Neurodivergence in an Asian Schooling Context: A Personal Reflection

Written by: Jasmine K. Y. Loo

For many neurodivergent individuals (NDs), education isn’t just about learning – it’s about surviving an environment that was never designed with us in mind. When you add cultural expectations and systemic rigidity to the mix, the experience can feel doubly alienating.

I was raised and educated in Asia (Malaysia, specifically), where rote learning wasn’t just common – it was the foundation of the entire system. By the time we were in the upper years of high school, we had twelve subjects. Each came with two to three major exams every term, multiplied across four terms a year. Homework was relentless. We were constantly snowed under.

In some ways, my neurodivergent profile was suited to this structure. I needed a lot of repetition before I could grasp or master new learning, and rote learning delivered that in abundance. But for many of my peers – especially those who now seem obviously neurodivergent in hindsight – rote learning was their kryptonite. It crushed curiosity, dulled creativity, and made it almost impossible to stay engaged. I often wonder how many of them carried a quiet sense of failure, not realising that the system itself had failed them.

Rules were another defining feature. My school issued us a thick rule book that we were expected to memorise – and were tested on. Rule-following was so heavily enforced that even for a natural rule-follower like me, it became stifling. Questioning the rules wasn’t just discouraged; it was considered insubordination. The idea of critical thinking didn’t exist. Teachers were treated as absolute authorities. Whatever they said was to be accepted without challenge.

As I got older, this became harder and harder to tolerate. I began to push back, internally at first, then in small visible ways. When I eventually moved to Australia for university, it honestly felt like taking off a tight bra after a long day. The freedom of thought was disorienting, but exhilarating. The first time I heard the words "critical thinking" in a lecture, my eyes lit up. I began questioning everything. I fired questions at my tutors, sometimes to their delight, other times to their discomfort. Not that I noticed at the time – I was too busy revelling in a system that finally allowed me to think.

Perhaps the most challenging part of my schooling experience was the complete lack of accommodations. That wasn’t a word that existed (no kidding). There was no concept of supporting different learning needs. We were expected to succeed on the system’s terms, no matter what. If we couldn’t, the failure was seen as ours alone. Well, ours and our parents’. This pressure often pushed students to extremes. There was no room for rest, nuance or divergence.

As an unidentified neurodivergent child, the sensory overload was relentless. I remember crying throughout my entire school days when I was very young – not because of sadness, but because the sensory pain was too much. The overhead neon lights flickered and buzzed constantly. The classrooms were packed (40 students in neat rows of desks) and noisy. The tropical heat made everything worse. I had splitting headaches every single day. I assumed that was just part of who I was – until I left. When I moved out of that environment, the headaches stopped. My nervous system could finally breathe.

Socially, I struggled even more than I did with academics. My head teacher in high school often told me that I was a square in a world of circles, and that I had to learn how to be a circle. Not fitting in is never pleasant in any culture or context, but the unpleasantness in a collectivist society takes on a different flavour – where conformity is not just expected but often tied to family honour and group harmony. Not fitting in becomes another failure to be added to one’s track records. I never learned how to be a circle, but I came to realise that my head teacher was wrong. I'm not a square, nor a circle.

I'm a triangle.

Neurodivergence and culture intersect in complex, often invisible ways. In my case, growing up in an education system that prioritised uniformity over individuality meant that I didn’t just struggle academically or socially – I struggled to understand myself. I never felt like I belonged, but I didn’t have the language to explain why. Now, with the insight that comes from late identification, I can look back and make sense of it. I can recognise that I wasn’t broken. I was in an environment that didn’t make room for difference.

That’s why, at NAPAA, we believe lived experience matters. It helps us understand the hidden toll of exclusionary systems. It gives shape to the ways neurodivergence can be overlooked, dismissed or punished under the guise of tradition or discipline. And it reminds us that building a neuroaffirming world starts with seeing people not as problems to be fixed, but as individuals to be understood.

For anyone else who grew up in a similar system – I see you. Your exhaustion made sense. Your questions were valid. And your pain wasn’t weakness. It was wisdom, trying to speak through the noise.

*ND-me says we don’t need this disclaimer, but here we go anyway:

This piece is written based on my personal experience, and is not representative of the general Asian neurodivergent population.