If the history of medicine teaches us anything, it’s that most revolutions start as metaphors.

The microbiome, for instance, is our latest stand-in for the soul — invisible, sensitive, and blamed for everything from eczema to executive dysfunction.

The Specific Carbohydrate Diet (SCD) lives in that liminal space between microbial science and moral cleanliness.

Its premise is simple: feed the body only what the gut can handle, and the brain will follow. Its practice, however, is a masterclass in inconvenience.

What we don’t know could fill a fermentation vat.

If you’re feeling a little self-conscious about how you look at things, that’s because science has now started watching you watch.

A new study in PLOS One found that adults with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) don’t just think differently — they see differently.

Their brains sample the visual world in distinct rhythms, so consistent that a machine learning algorithm could identify ADHD with 91.8% accuracy, and even tell who takes stimulant medication.

\It’s a finding that blurs the line between neuroscience and surveillance. The machines, apparently, can now recognize your brain by its beat.

Autism runs in families. Not in the sense that your Aunt Mildred’s love of alphabetizing the spice rack automatically means her baby will be scripting Finding Nemo monologues at three.

But in the sense that autism is highly heritable. Twin studies have been saying this for decades (Tick et al., 2016).

Now, a massive new study out of Japan adds more detail.

The Japan Environment and Children’s Study (JECS)—a sample so large it makes most developmental research look like a parish bake sale—has found that parents with stronger autistic traits are more likely to have infants who show developmental difficulties.

That’s true for mothers and fathers, though not always in the same way (Hirokawa et al., 2025).

When you become the invisible spouse, it isn’t about vanity.

It isn’t about wanting roses every Friday or dramatic love notes slipped into lunchboxes. It’s about something far quieter and lonelier: the sense that the person who once saw you best no longer sees you at all.

Marriage, at least in its glossy brochure form, is supposed to be two people building a life together — a duet, a partnership, a home.

But when neurodiversity is part of the family landscape, marriage can start to look less like a duet and more like a never-ending group project: therapy schedules, insurance fights, endless paperwork.

And if you’re not careful, one person becomes the project manager while the other fades, quite literally, into the background.

If you scroll through Reddit threads or late-night parenting groups on Facebook, you’ll see the refrain over and over: “I feel invisible in my own house.”

Not unloved. Not abandoned. Just unseen, like the ghost of a partner who still does the dishes but whose inner life has been erased.

Families raising a neurodivergent child — whether autistic, ADHD, dyslexic, or otherwise — quickly learn that the whole household shifts around that child’s needs.

Parents juggle therapy appointments, meltdowns, calls from teachers, and endless forms.

Meanwhile, the sibling without a diagnosis is often standing just offstage, quietly adapting. Sometimes they become protectors, advocates, even the comic relief.

Sometimes they carry resentment or that peculiar sense that childhood was cut short. Many carry both.

One adult sibling put it plainly: “I love my brother, but I was raised as his third parent, not as myself.”

It’s 10 p.m. Your spouse has just posted what looks — to you — like a press release on your family’s private business.

Or maybe they’re scrolling TikTok while you’re baring your soul. You feel dismissed.

They feel confused. Suddenly, the marital argument isn’t about the dishwasher, the finances, or the in-laws. It’s about Facebook.

If one of you is autistic, the fight isn’t really about the post. It’s about two brains running on different Wi-Fi networks.

Autism has always been defined by differences in communication and social interaction. But one of the subtler signs—often overlooked outside of clinical settings—is the way autistic people move.

The DSM-5-TR even lists an “odd gait” as a supporting diagnostic feature of autism (American Psychiatric Association, 2022). What does that mean in real life? Sometimes it looks like:

• Toe-walking (up on the balls of the feet, ballerina-style)

• In-toeing (pigeon-toed, feet turned inward)

• Out-toeing (feet flaring outward)

But gait differences aren’t always this obvious.

Long-term studies show that autistic gait is often characterized by slower walking, wider steps, and more time in the “stance phase” (when your foot is still planted before lifting off).

Stride length and speed vary more, too (Kindregan et al., 2015). It’s as if the body is improvising a little more than usual—sometimes graceful, sometimes awkward, always distinct.

If you want to know how autistic people actually talk about autism, don’t start with a clinical checklist. Start with Reddit.

That’s exactly what a team of researchers did in a new study published in Autism Research, and the results are fascinating—sometimes funny, sometimes heartbreaking, but always deeply human.

Traditional medical frameworks love their bullet points: difficulty with social interaction, repetitive behaviors, sensory sensitivities. Useful in a doctor’s office, sure. But they don’t capture what it feels like to live autistic in a world that often demands camouflage.

On Reddit, no one is following a researcher’s script. People vent. They joke. They tell the truth they’ve never said out loud. That’s why analyzing over 700,000 posts from r/autism and 15 related subreddits gives us something richer: autism not as a disorder, but also as a lived culture.

Imagine this: you’ve spent years convinced you’re lazy, weak, or simply “bad at life.”

Then one afternoon in a beige office, a clinician leans back in their swivel chair and says: “You have ADHD.”

Suddenly, it all clicks. The shame softens. Your story rearranges itself. You’re not defective—you’re diagnosed.

That emotional pivot has a name of its own: the Rumpelstiltskin effect.

Psychiatrist Awais Aftab and philosopher Alan Levinovitz coined the term in 2025, comparing the relief of diagnosis to the fairy tale where learning Rumpelstiltskin’s name breaks the spell.

Across cultures, the power of naming—of turning the mysterious into the knowable—has always been the first step toward control, healing, or escape.

But like most good fairy tales, there’s a darker counter-narrative. In American mental health culture, many argue that psychiatric labels don’t free us—they trap us. For some, diagnosis feels less like a flashlight in the dark and more like a branding iron.

So who’s right? Let’s dig in.

When people hear the word hoarding, they often imagine a reality-TV spectacle: stacks of newspapers, narrow walkways, and a kitchen buried under clutter.

But in everyday life, hoarding is more complex—especially when we consider how it connects to neurodiversity.

Hoarding isn’t just about keeping “too much stuff.”

For many neurodivergent souls, it’s tied to the way their brains handle memory, attachment, and uncertainty. What looks like disorganization from the outside can be a coping strategy on the inside.

"Thinking in Speech" (TiS) isn’t just another autism therapy—it’s an intentional way of learning to talk to oneself with purpose, clarity, and calm.

Developed by Janice Nathan, an autistic speech-language pathologist, TiS teaches children to build an inner voice that supports planning, emotional steadiness, and self-soothing—not through worksheets or routines, but by activating inner strength.

In 2025, researchers published a pilot randomized-controlled trial in Autism Research. Twenty-two autistic children received the TiS therapy—sixteen 30-minute sessions delivered remotely by nine trained speech-language pathologists.

Compared to a waitlist group, children in the TiS group showed statistically significant improvement in emotional distress (measured by the Emotion Dysregulation Inventory (EDI)) and a marginal trend toward improved reactivity.

People with ADHD are more prone to boredom because of attention and working memory challenges. Here’s what new research reveals—and what helps.

A new study in the Journal of Attention Disorders confirms what most people with ADHD could tell you without a grant: boredom hits harder and more often.

Young adults with ADHD traits scored nearly two standard deviations higher in boredom proneness than their peers (Orban, Blessing, Sandone, Conness, & Santer, 2024).

The underlying issue is executive function—the set of mental tools that help us pay attention, hold information in mind, and finish what we start. When those systems misfire, even mildly dull tasks feel unbearable.