As a neurodivergent student and practitioner, Dabbi Taylor used to think masking and hiding were just a ‘normal’ part of life. Then he discovered the concept of psychological safety and what it feels like to finally belong. This is his story of learning and speaking up. And why small acts of inclusion can change the way we all work and learn.
My name is Dagbjartur (Dabbi) Taylor. As a neurodivergent practitioner, I’m interested in psychological safety, participation and building more inclusive team environments, and I was recently invited to share my reflections on neuroinclusive practice with the Health and Care Professions Council (HCPC).
The concept of ‘psychological safety’ was one of those abstract terms that only became clear to me once I realised I had been living without it for much of my life.
I first encountered the term during a placement, where its absence was impossible to ignore. I’d felt that absence many times before and had even come to recognise it as a ‘normal’ state of being – knowing something was deeply wrong, but being unable to articulate it. This time, however, I could.
Each day going into that placement, I felt anxious, consciously choosing the masks I needed to manage the environment, and returning home mentally exhausted. For me, that has been the greatest gift of education; the ability to notice, understand and name these experiences – the gift of language.
As a neurodivergent individual – diagnosed with Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) – going to university to become an occupational therapist was a monumental task. If my prior experiences of education were any indicator of likelihood of success, then this venture was sure to fail – and fast.
But as we learn in our theory, the environment is as crucial to success as your capacity for occupational performance. At this point in my life, I had the loving support of my wife and equally importantly, a university that recognised the impact neurodiversity has on performance. The difference was that I felt not only accepted, but actively encouraged to be my full self. Because of this, I thrived.
We don’t need to have all the answers for creating inclusive spaces, we just need to be brave enough to ask the people who live in them. I felt safe in sharing my experiences with HCPC Council, because I shared with them my diagnosis and in return they asked, ‘How can we change?’”
Don’t get me wrong, university was hard. But I belonged, and for the first time in my life I experienced how meaningful the work itself becomes (the doing) when you belong. And, true to my ADHD, I capitalised on it and went all in, grabbing every opportunity that presented itself to me.
Through my experiences at university – where I received the Incorporation of Barbers Prize for Best Overall Achievement – and on an external leadership course run by the Council of Deans of Health, I had the opportunity to become the student representative on the HCPC Education and Training Committee.
In this role, I take an active part in committee discussions, contributing a student voice to decisions that shape education and training for the HCPC-regulated professions.
Through this role I was invited to close a public session, held on 17 July, with a reflection on my experiences with the Education and Training Committee and how, as an organisation, HCPC could become more ‘neuroinclusive’.
This was a moment that brought my personal, student and professional experiences together in a very high-stakes public space. It was profoundly significant for me, because I knew I could not – and would not – do it, unless I was able to bring my full, authentic and unapologetic self.
This is because once I truly understood the language of my experiences – the masking, the hiding, the appeasing – I felt I could no longer consent to it. Instead, I felt authenticity becoming the prerequisite for operating.
So of course, I started my HCPC reflection by pointing out the paradox in the room, which was more akin to a United Nations summit than a public regulatory meeting. I noted the contrary nature of what I was being asked to do, which was to be vulnerable in a space that normally does not invite it.
Of course, that was the very point of my invitation, but it’s not always clear to those who ask, what they are indeed asking.
Christine Elliot, HCPC Chair of Council, then very genuinely and sincerely asked what HCPC could do to make it more inviting. In other words, what adaptations could it make so the space felt safer?
In response, I immediately started waving my hands in a dance and told the council members and the audience that we could all stand up and do a little dance. While this moment of pure, unfiltered, ADHD didn’t spark the musical number I had envisioned, the reaction – a moment of sheer bewilderment followed by a wave of laughter – instantly made the room feel lighter and safer.
Of course, the goal was never to start a musical number in a council meeting. Instead, it was an attempt to answer the Chair’s sincere question, ‘What can we do?’, with an equally sincere action.
As occupational therapists, we are experts in adapting the built environment, because an inaccessible space sends a clear and psychologically unsafe message; ‘You were not considered’.
But what I think is often less visible is the social environment; the feeling of being truly seen, heard and accepted by the people that inhabit it.
For individuals like me, who may not have visible physical disabilities, but whose neurodivergence affects how we operate within and engage with the world, that acceptance is everything.
So, my conclusion is that the laughter in that room began not with my dance, but with the Chair’s question. In asking ‘What can we do?’, she modelled the very foundation of psychological safety; a genuine, humble curiosity and a willingness to cede expert status.
This is our starting point. We don’t need to have all the answers for creating inclusive spaces, we just need to be brave enough to ask the people who live in them. I felt safe in sharing my experiences with HCPC Council, because I shared with them my diagnosis and in return they asked, ‘How can we change?’
In practical reality, the language of psychological safety isn’t really spoken in words, but demonstrated in actions. It is found in the shared responsibility we take for each other’s wellbeing and manifested in the small, but often hugely impactful, gestures we make for one another.
A recent real-world example of this was when I was applying for my first Band 5 occupational therapy post. I completed two interviews, and as I have auditory processing delay, it takes me longer than average to process what is being asked before I can formulate a response.
For the first interview, I received no adjustments. The anxiety of trying to process the questions while simultaneously filling the silence caused by my processing delay – just to avoid appearing incompetent – was overwhelming, to the point that I lost my sense of self and could not demonstrate my true capabilities. In short, I bombed the interview.
For the second interview, my interviewer noted my diagnosis and to accommodate it, all applicants for that post were offered one simple, thoughtful adaptation – the chance to see the questions beforehand.
The difference was profound. I was able to use the time in the interview actually answering the questions instead of processing them, and I was offered the job the same day – all because I got a reasonable adjustment that negated the potential effects of my auditory delay.
I felt safe and was able to demonstrate my actual knowledge and abilities; as it wasn’t my capacity that had changed between the two interviews, but the environment. That small gesture was the language of psychological safety in action.
What struck me the most, though, was the very fact that I was invited to speak to the HCPC Council on this topic in the first place. To me, it signals that the topics of neurodiversity and inclusive spaces are moving higher up the agenda, and that we, as occupational therapists, and the wider allied health professions should capitalise on this momentum.
Our profession’s expertise in understanding the relationship between the person, environment and occupation puts us in a strong position to influence how these concepts are embedded in education, regulation and practice.
Opportunities like this do not come often, and when they do, we should be ready to step forward with evidence, lived experience, and practical strategies that can make a tangible difference to the narrative.
I hope to continue exploring these ideas further and connecting with others who are also working to create more psychologically safe, inclusive spaces within our professions.
Words DAGBJARTUR (DABBI) TAYLOR, Band 5 Occupational Therapist, Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS), Glasgow. If you would like to connect with the author and continue the conversation email
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