Why Neurodivergent Kids Are Afraid of Their Schools and Teachers

By a rebel educator who’s unlearning the system from the inside out - this is for every child (and every teacher) who was never meant to fit the mold.

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(Also, stick around to the end of the article to grab your free e-book: The Teacher’s Guide to Creating Neurodiversity-Affirming Classrooms!)

I didn’t realise I was afraid of school until I was well into adulthood, doing some deep inner child healing and shadow work. I wasn’t afraid of school in the obvious way - there were no tantrums, no skipping class, no glaring signs. I did what I was told. I followed the rules. I was the "good student." But deep down, school terrified me.

It took me decades to understand why. I’m neurodivergent - autistic and ADHD - and like so many late-diagnosed women, I spent most of my childhood masking. I tried to be the student the system wanted me to be. Quiet. Obedient. Focused. Still. Pleasant. I didn’t know that the constant shaky legs, people-pleasing, the nightmares, the exhaustion, and the dread I felt each morning were signs of a nervous system in fight-or-flight.

I thought school was supposed to feel that way. I thought everyone felt that “put on a confident face but I’m scared shitless” feeling - every day.

As a teacher, I’ve now seen it from the other side. I’ve watched neurodivergent students walk into my classroom with wide eyes and tight shoulders. I’ve felt their hesitancy - not just about learning, but about existing in a space that demands so much from their nervous systems and gives so little in return. The fear is often masked, like mine was, but it shows up in ways adults misinterpret: defiance, avoidance, shutdown, or the classic “disrespect.”

Let me be clear: they’re not afraid of learning. They’re afraid of how we make them learn. And while this might be a hard pill to swallow for many teachers, the truth is - too often, they’re afraid of us, the adults who hold the power.

I say this with humility, because I can fully acknowledge that in my earlier teaching days—before I became aware of my own conditioning - I scared a lot of kids. I used old-school behaviour correction methods, authoritarian strategies, and placed unreasonable expectations on children who were already doing their best to survive in an overwhelming environment. Over time, working in this way made me very sick.

The truth is, I was mimicking what had been modelled to me - both from my own childhood and from the behaviour of colleagues around me. And the wild part? I was being praised for it. Go figure.

The Hidden Curriculum of Fear

Most classrooms operate on an invisible rulebook:

• Compliance = safety.

• Stillness = focus.

• Obedience = goodness.

• Emotions = disruption.

These expectations aren’t neutral - they’re shaped by neurotypical norms that don’t work for every brain or body. When a child flaps, rocks, paces, cries, or questions the rules, the system interprets it as a problem to fix. And the "fix" usually looks like control.

I’ve worked in classrooms where raising your hand instead of calling out was treated as a non-negotiable - regardless of how impulsive your brain might be. I’ve seen children excluded or scolded for not being able to sit still, for speaking out of turn, or for needing to leave the room.

I’ve watched head teachers publicly call out seven-year-olds for speaking just five seconds past the “raise your hand for silence” cue in school assemblies—naming and shaming them in front of the entire school. (A shock to my system on day one of teaching in London!)

I’ve seen those children’s hearts close. Their self-esteem crushed. I’ve seen teachers respond with silence, with punishment, with smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. And I’ve watched kids shrink in those moments - energetically, emotionally - because they’ve just been shown that who they are is wrong.

I’ve cried. I’ve hit pillows. I’ve spiralled into deep depressions over this.
But why did I care so much, when no one else seemed bothered by what - at least in my eyes - was blatant emotional child abuse?

What I Know Now

During one of my short-term teaching gigs, where I picked up a class partway through the year, I immediately sensed something was off. On the surface, everything looked “fine,” but there was a hesitance in their demeanour - a fear of speaking up, of asking for help, of being playful or having a laugh. I’d walked into, like I had many times before, yet another classroom where the overall energy was... dysregulated. My nervous system picked it up before my conscious mind did.

It wasn’t until I softened the environment - dimmed the lights, slowed the pace, gave the kids more autonomy - that I saw the truth: these children had been holding tension in their bodies for months. And finally, they exhaled.

The transition was a little chaotic at first, but by week eight - while other classes seemed to be climbing the walls - there was a noticeable sense of ease, trust, and peace within the four walls of my classroom. And it wasn’t just me picking up on it. Comments like, “My child just loves coming to school again - thank you. Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!” and “Wow, it’s so calm in here and they’re so engaged!” made it clear: safety was forming, and the children were beginning to unmask.

Interestingly, the more they unmasked, the more I did too. There was a quiet, reciprocal unfolding happening—layer by layer—and it felt truly magical. I would have moments of sensory overwhelm, name what I was experiencing, and model how I was meeting my own needs. In turn, the children began to feel safe enough to do the same.
It was the kind of connection that grows when people feel safe, seen, and accepted for who they are. Authenticity and respect were no longer things we strived for; they simply emerged from the safety we were co-creating. Something beautiful began to bloom. Some might have even called it… love.

I’ve come to realise that neurodivergent kids are often in a constant state of high alert at school. Their bodies are bracing for correction. Their minds are trying to keep up. And their hearts? Often breaking a little, because they feel misunderstood, no matter how hard they try. And I really get that.

What Needs to Change

Neurodivergent kids are not too sensitive, too disruptive, too much. They’re responding, intelligently, to environments that are too rigid, too fast, too loud, and too disconnected from human needs. We should be learning from them not forcing them to comply to a horrendously outdated education system.

If we want to build schools that feel safe for all children, we need to:

• Rethink how we define “good behaviour.”

• Prioritise emotional and sensory regulation before academic outcomes.

• Recognise that trust is earned - not demanded - especially with kids who’ve been harmed by authority.

• Train teachers to spot masking and understand the nervous system, not just the curriculum.

• Stop rewarding compliance at the cost of authenticity.

Most of all, we need to listen - really listen - to what children are showing us. Not just through their words, but through their bodies. Their energy. Their need to move, to question, to pause, to react, to breathe.

I write this as someone who is still unlearning the fear that school planted in me. And I write it for every child - past or present - who thought something was wrong with them, when really, the room just wasn’t built to hold them safely.

To my fellow educators who see themselves in these words…

We have the power to do things differently. To create classrooms that heal, not harm. To build spaces where all kids can feel safe enough to be themselves, to learn in ways that work for them, and to know they belong.

While I no longer work in traditional classrooms - because, truthfully, my own nervous system couldn’t handle it - I haven’t stepped away from working with children. I’ve built a business from home that supports kids in exploring their musical creativity. Yes, we have Squishmallows, mellow mats, and a whole lot of joy. It’s calm, connected, and neuro-affirming - everything I once needed school to be.

Even though I’m no longer in the system, I still feel deeply passionate about spreading the word on everything I’ve shared here. Our kids deserve better. And as educators, we can do better - with the right understanding and support.

For my fellow educators: I’ve created a digital resource to support you and your schools in building more neurodiversity-affirming classrooms:

📘 The Teacher’s Guide to Creating a Neurodiversity-Affirming Classroom

(Click Link Above to Access)

It’s packed with practical strategies, mindset shifts, and real-life examples to support you in making your classroom a place where every child can thrive - without needing to mask, shrink, or melt down.

👉 Download it now and start building the kind of classroom you wish you'd grown up in, or share it with those who are ready to do the same.

Because when we know better, we can do better. And our kids deserve nothing less.

With love,

Nicole (Neuro-Love-Notes) xx

If this article resonated with you, feel free to like, share, or subscribe - your support helps me keep creating from the heart 💛