Dyspraxia: A disorder or a difference?

Dyspraxia’s other, more technical, name is Developmental Coordination Disorder (DCD). A mouthful, hence why I rarely use it.

One of the most prominent neurodiversity discussions in recent years has been the shift from deficit-driven language to words with more positive connotations. Rather than ‘disorders’ or ‘disabilities’, many prefer ‘differences’. As I understand it, this has been led by those with lived experience, not professionals − but seems to have been embraced by academics, clinicians, and educators.

I can see why some with, say, autism might prefer to describe their neurotype as a ‘difference’. It’s less stigmatising for a start. But, perhaps more significantly, many people living with autism describe benefits, such as an ability to hyper-focus on special interests that can bring academic, career and fiscal rewards.

I love the natural world. Since childhood, the great Chris Packham has been a hero of mine. In his inimitably eloquent style, Chris has described how his autistic hyper-focus enables his immersion in the sights, sounds, and smells of the natural world. He has acquired and synthesised encyclopaedic knowledge of the natural world, affording him Attenborough-like credibility. A once socially-isolated man with harrowing experiences, including suicidal ideation, Chris Packham is now a national treasure – a formidable voice in the inter-related subjects of natural history, ecology and conservation. And a neurodiversity advocate to boot.

My experience of dyspraxia, however, is that it is a disorder. I have no other word for it.

I would never put dyspraxia on a par with physical disabilities or severe sensory disabilities such as blindness. I’d find that disrespectful to those whose severity of impairment far exceeds mine. That said, dyspraxia has had various disabling effects on my life, the cumulative impact of which has been, at times, despair. Dyspraxia has made me avoidant, particularly when young. It has, at times, left me feeling frustrated, embarrassed, ashamed. As an adolescent and young adult, it hacked away at my self-esteem; I felt worthless. I relied on damaging, unsustainable coping mechanisms that further damaged my mental health. All in the hope of fitting in, just as the adolescent brain is wired to do.

I find dyspraxia exhausting. First and foremost, there’s the extra cognitive effort required to process visual-spatial information and to physically coordinate – tasks that most people find intuitive and effortless. Then there’s the hyper-vigilance when doing something practical, paying close attention to not spill, break or drop – or having to focus with great intent on the sequence of events. The drive to avoid looking silly is less intense at 46 than when I was 16, but it’s still there in faded form. Finally, the gendered expectations: men are expected to do DIY, change bike tires, competently construct flat-pack furniture. Men are meant to be practical. I’m not. I’m really not.

Thankfully, as I got older, I managed to eventually focus on and appreciate my talents. I made adjustments. I practiced some self-compassion. I accepted me for me.

I went on to achieve a fair bit – in terms of music, in terms of raising tens of thousands of pounds for charities, and in terms of an extremely fulfilling career. I’ve been lucky enough to travel all over Europe and many nations beyond. I’ve got a wide variety of brilliant friends.

But all of that has been in spite of dyspraxia, not because.

If any fellow dyspraxics can cite examples of positive differences gained from their dyspraxia then do get in touch − I’d love to know about them.