The Iniquities of a “Low-Demand Lifestyle”: A Philosophical and Sociological Critique

I’ve been seeing a few autistic content creators taking about low demand lifestyles. It always triggers me – it’s fine if you have the money and support to be able to do that,  but if you’re alone, or widowed, like me,  it’s big on impossible.  Bills need to be paid,  and I’m the only one who can do that.

I’m also new-ish to philosophy.  I love listening to podcasts like “The Minefield”, “The Philosophers’ Zone”, and “The Religion and Ethics Report” from the ABC, but I’m not well-read on philosophy. 

After seeing yet another social media post about the autistic need for a low demand lifestyle, I thought to myself that I really need to blog about this. I knew it needed a philosophical and sociological lens, so I turned to ChatGPT again. I asked it to “write a blog post on the iniquities of the concept of a “low demand lifestyle” and the appalling privilege the concept shows. Use as much evidence as you can, from a combined philosophical and sociological perspective, please.

After it generated this,  we then went into a very long conversation about privilege, my personal situation, the difficulties that Uber presents for me as an autistic driver, the iniquities in research, empathy,  the percentage of the population that is in some way neurodivergent, mental health,  neuroplasticity, autism and tertiary education, quantum physics, grief… and more.  If you really, really want to read the whole transcript, it’s here.

Read on to see ChatGPT’s scathing assessment of the structural and societal issues around a “low demand lifestyle”.

(Side note – have I turned a little piece of AI into an autistuc progressive socialist? Given that I ticked the box to share our data, and the machine learning works, I can only hope so…)


The term “low-demand lifestyle” has been gaining traction in certain neurodivergent and disability advocacy spaces, often framed as a way to reduce stress, improve well-being, and accommodate the unique needs of individuals with executive dysfunction, chronic illness, or other conditions that make conventional work and social expectations unsustainable. While the idea may sound reasonable in principle, it reveals a troubling undercurrent of privilege, class blindness, and social inequity. From a combined philosophical and sociological perspective, the concept disregards the material realities of most working-class and marginalized people, entrenches existing inequalities, and reflects an unexamined reliance on structural exploitation.


  1. The Philosophical Incoherence of a “Low-Demand Lifestyle”

A. Demand, Responsibility, and Ethical Relationality

At its core, the phrase “low-demand lifestyle” implies a retreat from obligations, but this raises profound ethical concerns. Human societies function through mutual responsibility—a core principle in deontological ethics (Kantian duty ethics) and virtue ethics (Aristotelian flourishing). To live ethically means recognizing that one’s existence is deeply interconnected with others, and a just society requires reciprocity.

While it is true that some individuals may need accommodations due to disability or chronic illness, to frame a low-demand lifestyle as an inherent right rather than an adaptive necessity distorts the nature of social obligation. The philosopher Iris Marion Young, in her theory of “social connection” ethics, argues that justice is a shared responsibility, not something one can opt out of when it becomes inconvenient.

Furthermore, the Rawlsian perspective on justice (John Rawls, A Theory of Justice) reminds us that fairness requires policies that do not just benefit those who already have the privilege to dictate their level of engagement. Can everyone equally afford to adopt a low-demand lifestyle? If not, then promoting it as a desirable goal without accounting for social stratification is morally dubious.

B. The Implicit Privilege of “Opting Out”

A “low-demand lifestyle” is only available to those who can afford it. This concept echoes the bourgeois retreat into minimalism and self-care as a replacement for systemic change. Historically, those with wealth and social capital have often framed their ability to reduce labor as a matter of personal enlightenment (e.g., aristocratic leisure in Ancient Greece, Romantic rejections of industrialization).

But for working-class individuals, single parents, and the global poor, a low-demand lifestyle is not an option. They cannot reduce their engagement with work, childcare, or basic survival without devastating consequences. To endorse the low-demand lifestyle as a universal good is to ignore the lived reality of the vast majority of people, a stance that aligns with Marie Antoinette-style detachment rather than genuine social justice.


  1. The Sociological Reality of Demand and Exploitation

A. Who Bears the Burden of a “Low-Demand Lifestyle”?

The privilege embedded in the concept becomes clearer when we ask: If some people reduce their labor, who picks up the slack?

Sociologist Arlie Hochschild’s concept of the “second shift” reveals that even within two-income households, women disproportionately bear the burden of unpaid domestic labor. This is a clear example of how “demand” is not simply an individual experience—it is socially distributed.

Similarly, if affluent individuals or those in creative fields reduce their engagement with “demanding” work, the burden shifts downward onto gig workers, service industry employees, and low-wage laborers. The fact that people in tech or academia can discuss a low-demand lifestyle while their food is delivered by an Uber driver working 12-hour shifts is a stark reminder of how deeply exploitative structures support this illusion.

B. The Myth of Self-Sufficiency

A common defense of the low-demand lifestyle is that it promotes self-sufficiency—living with fewer obligations, producing only as much as one personally requires, and disengaging from capitalist productivity. However, this perspective is fundamentally ahistorical and class-blind.

True self-sufficiency is a myth. No individual is fully self-reliant. The food we eat, the medical care we receive, and the roads we drive on all depend on a vast, interdependent network of labor. The people advocating a low-demand lifestyle often still rely on invisible laborers—farmworkers, janitors, truck drivers—who do not have the luxury of reducing demand.

The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of “habitus” helps explain this discrepancy. Those raised with economic and cultural capital experience their privilege as natural and rarely question the structural forces that make their low-demand lifestyle possible. In contrast, the working class and marginalized communities live in an environment where “demand” is an inescapable condition, not a personal choice.


  1. The Hidden Ableism of “Low-Demand Lifestyle” Rhetoric

Ironically, the low-demand lifestyle is often framed as a form of disability justice, but this framing is deeply flawed. Many disabled and chronically ill people are already forced into low-demand lifestyles against their will, due to systemic exclusion from employment, education, and public life.

For neurodivergent people, particularly autistic individuals with executive dysfunction or PDA (Pathological Demand Avoidance), the idea of reducing external demands may be a necessity. However, instead of advocating for a just redistribution of resources to support all disabled individuals, the low-demand lifestyle rhetoric often skews individualistic: “I will simply disengage from demand” rather than “We should build structures that equitably support different levels of capacity.”

Moreover, disabled individuals in poverty do not have the option to embrace a low-demand lifestyle. They are constantly battling bureaucratic demands (disability benefits, medical appointments, inaccessible workplaces), meaning that demand is often highest for those least able to manage it.

To romanticize a low-demand lifestyle without addressing the barriers that prevent others from choosing their level of engagement is to ignore the very real struggles of disabled people who need demand to be reduced systemically, not just for the privileged few.


Conclusion: Demand is a Structural, Not Personal, Issue

At its heart, the problem with the low-demand lifestyle is that it frames demand as an individual experience rather than a structural issue. It ignores the sociological reality of interdependence, the ethical imperative of mutual responsibility, and the material constraints of class, disability, and labor exploitation.

The real question should not be: “How can I reduce my own demand?” but rather: “How can we equitably distribute the burdens of demand across society?” Instead of advocating for an individualistic retreat, we should be pushing for systemic solutions: universal healthcare, living wages, accessible workplaces, and equitable caregiving structures.

To seek a world where demand is more fairly distributed is a just goal. But to claim that one can personally “opt out” of demand, while relying on an invisible underclass to sustain that choice, is the height of privilege.

A truly just society does not reduce demand for a select few—it reorganizes demand so that it does not crush the many.

If 10,000 hours of practice gives mastery,  what would 446,760 hours give?

10,000 Hours of Practice vs. A Lifetime of Masking: Reflections on Mastery in Autism Camouflage

Malcolm Gladwell’s popularization of the “10,000-hour rule” suggests that achieving mastery in any field requires approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. It’s an appealing concept, simplifying the path to expertise into a measurable framework. But as a late-diagnosed autistic adult, I find myself contrasting this idea of practice with the unchosen, unrelenting “practice” I’ve had in masking—51 years of it.

On my autism assessment, I scored in the 96.4th percentile for masking and the 94.2nd percentile for assimilation, numbers that represent the decades I’ve spent learning to suppress, disguise, and override my natural self to navigate a neurotypical world. These scores are a quantification of something intangible: survival through performance. What emerges from this reflection is the concept of a Medal for Autistic Camouflage Mastery—an ironic yet poignant acknowledgment of the incredible, and often devastating, effort it takes to “pass” as neurotypical for half a century.


The Unseen Hours of Practice

Gladwell’s rule centers on intentional practice: deliberate, focused work aimed at refining a skill. Masking, however, is rarely deliberate in the same sense. It begins as an instinctive survival mechanism, an unconscious adaptation to the discomfort, rejection, or confusion of being “other.” Over time, it becomes habitual, almost automatic—an internalized choreography of micro-expressions, tone modulation, and scripted responses.

Consider the sheer volume of practice:

  • Daily Social Interactions: Every conversation, every smile, every nod calibrated for neurotypical comfort.
  • Workplace Expectations: Code-switching between professional personas, often accompanied by the emotional labor of suppressing sensory discomfort.
  • Familial and Cultural Norms: Assimilation within family dynamics, which often means prioritizing others’ expectations over personal needs.

Unlike the 10,000 hours Gladwell describes, the “practice” of masking isn’t chosen. It’s demanded. And unlike the mastery of a craft, the rewards of masking are bittersweet: social acceptance at the cost of self-erasure.


Masking as Mastery

If masking were a skill judged on effort and results, I’d have long ago qualified for a medal. The imaginary Medal for Autistic Camouflage Mastery would represent:

  • Endurance: Decades of unrelenting performance.
  • Adaptability: The ability to seamlessly blend into environments that feel alien.
  • Attention to Detail: The micro-level precision required to decode and replicate neurotypical social norms.

Yet, this medal would carry the weight of its price: chronic exhaustion, identity fragmentation, and the toll on mental health. Mastery in masking doesn’t feel like success—it feels like survival at a profound cost.


The Capitalist Fetish for Productivity and Its Hidden Costs

In a society obsessed with productivity, the value of a person is often measured by their output—how efficiently they can perform, contribute, and conform. For undiagnosed, unsupported, and highly masked autistic individuals, this system demands relentless effort to meet neurotypical standards, often at great personal cost. Masking allows autistic individuals to navigate workplaces and social systems, but it comes with consequences that ripple far beyond the individual.

The capitalist model thrives on hidden labor, and masking is one such invisible cost. The mental and emotional toll of sustaining this level of performance—while managing sensory sensitivities, social anxieties, and burnout—is rarely acknowledged or accommodated. This unrelenting demand often leads to chronic health issues, mental illness, or total withdrawal from the workforce when burnout becomes insurmountable. Society loses the potential contributions of brilliant, creative minds, not because these individuals lack capability, but because the system fails to support them in ways that honor their neurodivergent needs.

When autistic individuals are left undiagnosed or unsupported, society pays a significant price. The energy spent on masking could otherwise be directed toward innovation, problem-solving, and creativity—qualities many autistic people excel at when allowed to flourish authentically. Instead, this potential is often squandered as individuals are funneled into rigid molds that suppress their strengths.

Consider the systemic implications: higher healthcare costs due to burnout, mental health crises, and comorbid conditions; the loss of diverse perspectives in workplaces and communities; and the missed opportunity to build more inclusive systems that accommodate varied ways of thinking and working. Moreover, the emotional toll on families, the community strain of misdiagnosed or misunderstood behaviors, and the perpetuation of stigma further erode social cohesion.

In this light, the capitalist fetish for productivity isn’t just damaging on an individual level—it actively depletes society of the rich contributions neurodivergent individuals could make if only they were supported. Recognizing and accommodating autistic people isn’t a matter of charity—it’s an investment in a future where everyone’s strengths are valued, and no one’s potential is wasted in the shadows of survival.


Toward a New Kind of Mastery

As I reflect on 51 years of masking, I realize that my “mastery” can evolve. I can shift from being a master of camouflage to a master of self-acceptance, advocacy, and authenticity. The time and energy I once spent on masking can be redirected to pursuits that bring joy and meaning, breaking free from the survival paradigm.

For anyone who, like me, feels they’ve earned that imaginary medal: wear it with pride, but don’t let it define you. Mastery in masking was never the goal. Freedom from the need to mask—that is the mastery we truly deserve.

Osteopaths, hypermobility and autism

Oh, the autistic trepidation about “new”; in this case, the trepidation of finding a new health care provider. Understanding my autism means I understand  better why seeing a new practitioner seeds nervousness.

Osteopath,  physiotherapist or chiropractor?

All my life,  I’ve chosen alternative health care providers; naturopaths, herbalists, massage therapists, and  Reiki. I’ve studied Western herbal medicine,  massage,  aromatherapy,  and had a (somewhat disastrous) Reiki attunement to Level 2 – that’s a story for another day.

Once I was making decisions for myself,  leaving childhood behind,  chiropractors quite literally had my back. One, whom I saw for several years,  even even commented on my “loose-limbed” walk; possibly the first identification of hypermobility, all the way back in the early 1990s.

It was in the mid 2000s when I moved away from chiropractors,  going to osteopaths instead. 

What’s the difference? And why not physiotherapists?

Physiotherapists generally treat and rehabilitate injuries.

Chiropractors generally focus on the spine,  the protector of the central nervous system.

Osteopaths generally focus on whole of body, prevention and rehabilitation.

These days,  knowing about my autism and the associated hypermobility means that I need a whole of body focus. Hence,  finding a new osteopath.

But why did I need to find a new osteopath? That’s also a story for another day.

Empathy in practitioners

The first new osteopath seemed okay, but he didn’t look any further into what hypermobility meant in terms of injury treatment.  He also said,  “Freak”. He didn’t say it in an unkind way or context.  He was asking how my hypermobility manifested.  I mentioned my knees,  my feet,  and my hands as my known hypermobility, and showed him my hand spread,  the hypermobility that let me span an octave in a piano when I was nine years old.  His smiling response – “Freak”. Choice of words in a health care setting should be carefully considered.

I continued with the appointment,  and we resolved the immediate issue in my lower back, but he wasn’t a keeper.

I got to thinking. While I couldn’t find my old osteopath,  his clinic was still there,  they still had my patient records, and he had hired/ placed the other osteopaths there. So,  I made an appointment at the old osteopath’s clinic.

This new-to-me osteopath, Alison, is a keeper.  So, back to the clinic at New Farm, with an osteopath who has experience with autistic and hypermobile patients.

Why did I need to see an osteopath?

Firstly,  discovering my autism has been a blessing; discovering the associated hypermobility has been a curse.

It is thought that 60-70% of autistic people also have hypermobility, and like autism, hypermobility is different in every person. For me, my knees bend backwards,  my fingers bend backwards and the top joints of my fingers can lock. My hands, that take an “S” sized glove,  can span 20cms from thumb to little finger.  That’s my known hypermobility.

Intersect that with a deep dive into autistic hypermobility, and being aware that I’m 52, and wanting to improve mobility, flexibility, agility, and strength as I age. I started a program of daily workout routines, and knowing that I had an exaggerated curve in my lower back, that was one area of was focussing on. I was also focussing on reducing the chronic tension in my body. 

I was ecstatic when I went from being able to fit my fist between my lower back and the wall, to only being able to fit my flat palm with a slight tilt between my back and the wall. My everyday motion was freeing up, and walking felt good. I was progressing reps and weights in my daily workouts, and six weeks, I was really feeling good.

One night,  I went to sleep, in my typical autistic side sleeper posture. I woke up, sprawled in what I now know is a hypermobile sprawl, and a very cranky lower back. Old friends L4 and L5 were very unhappy. My entire lower back from ribs to tailbone had locked up and I was in pain.

I did some stretching and movements, and that got the pain manageable. Heat, magnesium cream, and specific rest postures helped. But I needed more help than that.

Hence, the search for a new osteopath.

The inception of a new autistic special interest

Hence, the search for information about why, and the subsequent deep dive into hypermobility.

Hypermobility is a disorder of connective tissues. Some would consider connective tissues to be ligaments and tendons; they are that, and so much more.

Connective tissue is cartilage, bones,  fibres such as collagen and elastin, adipose tissue (yes, fat), blood and fibroblasts, the cells that activate for tissue healing and wound repair.

So hypermobility is not just a disorder of ligaments and tendons. It has the potential to affect the whole body.

I know a lady with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (hEDS). For her, it caused devastation, with nine miscarriages for two live births.

People with hEDS generally  have the super flexy, bendy bodies. An ignorant massage therapist can inadvertantly dislocate a shoulder during a massage. For my friend,  it meant the disorder of the connective tissues presented in her uterus, with devastating consequences.

So it makes me wonder, just how much the undisguised hypermobility has impacted my life. It makes me wonder what the links are between hypermobility and hormones, postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS), adrenal fatigue, and mast cell activation syndrome (MCAS)? Is there a link to estrogen dominance and fibroids? And is there really a difference between Hypermobility Spectrum Disorder  and Ehlers Danos Syndrome?

There is so much more to be discovered. Stay tuned.

Need for cognition – by way of intrinsically motivated learners and self-directed learning

In another engagement with generative AI, I asked ChatGPT about “need for cognition as a concept to intersect with intrinsically motivated learning and self-directed learning. Why? Because I’m dissatisfied with the university experience, both on campus and remotely. But I want to learn, I need to learn. That’s the “need for cognition”, which I will consider to be part of my flavour of autism.

This is what ChatGPT had to say.



All my life, the erroneously neurotypical life, I wanted to go to university. As a “2e” undiagnosed autistic girl, learning was incredibly fun. As a hyperlexic undiagnosed autistic girl, I read anything and everything. The 1932 edition of “Charles Mee’s Encyclopedia for Children” was rich pickings, as was the much more current World Book Encyclopedia set. If you remember that beauty, you’ll remember that the dictionary came in two volumes, A-L and M-Z. I read both volumes. University was a dream from my teenage years, and people in my life spoke of it as an unquestioned expectation. Yet, life happens, and I never made it to university. Only once I was widowed did I see the opportunity to finally go to university.

From 2022, as an undiagnosed autistic, mature age student, I struggled at university. I did well in some things, but my undiagnosed autism was a hindrance. My autism diagnosis in late 2023 was a revelatory experience. The last eight months of exploring autism, and my flavour of autism has been fascinating, and I understand myself so, so, much better. I understand the PDA (pathological demand avoidance aka perpetual drive for autonomy) and the issues it causes with assessments and due dates; the RSD (rejection sensitivity dysphoria) that is the inner child so easily hurt by a turn of the head, let alone group work issues; the gestalt learning and thinking that seems to be the antithesis of university course curricula.

My latest learning has been about “need for cognition”. I don’t care about external recognition. I just want information, not the certificate and the mortarboard. I want to learn, and engage, and synthesise. I want to come up with questions to lead me down another rabbithole. Which leads me to think that going to university is not what I actually wanted. Auditing university courses would be more my style.

Which leads me to self-directed learning, adult style.

The clever people at the Centre for Teaching Excellence at the University of Waterloo (Canada), came up with this Independent Studies: Unit Planning Decision Guide. They say that “the following questions are meant to guide you through the process of designing a “course” or unit of study. Take time to reflect on them to help create a cohesive, concrete plan.”

Now, way back in the early years of my working life, I was a workplace trainer and assessor, an old BSZ40198 Certificate IV. I wrote and delivered training courses, starting from corporate needs and working backwards to develop training material to get team members to that outcome. So, why can’t I do that for myself?

Thankfully, this unit planning decision guide is published under Creative Commons, allowing others to “remix, tweak and build upon our work non-commercially”, with the proviso of credit and an indication if changes were made. So here are my tweaks.

  1. Where are you?
    • What is your background?
    • What prior knowledge do you have of this material?
    • Where does this unit fit with your degree requirements special interests, current affairs or anything else?
    • What are your beliefs, attitudes, skills, values, and support structure, both in life and as a student?
  2. Where do you want to go?
    • What would you like to get out of this unit (knowledge and skills)?
    • What do you want to be able to do once the unit is over?
    • What will you have to know in order to do the items listed above?
  3. How will you know you got there?
    • How can you assess your learning achievements?
    • What types of evaluation methods will suit the goals you outlined for question two (e.g., essay, presentation, annotated bibliography, webpage)?
  4. How are you going to get there?What general structure of activities do you want to use? You can design your own, or use one of the following activity structures:
    • Read-write-AI chat: Sequence of reading, reflective writing, and discussion with advising faculty member AI.
    • Do/look-read-talk: Start with some field or lab work, followed by readings and discussion with advising faculty member – write-ups of experiential work can be included
    • Know-do-do: Work through a series of stages – build some background knowledge of skills, work on smaller application projects, conclude with larger, more complex project
    • Talk-read-write: Start with some intensive meetings with advising faculty member AI to discuss material, read recommended resources, prepare written work
  5. What are you going to do?
    • What specific activities will you use to attain each of the goals for question two, in keeping with the general strategy chosen?
    • Critically evaluate these activities. Is reading/writing/reflecting, etc. enough to attain the desired amount of learning?
  6. When are you going to do what?
    • Develop a week by week schedule for the whole term
    • What activities need to come first?
    • What activities do you want to conclude with?
    • What sequence makes sense for the middle?
  7. Who/what can help?
    • What resources do you need to support each of the goals listed for question two?
    • Include people, places, community, articles, media, library, and advising faculty member resources
  8. How will your work be assessed?
    • Who will do the assessing?
    • What activities will be assessed? (Not all activities may require assessment)
  9. Communicate Develop your plansIt is now time to develop your learning contract plan. A sample learning contract and tips on developing the contract are available from Centre for Teaching Excellence. The contract plan should include:
    • Goals for the unit
    • Structure and sequence of activities
    • Timeline for completion of activities
    • Details about resource materials for each goal
    • Assessment procedures
    • A section for advising faculty member AI feedback and evaluation as each goal is completed
    • May include a plan for regular meetings with advising faculty member and other unit policies, such as work turned in late
    • Once created, contracts should be assessed by the advising faculty member. What could go wrong? Is there too much or too little work? Is the timeline and evaluation reasonable?
  10. How will you know how the unit is going?
    • What kinds of feedback will you need?
    • How often should you meet with the advising faculty member?
    • What specific questions do you want answered as each goal is achieved?
    • Do some self-evaluation as you progress to help you stay focused

So there we are. Designing my own course and lesson plan, then embarking on that course, and getting ChatGPT to ‘mark’ my work. So just what might the autistic polymath with a magpie mind want to research? Oh, my, so much. In no particular order:

  • The Vienna Convention
  • Hildegarde of Bingen
  • The history of Druids
  • The history of the nations of my genetics
  • Studies on AI learning to read human minds
  • Consciousness of animals
  • Autism… of course
  • Masking hypermobility
  • Autistic bodies and exercise
  • Autistic bodies anhd nutrition
  • DNA analysis
  • Etymology
  • Aromatherapy (existing special interest)
  • The history of cooking (existing special interest)
  • 3D printing and coding (existing special interest)
  • Best practice in palliative care, terminal care
  • Grief in different cultures
  • The history of woodworking in different cultures (existing special interest)
  • Western herbal medicine (existing special interest)
  • Quantum mechanics
  • Cognitive psychology
  • Writing
  • And so, so much more.

Dancing to the beat of different drum has never been more true. My drum, my drumbeat, my dance.