Mental Health Support for Queer and Neurodivergent People: Self-Compassion, Community, and Care in Uncertain Times
- Helen Dempsey-Henofer LCSW, ADHD-CCSP
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
In a world that often feels like it’s teetering on the edge—politically, economically, environmentally—it’s hard to know how to keep showing up. For queer and neurodivergent folks, that feeling can get amplified. It’s not just the instability of “the world out there”; it’s also the personal experience of being seen as inconvenient, disruptive, or expendable. And yet, even in the midst of this uncertainty, people are finding ways to care for themselves and each other. That care isn’t always pretty or polished. Sometimes it looks like lying on the floor in a pile of laundry texting a friend, “Do you have the spoons to talk?” Sometimes it looks like building systems of support from scratch because the ones that exist weren’t made for us.
This post isn’t a guide to “staying positive.” It’s an invitation to recognize that care—real, grounded, sustainable care—is a form of resistance.
Self-Compassion Isn’t a Cop-Out: A Mental Health Practice That Matters
There’s a lie we’ve been sold, over and over again: that you have to fix yourself before you deserve kindness. For queer and neurodivergent people, this often comes wrapped in layers of shame. Internalized ableism says we’re lazy or failing if we need rest. Cultural narratives about queerness still treat us like we’re “too sensitive,” “dramatic,” or “looking for attention.”
Self-compassion interrupts those stories. It’s not about letting yourself off the hook—it’s about refusing to beat yourself up for being human. Or for being wired in a way that doesn’t match neurotypical, cis-heteronormative expectations. It asks: what would it mean to be on your own side?
Practicing self-compassion can be messy. You might still cringe at your own mistakes. You might still struggle with unmet goals. But learning to soften your inner voice—especially in the midst of grief, rage, or fatigue—is radical. It says, you’re allowed to be here as you are.
Try This: One-Minute Self-Compassion Practice
When you’re in a moment of self-blame or shame, pause. Put your hand over your heart, or anywhere that feels grounding. Say to yourself:
This is a moment of struggle.
I’m not alone—others feel this way too.
Can I offer myself some kindness right now?
You don’t need to feel it right away. You’re just inviting it in.
Accessible Self-Care for Neurodivergent and Queer People
It’s hard to talk about self-care without conjuring up the image of a sponsored Instagram post. A face mask. A pricey journal. A $25 candle that smells like nothing in nature. And while there’s nothing wrong with any of those things, they don’t tell the whole story—especially for people whose lives don’t fit neatly into the curated aesthetic of the “wellness” industry.
Real self-care is deeply personal. It’s pragmatic. It’s often unsexy. It might mean creating a spreadsheet because your brain needs external scaffolding. It might mean canceling plans without shame. It might mean eating the same easy meal three nights in a row because you’re tired and that’s okay.
For those navigating sensory sensitivities, executive function challenges, or marginalization from traditional care systems, self-care might look like building in recovery time after errands. It might look like watching the same familiar show on loop because novelty is too much right now. It might be asking your friend to remind you to drink water.
None of that is a failure. It’s care that’s actually accessible.
Mutual Aid for Mental Health: Building Queer and Neurodivergent Community
Mutual aid is a concept that’s been around for generations—queer and disabled communities have always relied on each other when institutions refused to show up. Unlike charity, mutual aid isn’t based on pity or hierarchy. It’s rooted in solidarity. It says: we all have needs, and we all have something to give.
That giving doesn’t have to be grand. It can be letting someone use your Netflix password. Driving a friend to an appointment. Helping someone navigate a bureaucratic nightmare of paperwork. It can be checking in on someone who’s been quiet online, or organizing a community meal, or sharing your coping toolkit with someone newly diagnosed.
For many queer and neurodivergent people, mutual aid is how we learned to survive. It’s the late-night message boards. The group chats. The patchwork systems of care we stitched together when nothing else fit.
This isn’t just logistics. It’s love, in action.
Take One Step Toward Mutual Aid:
Search “[your town or region] mutual aid” and see what groups come up. Most have social media pages or websites. Follow one. If you can, share their posts or sign up to receive updates. If you’re in need, check if they have a request form. If you have capacity, see if they’re looking for help (rides, supplies, admin tasks, whatever matches your bandwidth).
No gatekeeping. No prerequisites. Just people helping people.
How to Build Community Support Without Burning Out
The idea of “chosen family” gets tossed around a lot in queer spaces—and for good reason. Many of us have had to build our own networks of belonging. But not everyone has that core group of people who feels like home. And in times of burnout, trauma, or survival mode, even chosen family can feel far away.
That’s why it’s important to name all the ways community exists—sometimes quietly, sometimes briefly, sometimes imperfectly. The library staff who greet you like you belong. The mutuals who like your posts even when you’re not saying anything profound. The friend-of-a-friend who shares a resource that ends up changing your week.
Community doesn’t have to be intense to be real. Sometimes, it’s just the relief of not having to explain yourself.
And yes, building and maintaining relationships takes effort—an often uneven effort, especially when mental health, trauma, or disability are involved. But there’s no shame in starting where you are. Text one person. Reply to one message. Wave to one neighbor. Let it be enough.
The Power of Care in Hard Times: A Radical Mental Health Approach
In precarious times, care is often treated like an afterthought. But what if it’s the foundation?
Self-compassion, self-care, mutual aid, and community connection aren’t luxuries. They are tools for survival. And more than that, they are strategies for reclaiming dignity in systems designed to devalue us.
To care—for yourself, for others—is a political act. Not performative optimism, but honest, grounded care. The kind that says: we deserve better, and we’re not waiting for permission to start building it.
And if that care looks a little weird, a little unconventional, a little neurodivergent or queer or messy? Even better. That’s how we know it’s real.
Helen Dempsey-Henofer, LCSW, ADHD-CCSP, is the founder of Divergent Path Wellness—a Charlottesville-based therapy practice offering care that’s queer-affirming, neurodivergent-informed, and radically human.
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