NeuroDivine

There’s a particular kind of courage in walking differently.

In Mark’s Gospel, the disciples trail behind Jesus, afraid and out of sync. He moves ahead with purpose; they hesitate, unsure. For those of us who experience the world through a different rhythm—who process slowly, deeply, and often alone—this scene feels familiar. Not because we lack faith, but because our way of being is quieter, less understood.

Psalm 15 offers a framework that resonates: live truthfully, do no harm, honour what is just. It’s not a checklist, but a way of inhabiting the world with integrity. Wisdom echoes this, reminding us that the just one may be misread, even rejected,, yet remains held i divine regard. There’s comfort in that—for those who’ve been overlooked, spoken over, or misunderstood simply for being different.

And then comes St Benedict in the Rule. Today’s reading from Chapter 7 speaks of humility not as self-erasure, but as a ladder—a structure, a rhythm, a way of rising through groundedness. The image of the weaned child, resting in trust, is not passive. It’s a deep attunement to safety, to presence, to being held without needing to perform.

For neurodivergent souls, this ladder is not climbed in the usual way. Our steps may be uneven, our ascent slower, our understanding shaped by pattern and texture rather than speed or clarity. But the Rule honours that. It names the body and soul as the sides of the ladder—both sacred, both necessary. And it reminds us that the climb is not about being like others, but about being faithful in our own way.

To walk behind is not to be lost. To move differently is not to be wrong. The ladder holds us, too. And the One who goes ahead also waits, gently, at our pace.