For most of my career, I lived with the persistent, quiet weight of feeling “not enough.” In the world of music education, there is a very specific archetype of the successful band director: a figure of stoic poise, clinical organization, and a certain predictable brand of charisma. When I watched well-regarded directors at conventions or attended professional development seminars, I didn’t see a reflection of myself. I saw an approach to the podium that felt entirely foreign to my own internal rhythm. Without a name for this disconnect, I defaulted to gaslighting myself and assumed that my style was simply a rough draft that I hadn’t yet learned how to refine into something “respectable.”
The clarity I was searching for didn’t arrive until four years ago, when I was diagnosed with Autism and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Once I sat with that diagnosis and allowed it to breathe, the shame began to dissolve. I realized that being AuDHD wasn’t a deficit I needed to mask to be a “real” educator; it was the foundation of my musical identity. What I once perceived as a lack of discipline was actually a different way of moving through the world—one that, it turns out, is a superpower on the podium.
While AuDHD means I am often susceptible to sensory overstimulation in daily life, that same sensitivity becomes a superpower when I have a baton in my hand. When I hear a “wrong” dissonance or a section drifting wildly out of tune, it doesn’t just register as a technical error; it rattles my entire body. It is a visceral, physical sensation that demands resolution. My hyperactivity, once a source of professional anxiety, transforms me into a ball of energy that comes alive in front my ensemble. I don’t just conduct the group; I engage them in a physical dialogue that brings the music to life in a way that feels electric.
This neurodivergent lens changes the way I interpret the score itself. While some of my neurotypical colleagues might approach a piece based strictly on the literal connotations of the notation, I find myself naturally drawing from the composer’s emotional intent and how the sound is physically affecting me in the moment. I am not just looking for accuracy; I am looking for the resonance that makes the air in the room feel different.
I am certain these differences extend far beyond the podium. They are present in the way we organize our libraries, the way we analyze the architecture of a symphony, and the way we build authentic, empathetic relationships with our students. Neurodivergence isn’t just a “learning style”—it is the essence of how we walk through the world. When I look back on the early years of my career, I can finally recognize that my self-doubt was born from a culture that often views anything outside the scope of neurotypicality as less competent. This is a strange irony in a field full of artists, where our primary job is to take the raw inspiration of the world and translate it into a creative modality. How can we expect the field of music to grow if we insist that every director approach the work through the same narrow door?
Now, at thirty-three, I am finally growing into my own as a conductor. I am learning to lean into my neurodivergence as the very thing that sets me apart. I am no longer trying to be a “correct” band director; I am becoming an authentic one. By embracing the way my brain is wired, I am discovering that my unique perspective isn’t a hurdle to be cleared—it is the source of my greatest strength.