OFF SCRIPT: The Blue Light Blur #17

Why change hits neurodivergent brains harder

When the change is right, but still heavy

This is where the series moves slightly. Up to this point, much of The Blue Light Blur has been about leaving policing, separating from the uniform, and understanding what happens when an identity begins to loosen. But there is another layer beneath that transition, and for me it cannot be separated from neurodivergence.

Policing was, in many ways, a strong fit for a neurodivergent mind. I say that from my own AuDHD perspective, but also from meeting many officers and staff across the wider neurodivergent landscape. The structure, the rules, the clarity of purpose, the urgency, the problem-solving, the need to absorb information quickly and act under pressure. All of that can appeal deeply to a brain that thrives on pattern, intensity and meaning.

That is part of what made leaving so complicated.

It was not simply a case of changing jobs. It was leaving a world that had shaped the mask I wore, the identity I carried, and the structure I had built around myself for twenty years.

The fear of being nothing without it

For years, I had constructed a version of myself that worked inside policing. It was not entirely false, but it was carefully managed. The uniform, rank, role, lanyard and collar number all became part of the external scaffolding that held that identity together.

The idea of leaving that behind was terrifying.

I think that fear was one of the reasons I endured the toxicity and bullying of the final years longer than I probably should have. It was not just about loyalty or stubbornness. It was also justice sensitivity, that deep need to challenge what felt wrong, unfair or misaligned. I felt I had to fight the system because I could see the narcissism, the bullying and the harm it was causing.

But there was another truth sitting underneath that.

I was scared I would be nothing without the role.

Would another world find the speed of my brain useful? Would anyone accept me if I was openly neurodivergent from the beginning? Were they right when they said the grass was not always greener? Were my skills actually transferable, or had I simply become very good at operating inside one very specific world?

All those questions sat there. Not once. Constantly.

When leaving becomes a hyperfocus

When I eventually made the decision to start looking outside policing, the process became a hyperfocus.

I say that very deliberately, because hyperfocus is one of the six pillars I wrote about in NeuroEdge, my neurodivergent-focused book written while I was still serving. Once the idea of leaving became possible, the search for opportunities began to consume my attention.

But possibility is not the same as commitment. For a long time, I played at leaving. I submitted applications, revised CVs, searched for roles and imagined alternatives, but I was still anchored by fear. I sent well over a hundred applications, often creating a different version of my CV each time, but there was no real focus behind the effort. I was applying because I wanted out, not because I had properly accepted where I wanted to go.

That distinction matters.

At one point, I even started planning around taking a £10,000 pay cut because I had convinced myself that leaving policing meant accepting less. Less money. Less value. Less certainty.

Looking back, I can see how much I was underselling myself. I had not yet accepted my own worth outside the uniform.

Choosing direction instead of escape

In the summer of 2025, my wife told me something I needed to hear. If I was serious about leaving, I had to stop playing at it and commit properly. Not apply for anything out of desperation. Not scatter my effort across roles that did not fit. Actually focus.

She was right (but don't say that too loud in case she hears and never lets me forget it!!!)

I had reached interviews for roles I was not even sure I wanted. In some cases, if I am honest, I almost hoped I would not get them. I wanted out, but I had not yet found the direction that made leaving feel like movement rather than escape.

When I became more focused, everything shifted.

Instead of applying everywhere, I chose one opportunity and committed properly to it. I studied the role, understood the environment, positioned my experience carefully, and stopped apologising for what I brought with me.

That was the job I got.

And I have not looked back.

Transition, not replacement

Even after the decision had been made, I knew I could not treat it as a simple chapter ending. That might be how I had handled previous role changes, but this was different. This was not moving from one department to another. This was leaving an identity that had been reinforced for my entire adult life.

I had to treat it as a transition. I had to ease out of Police Inspector, Chief Firearms Instructor, collar number 3071, and become Gav again. Not the old Gav from before policing, because that person no longer existed, but a more integrated version of who I had become.

Even now, the number still lingers. My private Instagram still uses my collar number. Part of me wonders whether it will one day be reissued, or whether it will simply disappear into the administrative churn of the organisation. That number mattered because it represented a version of me that existed for a long time.

But it is no longer the centre.

Owning the mask

As I made the transition, I made a simple covenant with myself.

I had spent time mentoring people and talking about the importance of owning your masks, rather than allowing the masks to own you. This time, I needed to take my own advice.

I knew I would still perform at times. Everyone does. We all adapt ourselves to different rooms, roles and responsibilities. But I made a commitment that the version of me walking into my new workplace would not be built on the old foundations of behave, conform and bury.

It would be more honest than that.

More open.

More me.

That does not mean it was easy. Being AuDHD can feel like the strangest combination of needs. One part of my brain wants certainty, structure and closure. Another craves novelty, movement and challenge. Routine and chaos sit side by side, constantly negotiating with each other.

During the transition, both parts were loud.

The autistic part of me wanted to know the rules, the expectations, the hierarchy, the unwritten language of the new world. The ADHD part wanted momentum, stimulation and change. Somehow, between them, I found enough balance to keep moving.

When fear is used as a stick

People are quick to warn neurodivergent minds about danger.

Leaving will be hard. Change will be risky. You are vulnerable. You may not cope.

There may be truth in parts of that, but truth can still be used badly. A supportive environment helps someone move through risk with care. An unsupportive one uses risk as a stick to keep them where they are.

That distinction matters.

I did not need people to tell me change would be difficult. I already knew that. What I needed was the chance to explore whether the difficulty was worth it, and whether the life on the other side might fit me better than the one I had outgrown.

Testing the new world

To arrive in my new role as Gav, I had to accept that I was good enough. That remains hard for me.

Self-doubt has followed me for most of my life, and there have been times when that doubt was preyed upon. Even now, I still catch myself worrying that I am about to be told off or that a negative interpretation is waiting around the corner. That is what happens when you have spent years expecting the stick.

But this time I chose to be open about it.

I shared my hopes, my fears and my expectations. In the past, openness had sometimes been weaponised against me, but I reminded myself that this was a new environment. I could not judge it entirely by the damage of the old one.

So I treated honesty as a test.

And I am glad to say the new environment passed.

Why change hits differently

Change hits neurodivergent brains harder not because we are weaker, but because change is rarely only practical. It touches routine, identity, certainty, masking, trust, language and safety all at once.

Even positive change carries weight.

Even chosen change can destabilise.

Even the right decision can take time for the brain and body to process.

For me, leaving policing was both liberation and disruption. It gave me space to become more myself, but only after I stepped away from the structures that had helped me survive for so long.

That is the paradox.

Sometimes the thing that kept you safe is also the thing you eventually have to leave.

Mirror moment

If you are facing a change that everyone else thinks should be simple, it is worth remembering that the outside world often only sees the decision.

It does not see the identity being untangled underneath it.

A change can be right and still be heavy.

That does not mean you are failing.

It may simply mean your mind is trying to rebuild the map before you take the next step.