Caught Between Tears and Stoicism

What should your reaction be if your father was on stage accepting a very prestigious nomination? Should you politely clap with a stoic expression? And if you do, especially as a disabled individual, would you be criticized for not showing enough emotion? This is the paradox many neurodiverse people face—being told to show emotion, only to be judged when we do.

At the Democratic National Convention, 17-year-old Gus Walz, who has nonverbal learning disorder (NVLD), pointed and tearfully exclaimed, "That's my dad." His emotional display sparked a multitude of reactions: Some found it inappropriate, others saw it as inspirational, and some excused it because of his disability. But what does this moment say about societal expectations around emotion expression and disability?

As someone who navigates the world with a different neurodiverse profile—autism and ADHD impact my social interactions, spoken communication, and sensorimotor abilities—I could relate to Gus's experience. While our disabilities aren’t identical, seeing his unfiltered pride and joy filled me with solidarity.

Gus, I’m in deep admiration of your authenticity. Expressing your emotions was not just a personal moment; it was a powerful statement for all of us in the disability community: We should have the right to express our emotions without fear of judgment or pity.

However, this natural and authentic expression of pride and joy was viewed through a biased lens because of disability. Implicit bias [1]—unconscious attitudes—shapes how we interpret behaviors like his. Many don’t realize they’re being judgmental, but their discomfort with emotional display reveals a bias about what is "normal." This bias can lead to infantilization [2], with Gus referred to as a “disabled child” on social media. Gus is a disabled teen, not a child, yet disabled people are often seen as perpetually immature.

This situation highlights the double empathy problem [3]: Empathy between neurodivergent and neurotypical people is a two-way street. Society often expects conformity to neurotypical norms rather than attempting to understand diverse expressions of emotion. The issue isn’t just about "difference"; it’s also about a lack of empathy from neurotypical perspectives.

The misunderstanding deepens with expectations around flat affect [4]—a term that describes how some neurodivergent people may not outwardly show emotions as others expect. Autistics are often criticized for being too unexpressive or showing the wrong emotions. As a teenager, when I received my first national gold medal for writing at a celebrity-studded event at Carnegie Hall in New York City, I was internally brimming with intense joy and pride. Yet, when I look at photos from that moment, my face merely shows a "startled deer in headlights" expression. Many in the disability community know this disconnect well. But when someone openly shows emotion, it’s suddenly inappropriate. Society can’t have it both ways—criticizing us for showing too little emotion and then too much.

Expecting neurodiverse individuals to either suppress or exaggerate emotions to fit societal comfort zones places an unfair burden of emotional labor on them. Neurodiverse people are often expected to manage their emotions to align with narrow social norms—showing just enough to seem relatable but not so much to be seen as "other." What is considered "normal" behavior is an ever-moving target, making it nearly impossible to meet these expectations. This creates a stereotype threat, where there’s constant pressure to navigate the fine line between conforming to or defying stereotypes about disability. It’s a catch-22: If we don’t show emotion, we risk being labeled as "cold" or "unexpressive"; if we do, we might be seen as "overly emotional."

These reactions are steeped in ableism, a systemic discrimination that favors "able-bodied" norms and marginalizes those who don’t fit these standards. The varied responses to emotional display reflect ingrained ableist attitudes about how disabled people should behave. When society expects the neurodiverse to conform to neurotypical standards of emotional expression, it reinforces a narrow view of what it means to be human.

Furthermore, celebrating Gus’s pride as "extraordinary" because of his disability reduces his experience to a feel-good story instead of acknowledging him as a person with complex emotions. This type of objectification [5]—serves only to make neurotypical people feel good rather than truly recognizing the neurodiverse individual’s experience. It is equally patronizing of social media to imply that expressions of emotion are "OK" after learning he’s disabled, as if society is willing to make the occasional exception rather than challenge its norms.

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What we should celebrate isn’t that Gus is neurodiverse and shows emotion, but that he is a teenager, proud of his father, and unafraid to express it. In a world where emotional expression is often suppressed or critiqued, especially in public figures and their families, his response is a refreshing reminder of our shared humanity.

We must recognize humanity in all its forms. Gus Walz’s pride in his father is a story worth telling—not because it is exceptional for a disabled person to feel pride, but because it is an ordinary human experience. And that, in itself, is enough.