“I’m Dyspraxic”: The curious business of moving through the world
On clumsiness, competence, the unspoken choreography of human interaction, and what it really means to move freely.
Nora Selina Helal
10/15/202611 min read
“I’m dyspraxic”.
It is a sentence I have uttered countless times, usually by way of explanation, occasionally as a warning, and sometimes with the weary resignation of someone who knows precisely what is coming next.
The response tends to fall into one of several categories. There is the completely blank expression. The polite nod, accompanied by eyes that suggest absolutely no information has been received. The understandably confused “Is that like dyslexia?” And, my personal favourite, the gloriously straightforward: “What’s dyspraxia?”
I rather like that last response. It is refreshingly honest.
Admittedly, dyspraxia is hardly a word that does us any favours. For a condition involving difficulties with coordination, sequencing and motor planning, it has been given a name that requires a rather ambitious degree of verbal coordination to pronounce.
The irony is not entirely lost on me.
But beyond the occasional awkward exchange lies something considerably more complicated. Because when I explain that I am dyspraxic, I am not simply telling somebody that I am a little clumsy, that my spatial awareness can be questionable, or that I might approach certain ordinary tasks with an extraordinary amount of concentration.
I am trying to explain something about how I experience the world.
And, perhaps more importantly, how the world experiences me.
The peculiar choreography of ordinary life
Consider the astonishing number of movements involved in an entirely unremarkable morning.
Getting dressed, preparing breakfast, navigating furniture and somehow remembering what needs to happen next while simultaneously negotiating the physical business of getting from one place to another.
For most people, much of this happens with relatively little conscious attention. For someone with dyspraxia, what appears effortless from the outside may require an almost absurd amount of internal negotiation.
I often think of it as having to manually operate a system that other people seem to have on automatic. Movement is not simply about moving. It involves anticipating where an object is, judging how far away it might be, coordinating the appropriate response and adjusting when something doesn’t go quite according to plan.
All of which sounds rather impressive until you realise that the task in question might simply be putting something into a cupboard.
There is humour in this, of course. The relationship between dyspraxic people and inanimate objects could probably sustain an entire comedy series. Doorframes, chair legs and the occasional piece of furniture can appear to have developed deeply personal grievances. But behind the comedy lies a neurological difference whose implications reach considerably further than the occasional collision.
Dyspraxia, clinically referred to as Developmental Coordination Disorder (DCD), is a lifelong neurodevelopmental condition primarily affecting motor coordination. It may also be associated with difficulties involving organisation, information processing and managing social situations, although experiences vary considerably between individuals.
A 2024 systematic review and meta-analysis involving 31,203 children estimated the prevalence of DCD at approximately 5%, or one in twenty children.
Yet public understanding remains remarkably limited.
Perhaps even more revealing is our tendency to interpret difficulties with movement as evidence of something entirely unrelated. A dropped glass becomes carelessness, while somebody who requires additional time to follow instructions may be perceived as inattentive or incapable.
Why do we so readily confuse the coordination of a body with the capability of a mind?
It is a curious social assumption, particularly when the apparent simplicity of an action tells us remarkably little about the cognitive effort required to accomplish it.
The social choreography nobody talks about
But what strikes me most profoundly about dyspraxia is not always the physical movement.
It is the movement between people.
Conversation, after all, involves its own intricate choreography. There is the timing of a response, the interpretation of somebody’s expression, the expectation that we recognise an unspoken meaning and the rather extraordinary requirement to organise our thoughts while simultaneously remaining attentive to everyone else’s.
For me, the difficulty is rarely an absence of thought. Quite the opposite.
I can have an elaborate, carefully considered argument developing internally, only to discover that its verbal delivery bears remarkably little resemblance to the intellectual architecture I had constructed.
My written thoughts may be intricate, analytical and carefully organised, while my spoken explanation arrives as though several important connecting sentences have been mislaid somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
It is rather like possessing a beautifully organised library but occasionally struggling to locate the correct book while somebody waits impatiently at the desk.
And then there is the business of understanding what everybody else means.
I have always found the phrase common sense rather curious. Much of what we regard as intuitive social understanding is acquired through observation and repetition, shaped by conventions that are rarely made explicit.
The expectation that we should recognise what somebody really means, even when their words suggest something entirely different, is particularly fascinating.
Taking language literally, needing additional processing time or occasionally misreading a social cue does not indicate an inability to understand complexity. These experiences are not universal features of dyspraxia and may overlap with autism or other forms of neurodivergence. They are, nevertheless, part of how I experience my own neurodivergence.
What interests me is the effort involved in managing the discrepancy between internal experience and external expectation. Sometimes the greatest coordination challenge is not organising my movements, but organising my thoughts and emotions quickly enough to communicate them in a way that other people will recognise as appropriate.
And there is something quietly exhausting about learning to do this without appearing to try.
I think of it as my dyspraxic mask.
Not a clinical characteristic of the condition, but my own description of the self-monitoring that can develop through years of being conscious of how one’s differences might be interpreted.
I can find myself rehearsing an explanation before speaking, wondering whether I have misunderstood something or trying to determine whether my response has been received as intended. Sometimes silence feels easier than the possibility of having to explain an imperfectly expressed thought.
There is a peculiar tension between wanting to communicate authentically and wanting to avoid being misunderstood.
The challenge becomes not merely communicating, but communicating without overperforming.
Social competence is so frequently judged by what can be observed. An articulate response suggests clear thinking, while hesitation may be interpreted as uncertainty or a lack of understanding. Yet the complexity of somebody’s internal reasoning cannot always be measured through the fluency of its external expression. Nor does appearing socially comfortable necessarily mean that comfort has come without effort.
A 2026 qualitative study by Murray, Staniforth and Eddy, involving ten adults with DCD, explored experiences extending beyond motor coordination into relationships, employment and emotional wellbeing. Participants described the challenges of navigating a condition that remained poorly understood by others.
Although small, the study offers an important reminder that the social and emotional dimensions of dyspraxia deserve considerably more attention.
Perhaps we should be asking not simply whether somebody can participate successfully in a conversation, but how much invisible effort that participation requires.
Moving between cultures: whose version of ordinary?
There is another dimension to this discussion that I find particularly compelling.
What happens when the very definition of what is considered ordinary changes according to where, and among whom, we find ourselves?
Movement may appear universal, but the expectations surrounding it are shaped by cultural and environmental experiences. The activities we are encouraged to master, the behaviours through which competence is recognised and the conventions governing social interaction are not necessarily identical across communities.
This is not about one culture possessing a greater understanding of neurological difference than another. Rather, it is about recognising that our interpretation of human behaviour is never entirely separate from the context in which it occurs.
Research offers an intriguing illustration.
A study by Denysschen and colleagues, published online in December 2025, examined the motor activities considered important by 1,438 children in Ghana and South Africa. While children across both settings valued everyday activities such as self-care and household tasks, the importance attributed to particular motor skills varied according to cultural and environmental context.
The findings illuminate something broader than physical coordination: the activities through which we understand and evaluate competence are influenced by the worlds we inhabit.
International clinical recommendations for DCD similarly recognise the importance of considering cultural circumstances when assessing motor difficulties and developing appropriate support.
For me, this raises fascinating questions about the global recognition of dyspraxia, particularly for people navigating more than one cultural environment.
Within diaspora communities, for example, individuals may move between languages and social conventions, encountering different expectations about communication, independence and behaviour. An interaction that feels familiar in one setting may require considerably more conscious interpretation in another.
If neurological difference is lived within diverse cultural contexts, how do we ensure that our understanding of it remains equally responsive to those contexts?
And how might we distinguish between an individual’s difficulties and the expectations against which those difficulties are being judged?
These questions extend beyond diagnostic terminology. They concern the environments and relationships through which people learn to interpret their own experiences, and the extent to which the language of disability can accommodate that diversity.
Perhaps genuine global recognition of dyspraxia begins not with assuming that everybody experiences difference identically, but with recognising how differently that experience may be understood.
After all, a diagnosis may travel across borders, but the experience of being understood is shaped by considerably more than its name.
The curious business of finding our way
I have an almost touching faith in the ability of strangers to give me directions, despite a lifetime of evidence suggesting that my ability to retain those directions is somewhat less reliable.
I will approach somebody, ask how to get somewhere and listen with the attentive expression of a person fully prepared to make excellent use of the information they are about to receive.
“Take the first left, then carry on until you reach…”
And there it is.
The first left.
Already, I am lost.
Of course, I continue nodding. I smile appreciatively as the explanation unfolds, perhaps even offering an enthusiastic “Perfect, thank you!” despite having retained approximately one instruction and a vague impression that there may have been a roundabout involved.
I then walk away with the confidence of somebody who has understood everything, accompanied by the navigational certainty of somebody who has understood absolutely nothing.
It is a rather beautiful contradiction.
And one that follows me into travelling, where unfamiliar airports, connecting flights and unexpected changes of route can transform an ordinary journey into a complicated exercise in processing information while trying to appear entirely composed.
But perhaps the most revealing part of these experiences is not the difficulty with directions.
It is what happens afterwards.
For years, I found it surprisingly difficult to admit that I had not understood something, particularly when somebody had already taken the time to explain it. There is a peculiar embarrassment attached to asking for clarification when the information appears perfectly straightforward to the person providing it.
You become conscious of taking up somebody else’s time, of appearing inattentive or of revealing a difficulty that might otherwise have remained invisible.
And so you nod, smile, thank them and remain magnificently lost.
Learning to advocate for myself has taken time. I have become more comfortable asking somebody to slow down, repeat an instruction or show me the route visually.
Yet there is an important contradiction here. Asking for clarification requires recognising that information has not been fully processed, identifying what might help and finding the confidence to communicate that need before the opportunity disappears.
Self-advocacy can become yet another task requiring the very cognitive and social resources already being stretched.
As co-founder of Yellow Flower Travel, I find this relationship between independence and accessibility particularly significant.
We frequently celebrate self-advocacy, and understandably so. Being able to communicate one’s needs can be profoundly empowering. But I wonder whether we sometimes place too much responsibility on individuals to request understanding, rather than examining the conditions that would make such understanding possible without having to ask.
Not everyone has the confidence, opportunity or capacity to advocate for themselves in a particular moment. Nor should their ability to do so determine whether they receive clear information or thoughtful assistance.
The United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities recognises accessibility and personal mobility as important dimensions of equal participation. These principles invite us to consider not simply whether someone can complete a journey, but whether they can experience it with dignity and reasonable freedom from unnecessary barriers.
A clearly communicated direction, intuitive signage or an employee willing to present information differently may seem insignificant. Yet such considerations can fundamentally change somebody’s experience of an unfamiliar environment.
What if accessibility involved not simply teaching people to ask for what they need, but creating environments sufficiently thoughtful that they did not always have to?
Perhaps the most meaningful form of support is not the assistance somebody receives after explaining that they are struggling, but the consideration that prevents an unnecessary struggle from arising in the first place.
And perhaps, with a little more thought, I might even make it past the first left.
Perhaps the world could learn to move differently
I have never particularly wanted dyspraxia to be described as a superpower.
There is a tendency within contemporary conversations about neurodiversity to replace negative stereotypes with relentlessly positive narratives, as though every difficulty must conceal an exceptional talent.
I understand the intention, but I find the expectation rather exhausting. Dyspraxia does not need to become extraordinary to deserve understanding.
Sometimes it is funny, sometimes frustrating, and sometimes I can manage something intellectually demanding with relative ease before finding myself defeated by an apparently unremarkable practical task.
I am capable, curious and deeply interested in the world. I am also dyspraxic.
These realities are not contradictory, nor does competence in one area of life invalidate the need for understanding in another.
What interests me increasingly is the distinction between the difficulties that genuinely belong to my neurological functioning and the expectations other people attach to them.
The former may require adaptation. The latter often require reflection.
When I began writing this article, I thought about how frequently I have explained dyspraxia through the language of physical awkwardness. It is understandable. The occasional collision with a doorframe is considerably easier to describe than the invisible effort involved in navigating a conversation or interpreting an expectation nobody has articulated.
But perhaps our understanding of dyspraxia has remained too closely attached to what other people can see.
We notice the stumble without recognising the concentration that preceded it. We hear an imperfectly organised explanation without necessarily appreciating the complexity of the thought behind it. We observe somebody participating without knowing what that participation has required.
And because these efforts remain largely invisible, we may never think to question the assumptions through which they are judged.
I would like us to become a little more curious about those assumptions, particularly our tendency to regard our own experience of navigating the world as the standard against which everybody else’s should be measured.
Because dyspraxia is not simply about the coordination of movement.
For me, it is also about the extraordinary business of inhabiting a world whose expectations do not always correspond with my own rhythms, and learning how to participate without continually compromising the person doing the participating.
I do not expect every difficulty to disappear, nor do I need every interaction to become an exercise in accommodation. I would simply welcome a world in which the way somebody moves, processes information or communicates is not so readily mistaken for a measure of their intelligence or worth.
Perhaps the most important question is not whether dyspraxic people can learn to navigate the world more successfully. Many of us have spent our lives doing precisely that. Perhaps it is whether the world can become more thoughtful about the people moving through it.
After all, I have spent considerable time learning how to coordinate myself around the expectations of others.
It would be rather lovely, occasionally, if the world could meet me somewhere in the middle.
And preferably somewhere without an inconveniently positioned doorframe.
References and further reading
Li, H., et al. (2024). The prevalence of developmental coordination disorder in children: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Frontiers in Pediatrics, 12, 1387406. https://doi.org/10.3389/fped.2024.1387406
Murray, R., Staniforth, C. E. & Eddy, L. H. (2026). ‘The world is just so fast, and I’m not fast… it’s just really, really difficult to keep up’: A qualitative exploration of the lived experience of adults with Developmental Coordination Disorder. PLOS ONE, 21(5), e0350273. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0350273
Murray, R., Staniforth, C. E., Shawak, A. & Eddy, L. H. (2025). Developmental coordination disorder: “It’s not on people’s radars… They’re not interested”. PLOS ONE, 20(11), e0337001. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0337001
Denysschen, M., et al. (2026). What Motor Skills Do Children Perceive as Important? A Child-Centred Exploration Using the Motor Coordination Questionnaire. Child: Care, Health and Development, 52(1), e70230. First published online 29 December 2025. https://doi.org/10.1111/cch.70230
Blank, R., et al. (2019). International clinical practice recommendations on the definition, diagnosis, assessment, intervention, and psychosocial aspects of developmental coordination disorder. Developmental Medicine & Child Neurology, 61(3), 242–285. https://doi.org/10.1111/dmcn.14132
NHS. Dyspraxia in adults (developmental co-ordination disorder). https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/developmental-coordination-disorder-dyspraxia-in-adults/
United Nations (2006). Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities, Articles 9 (Accessibility) and 20 (Personal mobility). https://www.un.org/disabilities/documents/convention/convention_accessible_pdf.pdf
© 2025. All rights reserved.
YELLOW FLOWER TRAVEL & TOURS LTD.
Accessibility Matters
