In October 2025, I turned up to work expecting a useful training session on sensory integration. What I didn’t expect was for it to quietly reframe how I see engagement in myself, my children, and my students.
As a physiotherapist, sensory integration isn’t something I’ve been deeply embedded in. My Occupational Therapy colleagues were far more fluent in it than I was (and still are). But very quickly, it became clear that this wasn’t just about neurodivergence in the way I’d perhaps previously boxed it. It was about how all of us regulate ourselves in order to function.
The training reinforced something I’ve long felt uncomfortable about — the idea of “normal”. My students will tell you I dislike that word. And yet, if I’m honest, I’ve probably always considered myself relatively neurotypical. School was straightforward enough. I could spell. I could read. I comprehended things without huge effort. I wasn’t outstanding, but I did enough. I never needed additional support. I just followed instructions and got on with it with some successes.
The problem with that became clear when I arrived at university for my BSc. I didn’t know how to learn independently.
Because things had come fairly easily, I’d never really had to examine how I learned best. I hadn’t needed to think about regulation, environment, timing, fatigue — any of it. I just managed.
I remember regular Thursday afternoon sessions vividly. End of the week. I was a new dad. Tired. The delivery wasn’t especially energising. And I struggled. I became restless. I checked my phone. Browsed the internet on the very device I was supposed to be taking notes on. Found reasons to leave the room.
For years, I put that down to the lecturer. If I was disengaged, the session must have been disengaging.
The October training challenged that narrative.
The idea of the “sensory ladder” — understanding where you are in terms of arousal and readiness — helped me see something I’d never considered: some of those behaviours were regulation.
My wife will confirm that when I’m on the phone, I roam the house like a robot vacuum cleaner. No destination. No purpose. Just movement. It helps me focus on the conversation. If I’m tired when working, I put house/dance music on. Silence makes my motivation worse – I need the audible stimulus. When I cook, I listen to podcasts. In classrooms, I fidget. I shift. I move my leg constantly.
Growing up, we’re taught that if you’re doing something else, you’re not listening. For me, that’s simply not true. Movement often helps me listen.
That realisation has changed how I respond at home. If I’m trying to impart pearls of infinite wisdom to my children after they’ve belted each other and they’re fiddling or shifting about, I no longer immediately tell them to stop. I check their understanding instead. If they can articulate what I’ve said, then the movement isn’t the issue — it’s part of how they’re coping with the moment.
It’s also changed how I think about my classroom.
My MSc students are adults. I place a fair amount of responsibility on them to manage their own engagement. But I now make that explicit. Engagement doesn’t have to look like stillness. If subtle movement helps, that’s fine. If standing at the back helps, fine. If fiddling with a pen supports focus — provided it’s not being launched across the room — I don’t see the problem.
What matters is whether you are cognitively present.
There is a line, though. Phones are different. I’m not particularly punitive about them, but I do ask students to reflect: are you regulating, or are you escaping? If you’re disengaging, what could you do differently to re-engage? That responsibility sits with them.
I suppose where I’ve landed is this: some responsibility sits with us as facilitators to design engaging sessions and to normalise difference. But some responsibility also sits with learners to understand their own habits, needs and triggers.
Maybe the bigger question is why our classrooms are still designed around the idea that still equals attentive. Why don’t we have designated walking areas? Why don’t we normalise small regulatory tools? Why does fidgeting automatically signal disrespect?
If we genuinely buy into the neurodiversity paradigm, then we have to accept that engagement will look different — even for those of us who’ve always been told we’re “normal”.
The sensory ladder gave me language for something I hadn’t previously articulated. What I had often called disengagement was, at times, regulation. I recognised that in myself before I was able to recognise it in my learners.
Useful Resources
Guardado, K.E. and Sergent, S.R. (2023) Sensory Integration. In: StatPearls. Treasure Island (FL): StatPearls Publishing,.
Smith, K. (2021) Sensory Ladders Available from https://sensoryproject.org/2021/07/01/sensory-ladders-open-access-anyone-anywhere-anytime/ [accessed 20 February 2026].
Walker, N. (2021) NEURODIVERSITY: SOME BASIC TERMS & DEFINITIONS. NeuroQueer.
Dean Walker 