One of the things that fascinates – and, frankly, irritates – me about dyspraxia is how often its low profile reveals itself in tiny, everyday ways.
Case in point: my iPhone’s spellchecker still doesn’t recognise the adjective/noun dyspraxic. Nor the plural noun dyspraxics. Every time I type them, there they are, underlined in red.
They are perfectly standard words if you spend time reading or writing about neurodiversity, yet my phone treats them as mistakes.
I’m not suggesting a tech conspiracy against people with DCD. There are plenty of technical reasons why specific words don’t make a device’s default dictionary. But it does make me reflect on a question I return to often: why does dyspraxia remain so much less visible than other forms of neurodivergence?
In a previous post about neurodivergence’s “Big Three” (autism, ADHD, and dyslexia), I wrote about the self-reinforcing cycle of awareness. The more those three conditions are mentioned, the more familiar they become, making people even more likely to mention them again.
Systems thinker Peter Senge describes a similar dynamic called “success to the successful.” Resources, attention, and visibility naturally flow toward things that already have momentum. That additional focus accelerates their growth, while other experiences are left behind in the background. Modern football economics is a clear example: the same few clubs dominate Europe’s major leagues year after year because success generates revenue (e.g. lucrative Champions League qualification), funding better players, thus driving further success. The loop reinforces itself.
In the broader conversation about neurodivergence, dyspraxia struggles to enter that loop in the first place. Language devices play a huge role here. Repeating "autism, ADHD, and dyslexia" creates a neat, memorable three-item list. Adding dyspraxia, dyscalculia, and Tourette’s breaks the rhythm, leaving the list less linguistically luscious. That rule-of-three habit trickles everywhere: into teacher training modules, BBC Radio 4 documentaries, and workplace DEI conversations. When dyspraxia is mentioned, it feels disproportionately heartening simply because its absence has become the baseline – the expectation.
Does a red squiggly line on an iPhone matter? On its own, no. It won’t affect a diagnosis, secure classroom support, or change workplace accommodations.
It’s the cumulative effect that matters. A spellchecker ignoring a word describing millions of people is a small mirror reflecting a wider reality: dyspraxia is still fighting for space in the public consciousness, even amongst those good-willed people trying to wave the neurodivergence flag.
So I’ll keep typing dyspraxic. And dyspraxics. And keep ignoring my phone every time it tells me I’m wrong.
