Diagnosis, Labels and Understanding

Chloe from Andiamo on why labels and diagnosis matter less than understanding how someone actually likes to work, especially when it comes to neurodiversity.

I've never been comfortable with labels. Boxes. Whatever you want to call the neat little categories we use to sort people into groups, then quietly expect them to behave accordingly.

I understand why we do it. Sorting people by a shared characteristic is quick. It gives us a shortcut, a way of making sense of someone before we've had the chance to actually get to know them. Sometimes the intention behind it is kind. Sometimes it isn't. But either way, the outcome tends to be the same. A blanket assumption, applied to an individual who is a good deal more complicated than any single word could ever capture. It's lazy, if I'm honest, but it's also very human. I don't think any of us are immune to it.

What troubles me more is what happens next. Once a label is applied, whether by a teacher, a manager, a parent or a passing acquaintance, something shifts. The person on the receiving end starts to absorb it. They begin to feel they should meet it, demonstrate it, prove it true, whether it ever fitted them in the first place or not. And if they don't, if they step outside whatever the label implied, there's often a quiet correction from the people around them. A raised eyebrow. A comment. The sense that they've somehow got it wrong.

Children do this to one another constantly. Adults, if we're being truthful, aren't much better. We just do it with more polish.

I've noticed something else too, which is that people tend to respond to being labelled in one of two ways. For some, a label brings relief. It gives shape to something they've always felt but never had the words for, and there's real comfort in that. For others, myself included, the reaction is closer to fear. A sense of being boxed in, followed almost immediately by the urge to push back out again. Neither response is wrong. They're just different, which is rather the point of this whole piece.

I think about this a lot in relation to neurodiversity, because it's an area where the label conversation gets particularly loud. There's a lot of focus on diagnosis, on whether someone has the official paperwork to explain why they work the way they do. I understand why that matters to some people, and I'd never dismiss how much a diagnosis can mean. But I don't think it should be the gatekeeper to being understood.

For me, it's less about whether you have a diagnosis and more about how you actually like to work. What genuinely helps you concentrate. What throws you off course entirely. Whether you think best out loud or in silence, first thing in the morning or last thing at night. Whether a long list of tasks feels manageable or completely overwhelming. None of that requires a label to be true or valid. It just requires someone to ask, and to actually listen to the answer.

That's a big part of why I do what I do. Every client I work with is different, and I've stopped expecting them to fit a template, because they don't, and they shouldn't have to. Some people want a detailed plan with everything mapped out in advance. Others want the headline and the freedom to work the rest out as they go. Some want regular check ins, others would rather I simply got on with it and flagged anything that needed their input. None of that is a personality type. It's just how a person works best, and there's no reason it should ever need a diagnosis or a label attached to be respected.

If there's one thing I'd want anyone reading this to take away, it's that you don't owe anyone a performance of the label they've handed you. You're allowed to work in whatever way genuinely suits you, diagnosis or not, explanation or not. The people worth working with will simply meet you there.

Andiamo!