Lost in Translation: Helping Our Kids Navigate the Social Cue Jungle

Social cues are tricky things. Most people don’t even notice they’re reading them — a glance, a shift of tone, the twitch of an eyebrow. But for many children on the spectrum — whether that’s autism, ADHD, giftedness, or the complicated mix of twice-exceptionality — those little signals are more like hidden hieroglyphs. And when the hieroglyphs go unnoticed or misunderstood, suddenly you’ve got a child who looks rude, silly, or inappropriate when really, they’re just being themselves. Take James, for example. Picture this: a six-foot-two teenager breaking into a full robot dance in the middle of flashing ambulance lights while the neighbours stare. It wasn’t defiance, it wasn’t mockery. It was his joy, his fascination with rhythm and light, spilling out in the moment. But how on earth do you explain that to the worried paramedics, or to the neighbours behind twitching curtains?

Children with spectrum differences often experience the world on settings the rest of us don’t. Their brains might be tuned into the flicker of light, the hum of electricity, the sheer delight of movement — while all the “unwritten rules” of human expression drift past unnoticed. For ADHD kids, distractibility means cues get lost in the shuffle. For gifted kids, their cognitive leaps often outpace their social-emotional growth, leaving them advanced in ideas but unsure in interactions. For autistic kids, non-verbal communication may simply operate on a different channel — eye contact, tone, body language don’t carry the same automatic weight. And then there are the twice-exceptional (2e) children, who live at the intersection. Brilliant in one area, struggling profoundly in another. They may write with insight beyond their years, but miss the sarcasm in a peer’s voice. They may excel in problem-solving, yet falter when asked to read a room. This unevenness makes social navigation especially complex. Add to this the grey areas. Many neurodivergent children crave rules that are clear and consistent. If the teacher says, “Quiet down,” but someone else is still talking, the rule suddenly feels broken. If a smile can mean “I like you” or “I’m laughing at you,” it’s confusing. Grey areas create stress, because the rules don’t feel fixed. And when the rules aren’t fixed, the whole world feels unsafe. When the world gets it wrong The fallout can be painful. Teachers may see defiance. Classmates may see comedy. Other parents may see rudeness. What’s really happening is much simpler: a child is trying to make sense of a world full of invisible rules that keep shifting. I’ll never forget birthday parties in those early years. Everyone else’s child seemed to know instinctively how to queue for pass-the-parcel, when to clap, how loudly to cheer, when to take a bite of cake. Meanwhile, James was the one under the table, overwhelmed by balloons popping and children screaming. Or he’d fixate on the disco light in the corner, dancing in time to its spin while the other kids carried on with musical chairs. I stood on the sidelines, heart clenched, half ready to leap in and half knowing I had to let him figure it out. For parents, those moments are exhausting — the constant explaining, smoothing over, bracing for judgmental stares. At school, the misunderstandings took another shape. When James got stressed, his whole system went flat. His voice lost tone, his expression drained. Add his height and size, and suddenly this gentle child was being seen as intimidating. Teachers pulled me aside with worried looks: “He seemed threatening.” But what they didn’t know was that monotone was his stress signal, not his anger. Eventually, he learned to walk straight to the teacher and say, “When I sound flat like this, I’m stressed — not angry.” That one sentence changed the narrative. Advocacy, learned early, kept him safe.

So how do we help? It starts at home. I used to narrate the world for James, turning invisible rules into visible lessons. “She’s laughing, but she’s teasing — that means she’s joking, not serious.” “He stepped back because he wanted more space.” Over time, those commentaries became his mental subtitles. We role-played too, often with humour. “You do the robot when the teacher sighs. What happens?” And then we’d laugh about it. Humour took the sting out of mistakes and turned them into practice rounds. And I encouraged him to find words for himself. Even as a child, he learned little scripts that acted like shields: “Sometimes I miss faces — please tell me if I do.” “If lights get too bright, I need a break.” “When I sound flat, it’s because I’m stressed, not angry.” Short, rehearsed lines gave him power over how others saw him. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t the child, it’s the adults. Teachers, relatives, strangers — they need translation just as much as our children do. I’ve found myself saying the same thing countless times: “James is learning how people show feelings — faces, arms, tone of voice. Sometimes he doesn’t notice small changes, so he might respond in a way that looks strange. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. His brain just takes in information differently.” Clear. Kind. Non-apologetic. And it usually opens the door to patience instead of punishment.

This is where my witch swoops in. Let’s not treat every misread cue as a disaster. Collect the funny ones. Retell them. The robot dance under ambulance lights. The birthday party spent spinning with the disco ball. The classroom monotone mistaken for a threat until it was explained. These aren’t tragedies — they’re stories of difference, of growth, of navigating a world that doesn’t always bend easily. Because when children learn that being misunderstood is survivable — even laughable — they carry less fear and more courage. And courage is exactly what they need to keep stepping into the world, cues and all. Our children are not broken social machines. They are humans running on a different operating system. The world may not always “get” them, but with translation, practice, and a little humour, they can learn to get themselves across. And that, in the end, is the best armour we can give them. So when the robot dance starts under flashing ambulance lights, or a tall teenager’s monotone voice unsettles a classroom, or a birthday party ends with a child hiding under the table — don’t rush to cover it up. Smile, explain, and let the world see a child whose joy and difference are both worth protecting.