Neurodiversity in the Criminal Justice System: An Overlooked Crisis

The Numbers Tell a Stark Story

Let’s start with the data, because it’s undeniable. An estimated 20-30% of prisoners have learning difficulties. That’s not a small percentage. In the general population, learning difficulties affect a much smaller proportion, yet prisons are disproportionately filled with neurodivergent individuals.

ADHD is estimated to affect 25-30% of people in prison, compared to just 3-5% in the general population. Think about that for a moment. We’re talking about a five to ten times higher prevalence. Autism is significantly underdiagnosed in prison populations, which means the true figures are almost certainly higher than what’s currently recorded.

Then there’s the mental health data. Within our prisons, 45% of people experience anxiety or depression. Sixty percent have experienced traumatic brain injury at some point in their lives. These aren’t statistics pulled from thin air—they’re the lived reality of thousands of people, many of whom entered the system without ever receiving a neurodiversity diagnosis or any support to manage their conditions.

What I Didn’t Understand When I Was Inside

When you’re neurodivergent and imprisoned, everything moves differently. Prison is built on a foundation of rules, routine, and compliance. For many neurotypical people, following instructions is relatively straightforward. For someone with ADHD, executive dysfunction means that even when you understand the rules and genuinely want to follow them, your brain struggles to translate intention into action. For someone with autism, sensory overload in a crowded prison wing, combined with communication differences, can be misinterpreted as rudeness or non-compliance.

I didn’t always have language for this. I didn’t understand why I’d agree to something and then struggle to execute it, why I felt overwhelmed by the noise and movement, why I missed social cues that seemed obvious to everyone else. What I did understand was that I was frequently in trouble. And I wasn’t alone. Many of the people I met inside had similar experiences—behaviour flagged as problematic when it was actually a manifestation of how their neurodivergent brains were responding to an incredibly challenging environment.

The problem is that prison staff often aren’t trained to recognise these differences. A person with ADHD who forgets an instruction isn’t being deliberately insubordinate; they’re struggling with working memory. A person with autism who finds eye contact distressing isn’t being disrespectful; they’re managing sensory needs. But when these behaviours aren’t understood, they lead to sanctions, loss of privileges, and further harm.

The Machinery of Change Is Finally Moving

I’ve chosen to channel my experience into advocacy through Inside Out Justice, my prison reform initiative. And I have to say, there are genuine signs of progress happening right now in the UK prison system. These aren’t revolutionary changes—not yet—but they’re in the right direction.

In October 2025, the UK prison service implemented an Additional Learning Needs tool across the estate. This tool is designed to identify prisoners who have learning needs and ensure they receive appropriate support. For the first time, there’s a systematic way to flag and track neurodivergent individuals in the system.

There’s more. Neurodiversity Support Managers have been rolled out across UK prisons. These are individuals specifically trained to understand neurodivergence and to help prisoners navigate the system with their particular needs in mind. They’re a lifeline—someone in the prison who actually gets it, who understands that neurodivergence isn’t a character flaw or a choice.

Then, in January 2026, just this month, the Cross-Government Neurodiversity Action Plan reached its final update. This is significant because it shows that neurodiversity has moved from a niche concern to something that government departments are actively considering and coordinating around. The fact that prison and justice departments are part of these conversations is overdue but essential.

The Equality Act Exists. The System Needs to Live Up to It

Here’s something that often gets overlooked: the Equality Act 2010 already requires that reasonable adjustments are made for disabled people, including those with neurodivergent conditions. In theory, prisons should be providing these adjustments. In practice, many don’t, or they do so inconsistently and often reluctantly.

What might reasonable adjustments look like in a prison setting? It could be housing arrangements that account for sensory sensitivities. It could be clear, written communication rather than relying solely on verbal instructions. It could be more time for someone to process and respond. It could be occupational therapies or activities that support executive functioning. It could be pain medication management for those whose trauma has manifested in chronic pain. It could be access to quieter spaces.

None of these are unreasonable. None of them would break the system. But they require staff who are trained to recognise neurodiversity and motivated to provide support rather than punishment. The new Neurodiversity Support Managers are a step toward this, but we need more. We need this to become embedded in how every prison operates, not an optional add-on.

Why Communication Differences Matter in Confinement

One of the most damaging aspects of being neurodivergent in prison is how easily communication differences get misinterpreted as defiance. I experienced this myself. When someone with autism struggles to make eye contact, doesn’t pick up on social hierarchies quickly, or needs time to process what’s being asked of them, staff can perceive this as disrespect or non-compliance. The consequence is often punishment—loss of association, segregation, loss of privileges.

Similarly, someone with ADHD might interrupt others or struggle with turn-taking in conversations. This isn’t intentional rudeness; it’s how their brain’s executive function works. But in prison, where clear hierarchy and respect are paramount, these communication styles are treated as infractions.

The irony is brutal: the people in our prisons with neurodivergence often have the hardest time conforming to the rigid behavioural expectations, not because they don’t want to, but because their brains work differently. And instead of accommodating that difference, the system typically punishes it further. This creates a cycle of escalating sanction and harm that makes it harder for people to rehabilitate and reintegrate when they’re released.

Training prison staff on neurodiversity communication styles isn’t soft; it’s practical. It means understanding that someone might need written confirmation of an instruction, or that a direct approach without social preamble works better, or that someone needs advance warning of changes to routine. These adjustments reduce conflict and improve outcomes.

Trauma, Neurodiversity, and the Prison Environment

There’s another layer to this that’s crucial to understand: many people in prison have experienced significant trauma, and 60% have had traumatic brain injuries. Neurodivergence and trauma often coexist, and the prison environment—which is inherently traumatic—can compound both.

Complex PTSD, which I have, affects how the nervous system responds to stress. It can manifest as hypervigilance, emotional dysregulation, intrusive memories, and difficulty trusting authority. Put someone with complex PTSD into a prison, where they’re stripped of autonomy, confined, and surrounded by threat, and you’re essentially recreating and reinforcing the trauma responses.

For people with both neurodivergence and trauma history—and there’s significant overlap—prison becomes even more hazardous. The sensory overload, the lack of autonomy, the unpredictability masked by rigid rules, the constant low-level threat, the difficulty connecting with staff and other prisoners due to communication differences—it’s a perfect storm.

Support for this population needs to address both aspects. It’s not enough to identify that someone has ADHD. We also need to understand their trauma history and tailor support accordingly. The additional learning needs tool is a starting point, but it needs to expand to capture this fuller picture.

What Real Acceptance Would Look Like

When I talk about reform, I’m not talking about going soft on crime or removing consequences. I’m talking about a system that recognises neurodivergent people as human beings with different cognitive styles, not character defects.

Acceptance would mean that when someone with ADHD misses an appointment, the first response isn’t punishment but problem-solving: does this person need a reminder system? Should they be housed closer to the facility? Do they need time built in to process the instruction? Acceptance would mean that autism isn’t treated as difficult or obstinate; it’s understood as a different way of experiencing the world.

Acceptance would mean that the Neurodiversity Support Managers aren’t isolated figures doing their best against resistance, but are genuinely integrated into the culture of their establishments. It would mean that staff training on neurodiversity isn’t once-yearly tick-box training but ongoing, embedded, applied.

Acceptance would mean that reasonable adjustments aren’t granted grudgingly after a battle, but are offered proactively once neurodivergence is identified. It would mean that segregation—that most damaging practice—isn’t used as a standard response to behaviour that stems from neurodivergence. It would mean acknowledging that for some people, the traditional prison regime simply doesn’t work and we need genuinely alternative approaches.

Acceptance, most of all, would mean seeing neurodivergence as something that doesn’t prevent rehabilitation—it means approaching rehabilitation differently.

The Road Ahead

The reforms of the past few months—the Additional Learning Needs tool, the Neurodiversity Support Managers, the updated Government Action Plan—are not small things. They represent a shift in how the system is beginning to acknowledge neurodiversity. But they’re a beginning, not an ending.

There’s much more to do. We need:

Better screening and diagnosis in prisons. Too many people are never identified. If 25-30% of prisoners have ADHD but many go undiagnosed, we’re missing the opportunity to provide early support.

Staff training that goes beyond awareness to real competency. Prison officers need to be skilled, not just informed. They need tools to de-escalate situations that might otherwise turn into confrontations based on misunderstood communication.

Housing and regime flexibility. Some neurodivergent prisoners will thrive in standard environments with good support; others will need regimes that account for sensory sensitivities or executive functioning challenges.

Mental health services that understand trauma and neurodiversity together. Too often, these are treated as separate issues by separate departments.

Employment and education support tailored for neurodivergent learners. If 20-30% of prisoners have learning difficulties, education programmes need to be designed with that in mind.

Communication with families. Relatives often don’t understand why their loved one is struggling in prison, and prisons don’t always communicate the specific support needs. Better dialogue helps reintegration.

Research and monitoring. We need better data on outcomes for neurodivergent prisoners, both during imprisonment and after release. Are they reoffending at higher rates? Why? What interventions make a difference?

This is why I’m committed to Inside Out Justice. I’ve lived both sides of this story, and I know that change is possible. The machinery is starting to move. We just need to keep pushing.

A Personal Reflection

I want to be clear about something: being neurodivergent didn’t make me more likely to be imprisoned. My life choices and circumstances did. But once I was in the system, being neurodivergent made everything harder. It made compliance more difficult, it made mental health more fragile, it made relationships with staff more strained, it made rehabilitation slower.

Now that I’m out, now that I have support and community and understanding, now that I can see my neurodivergence as part of who I am rather than a flaw, things are different. I can work with how my brain functions rather than constantly fighting it. I have people around me who understand. I have strategies and support.

Every person in our prisons deserves the opportunity to have that kind of support, that kind of understanding, while they’re still inside. Not because they deserve less consequence for their actions, but because they deserve the chance to actually rehabilitate, to change, to become something different when they leave.

The statistics tell us who’s in our prisons. The recent reforms tell us the system is beginning to pay attention. Now we need to ensure that attention translates into real, lived change for the thousands of neurodivergent people in custody right now. That’s the work of Inside Out Justice. That’s the work I’m committed to. And I genuinely believe that when we get this right, everyone benefits—prisoners, staff, and communities.

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