Today, we should have been opening the doors to the UK’s premier exhibition dedicated to neurodiversity. We should have been celebrating, connecting, learning, and empowering change together. But today hasn’t gone the way I had hoped. It hasn’t gone the way I had dreamed.
Back in 2019, I had an idea — to create a national exhibition for dyslexia. It was set to launch in March 2020, but like so many things, the pandemic forced us to postpone. We waited, worked, and in March 2022, we made it happen. In 2023, we grew into the UK’s leading exhibition dedicated to dyslexia and neurodiversity. And by March 2024, we included the UK’s first Dyscalculia Show. Every step forward was built on passion, perseverance, and belief.
Today, I was meant to open the biggest event yet — the most ambitious version of the show so far. I built it as a neurodivergent individual who wanted to change the way we understand neurodiversity — including dyslexia, dyscalculia, ADHD, autism, and mental health. I wanted to change how we support students in education, how we empower parents and carers at home, how we uplift individuals who face daily struggles like mine, and how we make neuroinclusion a true reality in every workplace.
I did it while living through my own neurodiverse challenges — through mental health struggles, the heartbreaking bereavement of my daughter, my wife’s ongoing battle with kidney failure, and the ever-growing weight of financial pressures. I’m not a huge events company. I’m just one person who believed in change. And with a small, dedicated team and contractors who gave everything they could, we achieved more than I ever thought possible.
But now, I’m burnt out. I’ve lost my fight. I didn’t know what to do next. I had to ask for help, seek advice, and make impossible decisions. I know people are upset. I know some are angry. And I understand.
I’ve lost the dream — something I poured six years of my life into. I’ve never had endless resources, just the strength of a community I’ve proudly served since I was diagnosed with dyslexia at the age of nine. This wasn’t just a show. It was my life’s work.
So, what comes next? That’s a hard question. Right now, I don’t know. But out of all the tears, the stress, the sleepless nights, and the darkness, I want to say thank you.
Thank you to the exhibitors who helped us deliver three unforgettable shows.
Thank you to the contractors who supported me despite immense pressure.
Thank you to the speakers who created a legacy of knowledge, inspiration, and community.
Thank you to every delegate who came, who learned, who shared, and who helped us build something special.
And thank you to the amazing individuals — the team who stood beside me, fought with me, and gave everything to try and make this work.
It may not be there today. But the memories, the connections, the impact — they will live on. This may be the end of the show, but it’s not the end of the mission.
Time will heal. But right now, time is hard. I hope that, in some way, you understand how I’m feeling.
Thank you for believing in what we tried to build.
Arran