Neurodivergence does not exist in isolation from culture, r…

Staff stories: Lived experience in the NHS The following reflections are shared by colleagues who have generously offered their stories. They represent personal journeys at the intersection of neurodivergence, culture, ethnicity, gender and identity. Each story reflects one individual experience. They do not represent all neurodivergent or ethnic minority experiences — but they offer insight into the complexity, strength and reality of navigating these identities in professional spaces. Some colleagues have chosen to include their names. Others have chosen to remain anonymous for personal, cultural or professional reasons. If you recognise or believe you can identify an author who has chosen not to name themselves, please respect their privacy and do not share or speculate about their identity. These stories are shared in trust.

Venura - Board ambassador

My name is Venura Perera. I was born in Sri Lanka, but my early life was shaped almost entirely by Hong Kong, where I grew up before moving to a small town in Oxfordshire at eighteen. Through a rather unexpected journey of self-reflection — and, frankly, a series of bizarre circumstances — I came to self ‑ identify as both ADHD and dyslexic. For most of my life, I carried a persistent sense of feeling “wrong,” or slightly out of sync with everyone around me. It wasn’t until adulthood that I began to understand this feeling. It came partly from my neurodivergence, and partly from the ways others perceived me. Although Sri Lanka is my birthplace, I’ve never fully identified as Sri Lankan given where I grew up. This makes the seemingly simple question “So, where are you from?” surprisingly complicated to answer. Growing up, neurodiversity simply wasn’t something we spoke about — not in Hong Kong, and certainly not in my Sri Lankan family. When a teacher first noticed that I struggled with reading, it wasn’t given a name, and it definitely wasn’t accepted at home. The idea that my brain worked differently, or that I might need support, was seen as something culturally “wrong” or embarrassing. It was expected that I would go to university and study Maths or Physics; it wasn’t a choice so much as a duty.

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