Neurodivergent Notes: The ableism that lives inside

Hi Reader,

As “Autism Everything” Month wraps up, I’ve been writing about ableism, trying to sort through the big‑picture stuff (laws, systems, culture) and the more hidden ways it ends up living inside our heads. In this week’s article I walk through four types of ableism (systemic, cultural, interpersonal, internalized). The first three came pretty easily. I could name examples, point to policies, and speak to stories I’ve heard from our community.

Internalized ableism was where I slowed down a bit. This one wasn't coming easily to mind like the other three. I found myself struggling to share examples or stories. For me, internalized ableism was proving to be much more elusive.

I’ve written about internalized ableism in several places, but re‑listing examples and realizing how I’m still falling into many of these traps was sobering:

Pushing through exhaustion.
Apologizing for needs before I even say what they are.
Doing mental math about how much accommodation is “reasonable” before I become a burden.

So many of these don’t even feel like crystallized thoughts, more like an app running in the background.

That’s part of what makes internalized ableism so slippery. It doesn’t usually show up as “I dislike disabled people.” It shows up as “I’m just being realistic about what I can ask for.” It sounds like your own voice. It sounds logical, and the reality is, it often is logical. We do still live in an ableist society, so we come by this “math” and “push instinct” honestly. When we follow the logic of internalized ableism, it can protect us from some kinds of external ableism. And it’s hard to release things that protect us, even when they also hurt us.

As I revisit internalized ableism, I have more nuance. Some of my older writing on this leaned a bit too simple: catch the thought, name it, unhook. I still think that can be helpful, but it isn’t as simple as “notice and unhook the thought.” Because sometimes these patterns are adaptive responses to a maladaptive environment.

We see similar dynamics in shame research. Many people shame themselves with a kind of logic: “If I get there first and shame myself into behaving, other people’s shame will hurt less.” These adaptations often do protect us, or at least give us the impression of protection. This is part of why melting shame and loosening internalized ableism is more complex than catching a thought and swapping it. It’s also about honoring the context those patterns come from and understanding how they’re trying to keep us safe, even as they cost us.

One study I came across while writing described shame as the engine underneath internalized ableism in disabled young people — shame that convinced them they were less worthy and less deserving of care. Shame does many things, but one of them is narrowing. It narrows attention. It narrows identity. It narrows what you think you’re allowed to need.

I don’t have a neat way to wrap this up. I’m still in it too.

What I’m trying to practice this month is very small: noticing when that “too much / not enough” voice pops up, and gently asking, “Where did I learn that?” and “How are you trying to protect me?” Can I notice that this pattern is both trying to protect me and causing me pain? Sometimes that tiny bit of curiosity is enough to create a hairline crack in the story.

If you want more structure, I wrote about all four types of ableism, with concrete examples and questions to sit with, in this week’s article.

Warmly,
Megan Anna