sarahBy Pelin Kohn
As we approach International Neurodiversity Celebration Week (March 16–22), it’s worth pausing to consider a form of inclusion that rarely enters public debate.
We talk about sidewalks, budgets, housing, and taxes — and we should. Those decisions shape daily life. But there are also community members who walk into a crowded room and immediately calculate where to sit, how to breathe, how to quiet their minds. There are parents lying awake worrying about whether their child’s intrusive thoughts will ease. There are teenagers who appear perfectly fine while managing battles no one else can see.
If you’ve ever loved someone navigating those challenges, like me — or faced them yourself — you understand how invisible and heavy they can be.
Neurodiversity includes autism, ADHD, OCD, dyslexia, Tourette’s, and other neurological differences. These are not rare diagnoses. They are present in our classrooms, workplaces, and neighborhoods. Yet conditions like OCD are often reduced to stereotypes. OCD is not simply a preference for order. It can involve relentless intrusive thoughts, anxiety that feels inescapable, and mental rituals performed not for comfort but for relief. The effort of appearing “normal” can itself be exhausting.
When we don’t speak honestly about these realities, stigma fills the silence. Neurodiversity Celebration Week invites us to shift perspective — from asking how to fix individuals to asking how to design systems that recognize different brains, different needs, and different ways of processing the world.
That conversation starts locally.
Are our public meetings structured with sensory awareness in mind?
Are our communications clear and accessible?
Do families navigating mental health challenges feel supported — or isolated?
Do young people growing up with neurological differences feel seen?
If civic life is built only for the loudest and most comfortable participants, others are left navigating barriers we never intended to create. Inclusion is more than physical access. It is psychological safety. It is cultural awareness. It is whether someone can participate without hiding who they are.
As we mark this week, the question is not whether we care. It is whether our policies, spaces, and civic culture reflect that care. The strength of a community is not measured by how it serves those who already thrive. It is measured by how it responds to those carrying invisible weight.
Montpelier has the opportunity to lead — not just in words, but in design, in tone, and in action. A city that understands neurodiversity is more inclusive. It is broadening participation.
And broadening participation makes us stronger.
Pelin Kohn lives in Montpelier and serves on the Montpelier City Council.
The material presented here represents the opinion of the author and does not reflect the opinions of The Bridge. Commentaries may be submitted to editor@montpelierbridge.com. Preference is given to submissions by those who live in central Vermont. Submissions are encouraged to be 500 to 750 words in length.
