Dyspraxia: A disorder or a difference?
Dyspraxia’s more technical name is Developmental Coordination Disorder (DCD). A bit of a mouthful, which is why I rarely use it.
Disorder vs difference: a growing debate
In recent years, neurodiversity discussions have increasingly shifted away from deficit-driven language.
Rather than “disorders” or “disabilities”, many now prefer terms like “differences”. From what I understand, this shift has largely been driven by people with lived experience – though it’s now widely adopted by clinicians, educators, and academics too.
Why some prefer “difference”
It’s easy to see why.
For many autistic people, for example, the term “difference” feels less stigmatising. More than that, some describe genuine benefits – such as the ability to hyper-focus on areas of interest, sometimes leading to academic, career, or financial success.
Naturalist Chris Packham is a great example. He has spoken eloquently about how his autistic hyper-focus allows him to immerse himself in the sights, sounds, and smells of the natural world.
That immersion has enabled him to build extraordinary knowledge and credibility – becoming a leading voice in natural history, conservation, and ecology.
My experience: dyspraxia as a disorder
My lived experience of dyspraxia, however, is different.
For me, it is a disorder. I have no other word for it.
I wouldn’t compare it to severe physical or sensory disabilities – that would feel inappropriate. But dyspraxia has still had a significant, and at times disabling, impact on my life.
As a young person, it made me avoidant. It left me feeling frustrated, embarrassed, and ashamed.
It chipped away at my self-esteem until, at times, I felt worthless.
Like many adolescents trying to fit in, I turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms – ones that ultimately made things worse.
The reality of living with dyspraxia
Even now, dyspraxia is exhausting.
There’s the extra cognitive effort required to process visual-spatial information and coordinate movement – things many people do automatically.
There’s the constant vigilance: trying not to spill, drop, or break things. Concentrating intensely on sequences that others don’t think twice about.
And then there are social expectations – particularly as a man.
Men are “supposed” to be practical. DIY, bike repairs, flat-pack furniture.
I’m not. I’m really not.
(Read here for my take on dyspraxia and DIY.)
Growth, acceptance – and perspective
Over time, things improved.
I learned to focus on my strengths. I made adjustments. I developed some self-compassion. I began to accept myself as I am.
I’ve achieved a great deal that I’m proud of – through music, charity fundraising, and a deeply fulfilling career.
I’ve travelled widely. I’ve built strong friendships.
But I see these achievements clearly: they’ve come in spite of dyspraxia, not because of it.
Over to you
If other people with dyspraxia feel differently – if you’ve experienced genuine strengths or advantages linked to it – I’d love to hear from you. With your permission, I’d happily share your experiences as a future blog post.
