Why Carceral Logic Has No Place in Neurodiversity Work
Bridgette Hamstead
The work of neurodiversity justice cannot be disentangled from the larger systems of social control that define whose behavior is legible, whose pain is palatable, and whose existence is treated as a disruption to be corrected. Carceral logic, the system of values and practices rooted in surveillance, punishment, containment, and control, does not just live inside jails or courtrooms. It permeates classrooms, clinics, HR departments, support groups, public policies, and even the well-intentioned language of "inclusion." In many spaces that claim to support neurodivergent people, the underlying expectation is not liberation, but compliance. And compliance, when it is enforced through threat, withholding, or fear of removal, is simply a softer expression of the same punitive structures that underlie the carceral state.
Behaviorism, for example, is widely lauded in therapeutic, educational, and even parenting spaces as a neutral or evidence-based framework for supporting autistic and otherwise neurodivergent people. But behaviorism does not ask what a behavior communicates. It does not ask what conditions might be causing distress, or whether the environment should adapt to meet the needs of the individual. Instead, it centers observable outcomes and trains individuals to perform "appropriate" behavior—behavior that is easier for neurotypical people to interpret, manage, and accept. In doing so, behaviorism often positions neurodivergent traits as deficits to be corrected and reinforces the idea that acceptance is conditional on performance. When used without deep critique, it becomes a tool for erasure, demanding that neurodivergent people suppress or mask core parts of themselves to gain access to education, employment, relationships, or safety. The proximity to carceral thinking is unmistakable: it is a logic that says change must come from the individual, and if they cannot change, they will be excluded.
Carceral logic also manifests in the increasing surveillance of neurodivergent people, especially children and employees. In classrooms, students are monitored not only for academic performance but for tone of voice, posture, facial expression, eye contact, and self-stimulatory movement. Neurodivergent children are disproportionately disciplined, suspended, restrained, or expelled for behaviors that are developmentally appropriate for them, and often coping strategies in the face of inaccessible environments. The same patterns continue into adulthood. In the workplace, neurodivergent employees are often pathologized or penalized for differences in communication style, emotional regulation, or sensory needs. “Professionalism” becomes a coded set of expectations that reward masking and penalize difference, with feedback loops that suggest the issue lies in the individual rather than the rigid structure that refuses to accommodate them.
Even in community spaces, support groups, social skills trainings, inclusive classrooms, neurodiversity workplace initiatives, punitive frameworks can show up subtly, under the guise of setting boundaries or protecting others from discomfort. When a neurodivergent person is told they are “too much,” “too loud,” “too intense,” or “too emotional,” the underlying message is that their regulation is a threat to the group. They are told to tone it down, take a break, leave early, come back when they can “be calmer.” This is not support. It is containment. And it reflects a carceral instinct to preserve institutional harmony over individual dignity.
This becomes especially dangerous when layered with racism, ableism, transphobia, and classism. Neurodivergent people of color, particularly Black and Indigenous people, are exponentially more likely to be punished, criminalized, or institutionalized for behaviors that white neurodivergent people may be excused for or protected from. The criminalization of neurodivergence does not begin in the courtroom, it begins in the differential scrutiny of behavior and in the racialized application of diagnostic categories, disciplinary policies, and therapeutic interventions. A Black autistic child having a meltdown is read as a threat. A white autistic child is read as needing help. The same behavior, interpreted through different lenses of worth, risk, and disposability.
The truth is that you cannot build a liberatory neurodiversity movement with tools designed for control. Carceral logic teaches us to manage individuals rather than transform conditions. It emphasizes compliance over care, standardization over dignity, and order over justice. Neurodiversity work that continues to use punishment, surveillance, or behavioral correction, whether explicitly or implicitly, fails to confront the foundational belief that some people must be fixed or controlled in order to belong. This belief is not only flawed, it is violent.
Justice-oriented neurodiversity work must reject carceral frameworks entirely. That means refusing to punish difference, even in subtle ways. It means replacing “behavior plans” with relationship-building. It means listening to what a behavior communicates instead of extinguishing it. It means advocating for systems where regulation is co-constructed, where support is mutual, and where access is designed from the start rather than granted only to the compliant. It means building spaces where neurodivergent people, especially those who are nonspeaking, multiply disabled, chronically ill, low-income, Black, Indigenous, trans, or criminalized, are not treated as disruptions but as leaders.
If we truly believe that neurodivergent lives are valuable, then we must build systems that hold that belief at every level. That will never come from punishment. It will come from trust, interdependence, and a shared refusal to accept any world that demands our disappearance in exchange for access.
Reflection Questions
Where have you witnessed carceral logic—punishment, control, surveillance, coercion, show up in spaces that claimed to be inclusive of neurodivergent people?
Have you ever been praised for complying, masking, or suppressing your neurodivergence in ways that felt harmful or unsustainable? What did it cost you?
How does behaviorism, especially in education or therapy, show up in your own experiences or in systems around you? What gets overlooked when we focus only on behavior?
In what ways do concepts like “professionalism,” “respectability,” or “good behavior” reproduce expectations rooted in whiteness, ableism, and neurotypical norms?
Who is most likely to be punished, excluded, or criminalized when they exhibit distress, dysregulation, or atypical behaviors? How do race, class, gender, and disability status impact these responses?
How do well-meaning institutions (schools, workplaces, community centers) reinforce carceral logics even while claiming to support neurodivergent people?
What does it look like to move from a culture of compliance to a culture of care? What shifts in power, design, and accountability are necessary?
When someone in your community is dysregulated, disruptive, or struggling, how can you show up in a way that centers relationship and dignity, not control or removal?
What might it look like to co-create environments where neurodivergent people do not have to perform compliance in order to be safe or supported?
How can we build a neurodiversity movement that does not replicate systems of harm even unintentionally? Who must be centered in that work?