What It Means to Be a Neurodivergent Head of Department

Being a Head of Department is a role that demands clarity of vision, strategic thinking, emotional intelligence, and day-to-day operational resilience, as well as subject knowledge. It’s about holding the big picture while nurturing the detail. It’s about leading people, inspiring students, and navigating the shifting terrain of school priorities. Now add to that being neurodivergent.

For me, being a neurodivergent leader is both a challenge and a superpower. It is living in constant negotiation between the world as it is and the world as I perceive it, rich with patterns, urgency, contradictions, and colour. I don’t just do the job; I feel it, deeply, sometimes overwhelmingly. I see opportunities where others see barriers. I also notice all the barriers that others can easily filter out.

Hyperfocus Meets Hyperload

One of the double-edged swords of my neurodivergence is hyperfocus. When I’m inspired, I’m unstoppable. I can design an entire curriculum overhaul in a weekend, map out an intervention plan for every student in my department in one sitting, or dive into policy research with an intensity that surprises others. But that comes with cost: when the momentum breaks, when tasks become fragmented, or when outside noise is too loud, I can freeze. The same brain that powers visionary work can also struggle with an overfull inbox.

Emotional Intensity and Empathic Leadership

Neurodivergence often comes with heightened emotional sensitivity. This means I lead with heart. I notice when a colleague is withdrawn, when a student is masking, when the staff room feels ‘off.’ I care deeply, perhaps too much, and that makes boundary setting essential but difficult. I am learning that empathy is strength, but it must be rooted in self-protection and sustainability. Coaching has formed a crucial part of this process.

Systemic Friction

Being neurodivergent in a system not built for you can be exhausting. Meetings that go in circles, policies that prioritise neatness over nuance, and professional norms that reward compliance over creativity can all wear me down. I sometimes feel like I speak a different professional dialect, translating myself into a language that doesn’t quite fit. But I’ve come to realise that the very friction I feel is also my compass. If something feels wrong, it often is. That discomfort is not a flaw; it’s feedback. It’s what alerts me to broken processes, unkind expectations, or environments that privilege uniformity over humanity.

The Power of Redesign

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of being a neurodivergent Head of Department is that I question everything. I don't accept “this is just how it's done.” I instinctively look for better, fairer, more authentic ways to do things; whether that’s how we assess students, support staff, run meetings, or communicate expectations. I design for humans, not systems.

That includes designing for students like me, the ones who might be seen as “too intense,” “too much,” “not quite right for the system.” I know how brilliance can hide behind executive dysfunction. I know how effort can look like avoidance. And I know that success is not always linear. That makes me fiercely protective of neurodivergent learners and acutely aware of the risks they face in standardised environments.

Leading with Vulnerability

I no longer hide my neurodivergence. It took me years to realise that masking at leadership level doesn’t just harm me, it robs others of the permission to lead authentically. By being open, I’ve created space for dialogue, for inclusion, for different ways of working. My team know I can be brilliant and burnt out in the same week. They also know I care, I adapt, and I hold space for their differences too.

Finding Home

Sometimes, it’s about finding a place that works for you. For a long time, I thought I had to shape myself to fit the system, to mask the messier parts, to file down the edges, to present the polished version of who I thought a leader should be. But the truth is, no amount of personal adaptation can make a fundamentally misaligned environment feel like home.

That’s why finding the right environment matters so much. For me, that place has been Millfield.

At Millfield, I’ve been given the freedom to lead in a way that aligns with who I am, not just who the handbook says I should be. My neurodivergence hasn’t been something to “manage” or explain away; it’s been something recognised, welcomed, and even celebrated. I’ve felt trusted, not just in spite of how I think, but because of it.

That sense of fit, of being seen, heard, and valued for my whole self has been transformative. It’s the difference between surviving and thriving. Between performing a role and inhabiting it.

In the right environment, difference doesn’t need to be hidden. It becomes the foundation for creativity, empathy, and progress. The right environment doesn’t just accommodate difference, it amplifies it. Sometimes, the most radical thing a neurodivergent individual can do is stop trying to fit into the wrong rooms, and instead find the one where their voice belongs.

What I Hope for the Future

I hope we move towards leadership cultures where neurodivergence is not just accommodated, but embraced. Where strengths are leveraged, challenges supported, and differences not just tolerated but designed for. Where we stop forcing square pegs into round holes and start building better, more flexible systems. Because when neurodivergent minds are empowered to lead, schools change. Culture changes. And education becomes not just a system we work within, but a human endeavour we all shape together. In short, I hope everyone can find their Millfield.