty felt their neurodivergence offered strengths compared with neurotypical colleagues, while 92.2 percent felt they also had weaknesses relative to their peers. The authors also raise questions about research quality itself, noting that neurotypical researchers studying communities they are not part of is a rarely examined bias, and that marginalized researchers are often steered away from work on their own communities for fear of it being dismissed as “me-search.”

Methodologically, the project was shaped by the fact that all three authors identify as neurodivergent, as did everyone who contributed to idea generation. The lead author drafted an interview guide from years of conversations with neurodivergent colleagues, then incorporated asynchronous feedback from neurodivergent faculty, a PhD student and an MSW graduate — feedback that, for example, ensured contingent faculty were included alongside tenure-track and clinical faculty. In 2021 and 2022, participants were recruited through online flyers and social media. Eligibility required being a full- or part-time higher education faculty member and comfort participating in spoken English, signed American Sign Language or email correspondence. The lead author hosted 23 interviews over Zoom, each lasting 60 to 90 minutes. To maximize accessibility, the question list was shared in advance and each question was pasted into the Zoom chat as it was asked; participants were encouraged to take breaks, go on tangents, and turn off their cameras. The University of Michigan Institutional Review Board determined the study exempt. Transcripts were cleaned and anonymized, then coded inductively with in-vivo coding in DeDoose, with the team reaching consensus in weekly meetings and organizing codes into seven themes using a virtual tabletop method.

The first positive theme, “neurophoria” and the brilliance of neurodivergence, captures joy that goes beyond academic productivity. The authors align the term with “gender euphoria” as used by transgender and gender diverse communities, as a counterpoint to conversation dominated by negatives. They emphasize that even people with the same diagnosis are heterogeneous in their strengths, so each person’s workplace strategies are unique. Hyperfocus — a flow state of intense concentration, especially on areas of interest — appeared repeatedly. One participant, Michael, described writing “like, 80% of my dissertation proposal in one sitting,” only to realize afterward that he had not eaten or used the bathroom for five or ten hours. The authors point out that while challenges with interoception, such as sensing hunger, are almost always framed as deficits among neurodivergent people, the ability to compartmentalize and hyperfocus is highly sought after in academic settings, and some participants said their hyperfocus was sometimes feasible precisely because of reduced interoception.

Other strengths took different forms. Mo, an autistic participant, described a brain that “holds all sorts of facts and data,” particularly around disability and assistive technology, with a filing system that makes it rare not to answer a question or find resources to do so — capabilities that employers often notice in autistic employees. Participants also described leaning into interdependence, one of the tenets of disability justice. TJ credited deep collaboration with younger colleagues whose writing was stronger than his own: “I would not have gotten tenure if I wasn’t writing with people where writing was their strength.” Elizabeth spoke of a “deep capacity to be sensitive to what’s happening around us, and within us, and between us,” and Tara explained that being neurodivergent makes her question why things must be done the way they are, giving her a critical eye shaped by her focus on multicultural and equity issues. Some participants described pride in their identity; Minnie framed “Mad pride” as a rejection of psychiatric stigmatization and of the individualization of collective problems. The authors note that developing a positive neurodivergent identity can help people recognize that their difficulties stem from structural barriers rather than inherent flaws.

The second theme, community connection and advocacy, wove through every single interview. Participants described challenging judgmental remarks from colleagues about students. Rae recounted pushing back on claims that students sleeping in meant they did not care: “Aren’t you glad they’re there? We’re in a pandemic, they’re struggling, they’re sick… they must really care about your class.” Sharing their neurodivergent identity with students made faculty feel more approachable; Tara reported that of the students she advised individually, half had disabilities, and that some students sought her out because they knew she was disabled. Michael described enjoying “moments of ‘micro-advocacy'” with curious colleagues and students learning about their own neurodivergence. The authors cite prior work suggesting that compassionate workplaces where fluctuations in capacity are expected can enhance neurodivergent faculty well-being, and that when faculty felt affirmation from peers and administrators, they could not only survive but thrive. Community extended beyond institutions: social media allowed participants to discuss ableist discrimination and build positive identity. The authors caution that the data were collected before Twitter became X and the departure of many marginalized users following the new owner’s remarks, which they characterize as ableist, sanist, homophobic, transphobic, racist, classist and xenophobic; they note neurodivergent faculty have since found one another on LinkedIn, BlueSky and other emerging platforms.

The final theme, shared wisdom, split into advice for other neurodivergent faculty and for neurotypical colleagues. Because neurodivergent people, especially those with ADHD or autism, can experience rejection sensitivity — anxiously anticipating negative feedback and overreacting to criticism — several participants described having trusted friends or colleagues read course evaluations or “revise and resubmit” emails and summarize improvements without rumination. Vi described marking harsh emails unread and asking her partner or mother to help interpret them. Participants emphasized boundaries: Tara refuses calls at night or during meetings, while Michael protects weekend and evening time to recharge. Nearly every participant endorsed hyperfocus “surges,” which some channeled into grading, writing or idea generation. Several rejected conventional productivity measures outright; Shenika counted responding to students, attending a scheduled meeting and brushing her teeth as a successful day. The authors connect this to slow scholarship and disability justice’s anti-capitalist principles, noting the lead author’s own shift toward being “just a professor, rather than a great professor” while healing from autistic burnout.

For neurotypical colleagues, participants asked for direct explanation of the “hidden curriculum” — the unspoken rules of academia, such as how to actually write a journal article — since Tara said her neurotypical mentors left her to Google such things herself. Mo asked non-disabled allies to back her up in conversations, because “if I’m always the only one speaking up, people are going to have stopped listening.” Participants described ableist microaggressions that discourage disclosure and harm mental health over time, and AJ wished he could “wave a magic wand and just remove all judgment.” Many said “professionalism” norms — mandatory cameras, bans on chat use, assumptions about tone — were weaponized against them, grounded in what the authors call white supremacist, ableist, sexist and classist values. One participant described running on “crip time,” in which society bends toward disabled minds rather than the reverse. Virtual and hybrid meetings helped: TJ praised on-screen names and pronouns, closed captioning, and the freedom to doodle and fidget.

The authors argue most recommended changes require little labor or funding: neurodiversity weeks, disability cultural centers, body doubling and hyperfocus happy hours alongside traditional writing retreats, offering “TLDR” meeting summaries, and paying neurodivergent faculty to make curricula more neuroaffirming. They also propose hiring pathways modeled on preferences given to disabled candidates by the U.S. government and the Colorado Department of Labor. The study has limits the authors name directly: the convenience sample underrepresented people of the global majority — one quarter of participants versus a national average of 40 percent — and included no Indigenous, Middle Eastern or Southeast Asian participants, no one in their 60s or 70s, and an all-white, queer, graduate-educated research team. They call for future work with neurodivergent staff, who are even less studied than faculty. Still, the conclusion is clear: neurodivergent faculty exist in every field and institution type, and their brilliance, joy and advocacy benefit the entire Academy when neuroaffirming spaces allow them to thrive.

Subject of Research: Lived experiences, strengths and joy of neurodivergent faculty in U.S. higher education

Article Title: Exploring the joy and brilliance of neurodivergent faculty in U.S. higher education

Article References: Kattari, S. K., Ashymov, G., & Erickson, D. (2026). Exploring the joy and brilliance of neurodivergent faculty in U.S. higher education. Discover Education, 5(1), Article 1221. https://doi.org/10.1007/s44217-026-02352-6

Image Credits: AI Generated

DOI: 10.1007/s44217-026-02352-6

Keywords: neurodivergence, neurodiversity, higher education, faculty, qualitative research, neurophoria, hyperfocus, disability justice, ableism, academic workplace, community advocacy, neuroaffirming spaces