When the Algorithm Flags Neurodivergence: A Conversation on Digital Ableism
Bridgette Hamstead
Earlier last week, my LinkedIn account was suddenly suspended. No warning, no clear explanation—just a notice stating that I had violated the platform’s terms and conditions. I was accused of engaging in spam-like behavior, which came as a shock. I don’t post spam. I post original, thoughtful content about neurodiversity, disability justice, and the autistic experience. My posts are rooted in my lived experience and professional expertise as a late-identified autistic and AuDHD woman, a neurodiversity consultant, and the founding director of a nonprofit that exists to support and uplift neurodivergent adults.
The only plausible “violation” I can imagine is that I post frequently—sometimes multiple articles or reflections in one day. I do this not because I’m trying to game the system, but because I write when I’m inspired. I communicate in focused, rhythmic bursts, often in the language of ideas and systems and deep pattern recognition. This is how my brain works. It’s how many autistic and otherwise neurodivergent brains work.
And yet, it seems that this very communication style—a deeply autistic one—may have been what got me flagged.
What I experienced is not an isolated incident. It’s part of a larger issue known as algorithmic bias, and more specifically, algorithmic ableism: the ways that automated systems designed by and for neurotypical norms end up discriminating against neurodivergent people simply for existing and expressing ourselves as we are.
What Is Algorithmic Ableism?
Algorithmic ableism refers to the way that artificial intelligence systems and algorithmic moderation tools reflect and perpetuate ableist assumptions about communication, productivity, professionalism, and behavior. These systems often fail to accommodate disabled people—especially those with cognitive, developmental, or psychosocial disabilities—because they are built on datasets and rules that assume a narrow, neurotypical standard of interaction.
For autistic users, this can show up in multiple ways:
Posting frequency: Autistic people who write or share in focused bursts may be flagged as bots or spammers.
Tone and language: Autistic communication can be perceived as too blunt, too detailed, or too repetitive—none of which are harmful, but all of which can be misinterpreted by automated systems or neurotypical moderators.
Community standards: The assumption that there is one “right” way to engage online fails to account for neurodivergent norms of discourse and expression.
This isn't just a theoretical issue. Research has shown that algorithmic bias often disproportionately affects people from marginalized communities. A 2021 study published in AI & Society found that algorithmic moderation tools frequently misclassify the language of disabled users, especially those using identity-first language, disability justice rhetoric, or nonstandard communication forms. Platforms like LinkedIn, Facebook, and Instagram have all faced criticism for their moderation systems flagging disability-related content, particularly when users speak openly about mental health, autistic experience, or systemic ableism.
Autistic Communication Isn’t Spam
When autistic people post multiple times a day, it’s often because we’re in a period of hyperfocus. When we write long, detailed reflections, it’s because our thoughts move in complexity and depth. When we share passionately about a topic we care about, we’re not being “excessive”—we’re expressing expertise.
But too often, platforms pathologize our expression. The same posts that are celebrated when shared by neurotypical professionals are flagged or hidden when shared by autistic users. This double standard mirrors the broader ableism we face offline: the dismissal of our knowledge as “special interests,” the rejection of our communication as “too much,” the misinterpretation of our behavior as “inappropriate” or “unprofessional.”
What happened to me on LinkedIn is a small but telling example of a larger problem. When neurodivergent people are silenced by algorithms, we lose access to platforms where we build community, advocate for our rights, and share our knowledge. And we are left without recourse—because the systems that govern these platforms are not built with us in mind.
Why This Matters
As more and more of our professional, social, and creative lives move online, it is essential that digital platforms become inclusive of all minds—not just those who communicate in neurotypical ways. The consequences of exclusion are serious. For autistic people, being locked out of a professional network can mean lost opportunities, damaged credibility, and emotional harm. For advocates and educators like me, it can mean losing the ability to reach the very communities we serve.
It’s not enough for platforms to say they support diversity and inclusion. They must design for it. That means involving neurodivergent people in the development of community standards, moderation tools, and AI training datasets. It means acknowledging that communication is not one-size-fits-all. And it means making space for the many ways we write, speak, and share.
Moving Forward
Thankfully, after multiple emails and verifications, my LinkedIn account was reinstated. But the damage was done. The anxiety. The disruption. The fear that it might happen again—and that next time, my voice might be erased completely.
I will continue to write, to speak, and to advocate. Because autistic voices are powerful. Our communication is valuable. And we deserve to be heard.
At Fish in a Tree, we are committed to making space for those voices. Whether through support groups, education programs, or public advocacy, we will continue to push for a world—and a web—that includes all of us.
If you’ve experienced algorithmic ableism or want to join the conversation about how platforms can better serve the neurodivergent community, I encourage you to reach out. Share your story. Speak your truth. Together, we can change the system.