A lovely training story by Guy

She had spent her career seeing patients.

That afternoon, for perhaps the first time, someone saw her.

Standing at the side of the training room, as my co-trainer, Sofia, shared her lived experience as a neurodivergent woman, I noticed the delegate – we'll call her Jane – struggling to hold something in.

She appeared increasingly uncomfortable as Sofia continued to reveal insights and experiences of navigating through life as an AuDHDer.

Perhaps it's the years of working with groups of people that helped me spot Jane amongst the 40 other NHS clinical staff, sat together in a decommissioned emergency ward, now used for the Oliver McGowan Mandatory Training.

As Sofia finished sharing, everyone got up and moved into their discussion groups, reflecting on a question we'd asked about sensory processing differences for neurodivergent people.

I wandered over to Jane's group and casually stood in the space next to her and discreetly asked if she was ok?

She instantly dissolved on the spot.

Instinctively, I gently invited her to step into one of the quiet rooms we have for such moments.

"Even though she's 20 years younger than me, everything she's said this afternoon has described me and my life.

Sometimes, it was as if I was hearing myself stood talking to everyone," she said between wracking sobs.

What struck me, sitting with her, was that Jane was no newcomer to healthcare. She was an experienced clinician – someone who spent her professional life seeing others.

And yet, here, for perhaps the first time, she was being seen herself.

As she gradually calmed, I asked whether it would be helpful for her to chat one-to-one with Sofia if they were both comfortable. She smiled and nodded, so, without hesitation, I headed out to find Sofia.

This is precisely what it means to have people with lived experience in the room – not just to inform, but to meet someone in a moment no amount of clinical knowledge could have reached.

As I was bringing the session to its close, I saw Sofia and Jane quietly come into the back of the room, looking relaxed, though the true impact of that conversation came later.

Jane made it back to see me as I was leaving the hospital, embracing me and sharing what talking with Sofia had meant to her.

Meanwhile, Sofia messaged me later to say this:

"I'm glad I could be there for Jane today in that moment. I know how emotional and overwhelming it feels in that stage when your whole life suddenly starts making sense.

Your entire perception of yourself and the world seems to change so suddenly and drastically.

Whilst a relief, it's also a shock."


Neurodiversity doesn't wait politely in designated spaces.

It sits in training rooms, in consulting rooms, in the people caring for others – often unrecognised, sometimes for decades.

What happened that afternoon was not an exception.

It was a reminder of what becomes possible when we create the conditions for people to finally be seen.