The Cost of Being Neurodivergent and a Migrant

A Story of Grief, Anger, and My Brother’s Gifts

The NZ Herald story of Tran family whose residency got declined because of his autistic son floored me. I don’t know them and I couldn’t quite figure out why it infuriated me as much as it did. Then this morning, my neurospicy brain understood. And I felt the need to process the grief about it.

"I sat with anger long enough to learn her real name was grief." – C.S. Lewis

Hey Mike,

It’s summer here again. Most people are excited about the break.

The other day, I came across the story of a structural engineer in New Zealand who’s been fixing earthquake-prone buildings here in Aotearoa for the last few years, only to be denied residency because his son is autistic. It was like someone handed me a steaming cup of rage. The man literally works to stop buildings from collapsing on people, but his family was deemed “too much of a burden.”

Then it hit me. I wasn’t just angry for him. I was angry for us.

Our dad, a mechanical engineer who worked on superstructures before he came to Aotearoa, had neurodivergent kids: us. He was navigating a world where the slightest deviation from what was considered “normal” could threaten our acceptance. I think about the pressure he must have felt, the social insecurity of trying to protect us while balancing the weight of cultural stigma. He wasn’t just working to keep a roof over our heads; he was fighting an invisible battle to keep us from being further ostracised.

And in that fight, I wonder if he thought hiding some of our challenges was the only way to shield us from judgment. Whether it was the right thing to do or not, I can see how hard he tried to keep us safe. But what he didn’t realise (actually, what society didn’t realise) is that you didn’t need hiding. You weren’t a burden, cost or a flaw to be covered up.

We’re no saints, you and I both know that. But if the world wants to keep talking about costs and burdens, I’ll say this. You weren’t just a gift to this family; you were a bloody gift to society. If they couldn’t see it, that’s on them.

The Funniest, Smartest, and Most Annoyingly Unbeatable Person I Knew

You were a one-off, a true original. There was no one funnier. Your dry wit could knock someone flat before they even realised they’d been roasted. But never to belittle someone less powerful than you. I’d still be catching my breath from laughing, and you’d already moved on to another topic. It wasn’t just the jokes, though. It was your timing, your precision. You had a knack for finding the absurdity in everything, and you didn’t waste time sugarcoating it.

And your brain, well, that was another level entirely. You read widely and deeply, and your connections between ideas still blow my mind. You’d go from explaining the most unique things about the universe to why a certain amount of butter is necessary for cooking the perfect steak, all in the same conversation.

One moment, we’d be dissecting the elitism baked into modern systems, and the next, you’d be decimating me in Age of Empires. And let’s not forget, you didn’t just play games; you created them.

While most people were figuring out how to use the AI, you and your friends were building entire worlds out of code.

Justice and Brilliance in Equal Measure

For all your humour and intellect, it was your sense of justice that stood out the most. You didn’t just talk about fairness, you demanded it. You were my loudest feminist ally in the family, even when the rest of them treated us like plagues for being so.

You’d call out sexism wherever you saw it, no matter how subtle, and you’d explain why it mattered in a way that made us all rethink our assumptions. You weren’t just an ally, you were a bloody advocate.

You also had this uncanny ability to see through the hype, the noise, the shiny distractions society loves so much. Long before anyone else cared, you were talking about the environmental impact of cryptocurrencies and NFTs. I still remember you sitting me down and explaining how NFT was a digital coal mine. You were miles ahead of everyone else and weren’t afraid to say, “I told you so.” (Okay, maybe a little smug about it. But you earned it.)

A System That Missed the Point

For all your brilliance, the world didn’t make it easy for you. The stigma in our culture around neurodivergence created barriers you shouldn’t have had to navigate. I wish we’d been able to get you the tailored support you deserved in school and in life. You weren’t hard to understand. It’s just that too many people weren’t willing to listen.

Society framed our needs as costs. Systems designed to have us sitting still for hours and looking at the screen doing the same routine day in and day out made it hard to value our unique traits to be immediately seen as strengths, even though they were vital for our survival. What they called “costs” were investments. If the world had met you halfway, you would’ve left an even bigger legacy than you already did. And you left plenty.

That January Day

That day in January, when we found ourselves in that emergency room, everything felt wrong. Everything except one thing: I knew what you would’ve wanted. We’d talked about it many times. Organ donation. You were so clear about it, and it’s one of the many ways you showed how much you cared about leaving the world better than you found it.

Even in the worst moments, you still managed to do something incredible. Four people are alive today because of you. Four lives were saved because you chose to give something of yourself. If that isn’t a legacy, I don’t know what is. Can you get more ‘circular economy’ than that?

Not a Cost, But a Gift

You were never a cost, no matter what society tried to say. You were a gift. A razor-sharp wit, a brilliant mind, a loyal friend, and an unstoppable advocate for what mattered most. You weren’t just someone who survived the world’s misunderstandings. You made the world a better place in spite of them.

I don’t know if the world will ever fully understand what neurodivergent people like you and I bring to the table.

But I do.

You didn’t just leave a mark. You left a blueprint. I’m trying to follow it, but let’s be real; no one can do it quite like you. I haven’t even mastered your comedic timing with 4 different accents.

I miss you every day. I miss your laugh, your wisdom, and your ability to win literally every game.

But more than anything, I miss you.

And I promise, I’ll keep telling your story. I’ll keep fighting for a world that sees neurodivergence for what it is: not a cost, but a beacon for us to see the shitty ways we still treat human beings and design better systems for all of us. Always.