Imagine going to work—and your nervous system exhales. Not because you’re forcing yourself to hold it together, but because this place was genuinely designed for you. Not as a neurotypical norm with a colorful diversity sticker attached, but as a space where your way of thinking, feeling, and working is taken seriously.
The day begins without pressure. No shrill alarm clock, no morning traffic jam in your head. You arrive—whether at home in your home office or at a place that welcomes you exactly as you are. There is no rigid 9-to-5 corset, but a flexible working-time model that allows you to start in your own rhythm. Maybe you need time in the morning to arrive in the day. Maybe you prefer starting early so you can build in a quiet retreat moment at midday. All of this is anticipated—not as an exception, but as normality.
In the work environment itself, you encounter an architecture of diversity. Spaces are designed differently: there are areas with dimmed lighting where people can work in a focused, low-stimulation way. Alongside them are communicative zones with clear structures, where exchange takes place—but always voluntarily. Those who need stimulation can retreat into an actively designed space. Those who need to avoid stimulation are not looked at sideways for wearing headphones or needing more frequent breaks.
The tasks awaiting you are clearly defined. Instead of vague instructions and spontaneous task-hopping tactics, there are transparent communication channels, well-structured briefings, and an understanding that not every input immediately produces output. Meetings are structured and well prepared—and no one expects you to turn on your camera or endure hours of conversation if you process information better in writing. Different communication styles exist, and they are not only accepted, but consciously planned for.
What may seem almost banal in this imagined world is, unfortunately, often the exception in reality: you’re not viewed with suspicion if you organize yourself differently. You don’t have to explain or justify your difference. Instead, colleagues meet you with a simple but powerful attitude: “How can we shape this space together so that you feel comfortable?” There is a culture of asking, not demanding.
You’re not working against yourself—but with yourself. You plan your days at your own pace. You’re allowed to be creative, to withdraw, to ask for help, to take on responsibility, to take breaks, to set up focus phases. And above all: you’re allowed to be honest about what you need. Masking is not expected. Silence is not mistaken for disinterest. Sensory overload is not a sign of weakness.
At the end of the day, you may be tired—but not because you’ve spent the entire day pretending. Rather because you’ve accomplished something, in your own way, at your own pace. Without inner resistance, without constant tension. Perhaps you leave your workplace with the feeling that you didn’t just function—but truly made an impact.
This vision is not a utopia. It begins where people are willing to listen. It begins with conversations, with experiments, with a culture that allows mistakes. And it begins with us—with the courage to take ourselves seriously and to design new spaces.
These guided imaginations are more than just thought experiments. They’re meant to show what everyday life could look like if it were truly neuro-friendly—not as a special accommodation, but as a fundamental attitude. It’s not about perfection or quick fixes, but about new perspectives. About consciously asking: What would this place feel like if it didn’t overwhelm me, but supported me instead? Each of these texts invites continued dreaming—but also small steps toward action. In the next parts of this series, we’ll visit other areas of life that deeply shape many of us: school, relationships, home, perhaps even the healthcare system. And maybe, over time, something very real will grow out of these inner spaces.