Somewhere in nearly every elementary school classroom, a well-meaning adult says it without a second thought: “Say hi to your friends.” “Everybody here is a friend.” The word gets handed out generously, a kind of shorthand for “these are the people in your space.” For most kids, that vagueness doesn’t matter much. They quietly sort out, on their own timeline, which classmates are real friends and which are simply classmates.
For neurodivergent kids, that sorting-out process often doesn’t happen automatically. As they move into middle school and puberty, the gap between what they’ve been told and what’s actually true starts to matter a great deal more.
Dr. Kim Pinckney, an instructional designer, performance improvement coach, and special education advocate, has watched this unfold with her own son, who has an expressive and receptive speech delay. For years, one of his IEP goals was learning to introduce himself and start a conversation with peers, a reasonable goal for a young child. But goals like that rarely get revisited as kids get older and their bodies change. “It’s one thing when you do that when a kiddo is cute and little,” Pinckney says. “It’s another thing when that kid is five-eight and looks grown, but is approaching a stranger the same way he did in kindergarten.”
The mismatch, Pinckney argues, is rarely about the child doing something wrong. It’s about adults not updating the caveats that go along with a skill as a child matures. Introducing yourself is still a good skill. Recognizing when someone isn’t interested is the caveat nobody teaches alongside it.
Part of the problem, Pinckney says, is language. Therapists, teachers, and well-meaning adults routinely refer to peers and even clients as “friends,” collapsing a whole spectrum of relationships into a single, comforting word. In the short term, it builds safety. In the long term, it can leave a child without the tools to recognize when someone isn’t actually acting like a friend at all.
That gap becomes especially painful in adolescence, when peer relationships take on new emotional weight. Pinckney describes having to gently, repeatedly show her son the difference between real reciprocity and someone who is simply being polite, sometimes after watching him hold onto hope for a friendship that wasn’t there. It isn’t a comfortable role for a parent to play, but she’s found that kids don’t need to be protected from disappointment so much as they need someone willing to name reality honestly and stay close while they feel it.
That honesty extends beyond friendship. Pinckney recalls dropping her son off at a new school and telling him to have a great day, only to watch him pause, turn around, and say, “Mom, I don’t know what type of day I’m going to have.” It was a request, she realized, not for false certainty, but for truth and steady presence instead.
The bigger developmental task of middle school, then, isn’t just managing hormones or new social dynamics. It’s building a shared, honest vocabulary, one that distinguishes friendly from friend, that lets kids feel the sting of an uncertain day without a parent trying to talk them out of it, and that gives neurodivergent kids the same clear-eyed tools their peers are often left to figure out on their own.