From Resumes to Personal Narratives: When Identity Takes Center Stage on LinkedIn

Many users now describe themselves as “neurodivergent”

Dear Coddling Movie Community,

For Courtney and me, one of the great joys of making The Coddling movie has been collaborating with our friends, and co-producers on the movie,

Hector Herrera

and

Pazit Cahlon

.

Like us, they’re husband-and-wife producing team, and they’re responsible for the mind-bending animation showcased in The Coddling movie.

I’ve been hassling them to contribute to this Substack. Pazit buckled a while ago, and Hector finally follows suit today.

I’m sure you’ll enjoy his essay.

Ted

(L to R) Ted Balaker, Hector Herrera, Courtney Balaker, and Pazit Cahlon at the Beverly Hills premiere of “The Coddling” movie.

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I’ve noticed that in recent years, a therapeutic attitude has crept into spaces that were once resolutely professional. Where LinkedIn profiles once focused on skills, accomplishments, and career trajectories, they now frequently feature personal narratives, emotional disclosures, and identity labels. This shift is emblematic of a broader cultural phenomenon: the blurring of the boundary between the private self and the professional persona.

While some view this trend as a form of authenticity, it also reflects a deeper and more troubling development—the therapeutic worldview, which prioritizes vulnerability and personal struggle, is colonizing the workplace. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the increasing prevalence of “neurodivergent” as a self-descriptor on LinkedIn profiles.

It has become increasingly common to encounter acquaintances and colleagues on LinkedIn who describe themselves with the term “neurodivergent.”

This peculiar insertion into professional biographies—wedged between achievements and job titles—always gives me pause. There is something strikingly out of place about a label that is predominantly used in the therapeutic lexicon now paraded as a badge of identity on a platform ostensibly designed for networking and meritocratic evaluation. And yet, the phenomenon has spread with alarming speed, turning what ought to be a showcase of professional competence into a form of confessional theatre.

I cannot help but feel a twinge of discomfort when I see it.

What purpose does it serve? To declare oneself “neurodivergent” in such a public and professional space seems more performative than pragmatic. Are these individuals signalling that they possess a unique perspective they hope will intrigue potential collaborators? Or is this an attempt to preempt criticism, cloaking oneself in a shield of perceived vulnerability? Neither explanation is particularly satisfying, and both leave me unsettled.

When Identity Takes Center Stage

Coined in 1998 by the sociologist Judy Singer (who is herself autistic), the term “neurodivergent” was, until around 2010, confined to therapeutic and academic settings, where it served a purpose: to describe cognitive variations that might require understanding or intervention. Its migration to LinkedIn (and other professional portfolio sites), however, signals a profound cultural shift. Professional profiles are now expected to convey not just expertise but also personal struggles, as though one’s challenges were as relevant as one’s accomplishments.

This tendency seems to reflect a creeping therapeutic culture, the sort that Abigail Shrier has eloquently critiqued in her book Bad Therapy. Shrier’s argument is simple but devastating: therapy, once a tool for individual healing, has become a breeding ground for identity creation. People are encouraged to view themselves through the narrow lens of diagnosis, which they then project outward into the world. Similarly, Carl R. Trueman, in The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self, expands this critique into a broader cultural context, arguing that the modern obsession with “authenticity” has turned inner feelings and identities into the primary source of meaning and worth.

Consider, too, the staggering increase in the number of children and adolescents in therapy over the past three decades (a lot of them entering the workforce now). According to data from various studies, the percentage of young people engaging with mental health professionals has soared, partly driven by greater awareness but also by an expanded range (some might say concept creep) of diagnostic criteria. While therapy has its merits, this trend has contributed to a culture that normalizes seeing oneself through the lens of a diagnosis. For many, especially those raised in this therapeutic environment, the label becomes a primary identity—a way to distinguish oneself or claim social capital.

What Shrier and Trueman make clear is that this shift doesn’t necessarily empower individuals; instead, it locks them into narratives of fragility, perpetuating a sense of dependency on external validation.

When “neurodivergent” appears on a LinkedIn profile, it feels like the professional manifestation of this trend. What was once private has been rendered public, not in service of collaboration or achievement but as part of a cultural performance that prioritizes identity above merit.

Yet what strikes me most about this phenomenon is how profoundly unprofessional it feels. LinkedIn, as I understand it, is a space for showcasing what one does, not what one is. To see professionals foregrounding their neurodivergence is to see the erosion of a fundamental boundary: the one between personal identity and professional competence.

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The Fine Print of a Diagnostic Identity

It is not that I doubt the sincerity of these people. Indeed, I suspect many of them genuinely believe that this label enhances their profile, signalling creativity or resilience. But there is a burden that comes with wearing a label so prominently. As Jordan Peterson has often observed, the stories we tell about ourselves can either liberate or imprison us. To lead with “neurodivergent” risks making that identity the defining feature of one’s professional life, overshadowing every other aspect of one’s character or capability.

Peterson would argue, and rightly so, that such self-labelling often abdicates responsibility. By declaring one’s neurodivergence, one implicitly asks others to adjust their expectations or make allowances. This may feel like a small thing, but it carries significant implications for workplace culture. If every individual foregrounds their struggles or diagnoses, how can organizations maintain the shared standards and mutual accountability that professionalism requires?

Moreover, what does it say about the person’s confidence in their abilities? The best professionals I know are those who let their work speak for itself. They do not ask to be understood in advance; they ask to be judged on the merits of their contributions. To lead with a label like “neurodivergent” risks undermining that meritocracy, inviting others to view one’s work through the prism of diagnosis rather than achievement.

Pity Over Performance

I cannot help but think that this trend reflects a deeper cultural malaise: the fetishization of vulnerability. As Jonathan Haidt and Greg Lukianoff argued in The Coddling of the American Mind, we have entered an era where fragility is valorized, where the mere act of declaring one’s challenges is seen as courageous. While there is value in honesty, there is also danger in making vulnerability a spectacle.

When I see colleagues and acquaintances using the term “neurodivergent” on LinkedIn, I am reminded of The Coddling’s warning about the erosion of resilience and antifragility. By highlighting their struggles, these individuals may unwittingly weaken themselves. The workplace is not, after all, a therapeutic space. It is a place where individuals must navigate challenges, collaborate with others, and above all, deliver results. To declare one’s neurodivergence is to risk inviting pity or special treatment, neither of which is conducive to professional growth.

Is It Worth It?

Perhaps the most troubling aspect of this trend is its ultimate futility. What does declaring oneself neurodivergent on LinkedIn actually achieve? Does it make one more employable, more relatable, more admired? Or does it merely add to the noise of identity signalling that now clutters professional spaces?

I suspect it achieves little of substance. It may even backfire, causing potential employers or collaborators to view the individual as fragile or overly self-involved. And yet, the pressure and incentives to adopt such labels grow stronger, as though to remain silent about one’s struggles is to miss an opportunity for validation.

Let the Work Speak

If there is one lesson to draw from this phenomenon, it is the importance of restraint. The workplace is not the proper venue for therapeutic disclosures or identity proclamations. It is a realm where competence, collaboration, and results should reign supreme. To see colleagues use LinkedIn as a stage for their therapeutic woes is to witness the erosion of that principle—and it is a loss for all involved.

For those who are truly neurodivergent, the best response is not to declare it but to demonstrate it. Let your creativity, your perspective, and your work speak for itself. If neurodivergence brings unique strengths, those strengths will be evident without the need for a label.

The great tragedy of this trend is that it undermines the very people it seeks to empower. By prioritizing a label, individuals risk being seen as less than they are—less capable, less resilient, less professional. And in the end, the professional world will judge them not by their labels but by their achievements. Let us hope that those achievements are allowed to shine, unencumbered by the weight of unnecessary self-disclosure.