I write as an educator working with children and pre-teens, and as someone with lived experience of sensory and neurodevelopmental differences that were not always understood within conventional educational and clinical settings.

My intention is to contribute to a more grounded understanding of how neurodivergent behaviour is often misread when measured only against what is considered normal in schools, homes, and medical environments.

In many mainstream contexts, “normal” behaviour is often defined implicitly rather than explicitly. It tends to favour children who are still, verbally responsive on demand, socially conventional in interaction, and able to regulate their bodies and attention in ways that align with classroom structure.

Within this framework, behaviours such as sitting quietly, using objects only for their intended purpose, maintaining consistent eye contact, and responding quickly to instruction are often interpreted as indicators of development being “on track”.

However, this definition of normality is not neutral, it is culturally and institutionally constructed, and it can obscure the wide range of neurological functioning that exists in children.

From early childhood, my own interaction with objects did not fit neatly within this expected framework. I engaged with materials in a highly tactile, repetitive, and immersive way — folding paper, pressing cardboard, gripping objects tightly, and repeating physical patterns over extended periods.

These behaviours were not aimless. They were internally structured, often linked to imagination and mental worlds drawn from media such as Pokémon and Digimon. However, unlike children who might simply imagine these characters visually or narratively, I translated them into physical sensation, using pressure, texture, and repetition as a way of “anchoring” those internal experiences into something tangible.

In a typical classroom interpretation of behaviour, such actions might be labelled as distractibility, non-compliance, or even destructive tendencies towards materials. Yet this interpretation misses the central neurodevelopmental function of the behaviour.

For many neurodivergent individuals, repetitive tactile engagement is not a disruption of learning — it is the mechanism that makes regulation and focus possible in the first place. The sensory system is not passive; it is actively used to organise attention, manage emotional intensity, and create predictability in environments that may otherwise feel overwhelming or inconsistent.

The contrast with neurotypical behaviour becomes clearer when we examine regulation itself. Many neurotypical children regulate through socially embedded and less visible means: internal self-talk, ease in social reciprocity, or the ability to filter sensory input without conscious effort. Because these methods are less observable, they are rarely questioned or corrected.

In contrast, neurodivergent regulation often becomes visible through movement, repetition, or tactile engagement, making it more likely to be labelled as “inappropriate” or “excessive” simply because it does not conform to expected behavioural norms.

As I grew older, I became increasingly aware of how differently my interaction with objects was perceived. While others often used objects in a functional, preservational way — keeping items intact, using them in structured tasks, and disengaging once the task was complete — I continued to engage physically and repetitively with objects even outside of explicit tasks. Holding, pressing, or manipulating objects for extended periods was not a lack of awareness, it was a form of regulation that supported attention and emotional stability. However, because it did not match the visible “calmness” associated with neurotypical regulation, it was often misread.

It is also important to recognise the emotional depth embedded in these behaviours. Contrary to assumptions that repetitive or intense object interaction reflects detachment or disregard, there is often strong emotional attachment involved. Objects used for regulation become part of a stabilising system.

When such objects are damaged or removed, the response is not indifference but often disappointment or distress. This highlights a critical misunderstanding in how behaviour is interpreted: external appearance does not always reflect internal emotional reality.

In adulthood, these patterns do not simply disappear; they evolve. While the environment changes and expectations increase, the need for sensory regulation often remains. For me, this can now appear in more socially subtle forms, such as holding a phone for extended periods, maintaining grip pressure, or engaging in quiet repetitive physical contact with objects. The function remains consistent even when the form becomes less noticeable to others. What changes is not the neurological need itself, but the strategies used to meet it within social expectations.

This is where the concept of “normal” becomes particularly limiting. When normal is defined only by what is most common or most easily observed in neurotypical populations, it risks excluding behaviours that are equally valid but less understood. In educational and medical settings, this can lead to interventions that aim to suppress rather than understand. A child who is repeatedly fidgeting, folding paper, or engaging in sensory-based repetition may be redirected towards stillness without consideration of what that movement is doing for their internal regulation. In doing so, we may unintentionally remove the very tools that allow that child to access learning and emotional balance.

As a special needs educator, I have learnt that behaviour must be interpreted rather than simply corrected. The presence of repetition, sensory seeking, or intense object interaction is not inherently problematic. The key question is not whether the behaviour fits a norm, but whether it is functional for the child’s neurological needs. For some children, stillness is regulation. For others, movement is regulation. For some, silence supports focus. For others, tactile repetition is what makes focus possible.

Neurodiversity, therefore, challenges the idea that there is a single correct way to behave, learn, or regulate. It calls for a shift away from comparing children to a narrow behavioural standard and towards understanding the diversity of neurological strategies that exist. What appears “unusual” from one perspective may be entirely logical and necessary from another.

My hope is that educators, doctors, and specialists in Jamaica and beyond continue to refine their understanding of neurodevelopmental differences not only through diagnostic frameworks, but through lived observation and interpretation. When we begin to see behaviour as communication rather than deviation, we move closer to supporting children in ways that preserve their dignity, their coping strategies, and their ability to learn in ways that are authentic to them.

Raymond Lawrence is a neurodivergent educator. Send comments to the Jamaica Observer or galletasdechocolates@gmail.com.

For many neurodivergent individuals, the sensory system is not passive; it is actively used to organise attention, manage emotional intensity, and create predictability in environments that may otherwise feel overwhelming or inconsistent.