I recently found myself thinking about the term SEND (Special Educational Needs and Disabilities) as I am collaborating with Manchester Metropolitan University on some groundbreaking training in health and care practice. What struck me was not the disability part. It was the word special.

The term has existed since the late 1970s and has become so embedded within education that most people never stop to question it. It appears in policies, training, government documents and school systems and is treated as though it is simply the correct language. Yet when you stop and think about it, it raises an interesting question.

If a neurotypical adult were described as “special” in this context, would they be comfortable with it?

I’m guessing most people would not.

Outside of disability, calling an adult special carries implications that many people would find uncomfortable or patronising. It can feel as though somebody is being viewed differently from everyone else. Yet when disabled and neurodivergent people are involved, society doesn’t pause to ask whether the language still reflects modern understanding.

I understand the argument that SEND refers to educational provision rather than the individual. I also understand the historical context. When the term was introduced, it was considered progressive. Compared to some of the language that came before it, it definitely was.

What I find interesting is that disability language has never remained static.

Before terms such as SEND became widely used, children were described using labels such as educationally subnormal, mentally handicapped, maladjusted and slow. These were not insults – these were official terms used by professionals and government bodies. The people using them believed they were being accurate and compassionate, given the knowledge available at the time.

Today, people read those terms and immediately recognise them as outdated.

That is not because people have become overly sensitive. It is because our understanding has changed. As our understanding changed, the language changed with it.

The same thing happened elsewhere. The charity now known as Scope was originally called the National Spastics Society. At the time, spastic was a recognised medical term. It was not intended to be offensive. Over time, society’s understanding changed, the word acquired different meanings, and eventually it no longer reflected the people it was supposed to represent. The name changed because the language no longer fit.

Nobody argues today that it should have remained just because it was acceptable in its time.

What makes ‘special’ interesting is that it seems to have escaped that same level of scrutiny.

This becomes even more relevant when we look at how much our understanding of neurodiversity has changed since 1978. Back then, autism was poorly understood, and parents were often blamed. ADHD was barely recognised. Many disabled people were excluded from mainstream education and employment. Wheelchair accessibility was next to none. Society’s understanding of disability was hugely different from what it is now.

Today we know that autism and ADHD present differently from person to person. We know that support needs vary enormously. We know that intelligence and capability cannot be determined by whether somebody is neurodivergent or neurotypical.

That is where the idea of describing people as special starts to feel increasingly difficult to justify.

Look at Elon Musk, Tom Hardy and Tyson Fury. Most people do not think of these individuals as special in the way the word is commonly used within disability services or education. People see a billionaire entrepreneur, a successful actor and a world champion boxer. Their neurodivergence becomes secondary to their achievement – if mentioned at all. 

Yet the neurodivergence has not disappeared. Autism has not disappeared. ADHD has not disappeared.

What has changed is society’s perception.

That tells us something important. It suggests that labels are not always applied consistently. Society often focuses heavily on a diagnosis when somebody is visibly struggling, needs support or sits outside traditional expectations. When somebody becomes successful or admired, the diagnosis moves into the background and the individual comes into focus.

The person and the neurotype have not changed. What changes is the way society chooses to see them.

That is important because labels influence expectations. Expectations influence opportunities. The way a child is viewed by teachers, professionals and wider society can affect the opportunities they receive long before they have the chance to define themselves.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether the word special survives largely because it has become normalised. History is full of words and assumptions that survived for decades simply because they were considered normal. Eventually somebody stopped and asked whether they still reflected reality – and that’s the question I am asking here.

Not whether SEND was the right language in 1978.

But whether a society that has transformed its understanding of disability, neurodiversity, mental health and human difference over the last fifty years should automatically assume that the language created during that period represents the final stage of that evolution.

If we accept that our understanding has changed dramatically since 1978, why would we assume the language has reached its final form?

For a society that likes to think of itself as informed, progressive and compassionate, that feels like a question that needs exploring.