In Defense of the Smiths: Why Their “Weirdness” Is a Masterclass in Neurodivergent Authenticity

Leyla Stuber
27. Okt.
7 Min. Lesezeit

Every few months, the internet rediscovers its outrage for the Smith family.

Another podcast dissects their marriage.

Another viral video mocks Jaden’s philosophies.

Another wave of comments dismisses Willow’s emotional depth.

But beneath that relentless cycle of judgment lies a question few seem to be asking: What if we’re fundamentally misinterpreting what we see?

From a neurodivergent perspective, the Smiths aren’t a “train wreck.” They’re one of the most visible examples of a family navigating the world seemingly unmasked — doing the messy, public work of healing and self-discovery in a way that resonates deeply with those who think and feel differently.

Disclaimer

The thoughts expressed here are grounded in personal interpretation and empathy from a neurodivergent viewpoint. While Will Smith has publicly shared his dyslexia diagnosis, any other observations about neurodivergence are speculative and based on recognizable behavioural patterns, not formal diagnoses. This isn’t a clinical claim — it’s a story seen through my lens. Every public narrative about the Smiths is a construction, shaped by media, culture, and bias. This one simply centers the patterns and resonances that neurodivergent people may recognize as familiar.

Decoding the “Weirdness”:

Neurodivergence Under a Spotlight

What society often labels as “weird” or “cringe” in the Smiths can be seen as familiar patterns of neurodivergent expression — a way of being that prioritizes unfiltered truth over social comfort, often misunderstood by a neurotypical world.

Jaden’s Philosophical Depth: When a young Jaden Smith spoke about abstract concepts or expressed a preference for deep conversations over peer small talk, he was labeled arrogant. To a neurodivergent mind, this reads as resonance — skipping social pleasantries to connect on a level of genuine intellectual and emotional substance.

I get that. As a teenager, I didn’t like my peers either. I thought being a teen was incredibly stupid. I always had older friends and found the endless drama — who liked who, what to wear, who sat with whom — unbearably dull. I wanted to talk about ethical change, the environment, history, philosophy. To me, those things mattered. And yes, it could easily come across as arrogant or “I’m better than you,” but I genuinely didn’t understand how those trivial things could occupy people’s minds so much — while there were so many more fascinating problems to explore. (Hello, autism.) I simply didn’t know yet that I was the “not normal” one.

Willow’s Radical Vulnerability: Willow’s open discussions about anxiety, identity, and existential dread are not performative drama. They’re reflections of an intense inner world and deep emotional processing that many ND people know well. Her art feels like an act of radical honesty — the kind that makes others uncomfortable only because it’s so real.

Jada’s Embodied Introspection: On Red Table Talk, Jada’s methodical, often blunt exploration of trauma, love, and pain is a form of public processing. That drive to dissect and categorize complex emotions isn’t self-indulgence — it’s how many of us heal.

I literally do the same in my head: hour-long “red table” conversations with different versions of myself — analyzing, exploring, categorizing, feeling through every angle. For an analytical mind, that kind of internal dialogue isn’t overthinking; it’s integration. And some people just integrate better aloud.

Jada often gets labeled a narcissist for that openness — but did you know that autism, especially in women, is frequently misread as narcissism? The same emotional intensity, introspection, and boundary confusion that can be signs of trauma or divergence are often misinterpreted through a pathologizing lens.

Society punishes depth when it doesn’t come wrapped in social polish. Their collective “crime” isn’t dysfunction; it’s their refusal to wear the masks that make others comfortable.

And yes, you could say it’s easy to refuse the mask if you’re that privileged — easier, maybe, but definitely not easy. Visibility doesn’t cancel vulnerability. They’re a family of intense feelers trying to live truthfully in a culture allergic to it.

“Out of Touch” or Deeply Focused?

Critics often use the family’s wealth to dismiss their experiences, claiming they’re “disconnected from reality.” But this ignores what they do with their privilege — actions that often mirror the focused, justice-driven passion seen in neurodivergent special interests.

Jaden’s Eco-Activism: His long-term dedication to providing clean water through JUST Water and his I Love You food truck for the unhoused isn’t a celebrity whim. It’s a sustained, deeply held commitment — the kind of purpose-driven obsession many neurodivergent people will recognise.

Willow’s Mental-Health Advocacy: Willow consistently uses her music and platform to explore mental health, turning her own struggles into collective healing.

Jada’s Public Dialogue: Jada has transformed her life lessons into a public forum, driven by a need to foster understanding on a wider scale.

Their truth may be curated — but it’s still theirs. In a world where most people filter joy through fake smiles, I’d rather see someone filter pain through honesty.

And yes, they monetize their vulnerability. So what? We don’t call therapists sellouts for charging money to help others heal — so why do we sneer when artists do the same?

Our discomfort with monetized openness says more about how we value money than about their integrity. We’ve built a world where suffering is acceptable only when it’s quiet and unpaid. God forbid you heal publicly and earn a living doing it.

They use their resources not for distraction, but for deep dives into introspection, creativity, and service. Honestly, if more rich kids used their privilege to feed people and heal publicly, we’d be in a far kinder world.

Healing in Public: Chaos to Some, Courage to Others

The public’s discomfort peaks whenever the Smiths discuss their relationship and personal struggles. Their marriage has been called “broken” and their parenting “strange.”But through a neurodivergent lens, it looks different.

A Different Relationship Script: Will and Jada’s shift from a conventional marriage toward what they call a “life partnership” is, to me, a rejection of social scripts that don’t work for them. As someone who lives and loves polyamorously, I see their transparency not as failure but as adaptation. They’re experimenting — maybe clumsily — with honesty, autonomy, and unconditional care. That’s courageous work, especially under public scrutiny.

From a neurotypical lens, such openness can look like oversharing. And yes — boundaries matter. But sharing through art or media isn’t the same as violating someone’s personal space; it’s an invitation, not an intrusion. We choose to listen. When people call it “too much,” what they often mean is “too real.” Transparency isn’t automatically virtuous — but when it helps others recognize themselves, it becomes something quietly radical.

There’s even a name for part of this misunderstanding: the double empathy problem. Many neurodivergent people show empathy by telling their own, similar stories — as a way to say, “I hear you, I’ve been there.” Neurotypical listeners often mistake that for self-centeredness or attention-seeking, when in fact it’s an attempt at deep connection. The Smiths, whether consciously or not, communicate that way — and society keeps misreading it.

Growth in Motion: We’re conditioned to prefer redemption arcs that are neat and finished. The Smiths show us the raw, uncomfortable middle. They process pain and growth in real time — a nightmare for PR teams but a relief for those of us who heal by thinking aloud.

I know that impulse well. I’ve often been called “attention-seeking” for sharing intimate, vulnerable truths online. But the irony is — I actually hate attention. What drives me isn’t a hunger for eyes, but a hunger for honesty. When I share my inner world, what I’m really saying is: Hey you, yes you. You’re not alone. We are simply unseen — that’s why I’m showing myself to you now.

Privilege and Accountability

Yes, their safety net changes the stakes — but it also allows them to do work most people can’t afford to. Their privilege doesn’t invalidate their pain; it gives them room to make sense of it in public, for those who can’t and/or don't want to.

It’s easy to forget that healing also takes time, energy, and safety — things not everyone has. The Smiths leverage their privilege to explore emotional work many of us push aside just to survive. That doesn’t make them saints — just free to face what others can’t right now.

And when they falter, as Will did at the Oscars, it’s important to hold two truths at once.

What he did was wrong — but wrongness doesn’t erase humanness.

We condemn the visible breakdowns while ignoring the invisible ones that happen every day in homes, schools, workplaces. His reaction was public; our own often aren’t. He paid the price for being seen — and then took accountability. That matters. Authentic expression isn’t always peaceful, but denial of those emotions is far more dangerous.

The Smiths as a Mirror for a Neurotypical World

Ultimately, the intense reaction to the Smiths reflects society’s own fears: a fear of emotional transparency, a discomfort with difference, and an intolerance for anyone who refuses to perform “normalcy.”

Jada’s honesty about desire confronts our fear of messy truths in relationships.

Will’s emotional outburst at the Oscars forced a global conversation about masculinity, shame, and trauma. Their children’s unwavering idealism reminds us of the authentic selves many of us silenced just to survive.

And this ties into something else that frustrates me deeply: society preaches “be proud of yourself, never be ashamed” — but the moment someone genuinely embodies that, they’re branded “arrogant, delusional, toxic.”

The Smiths commit that unforgivable social sin of believing in their own worth out loud. And people hate them for it.

We say we want honesty, but we only want it from those we don’t envy. The outrage isn’t about excess vulnerability — it’s about seeing someone refuse to play the role we assigned them. If you don’t like it, scroll on. But don’t mistake your discomfort for moral superiority.

What I See Instead

I see a family that values therapy, introspection, and growth.I see innovation, spirituality, art, and generosity.I see pain, yes — but also accountability and love.

They’re not heroes. They’re human — sometimes graceful, sometimes messy, always learning.

What I admire isn’t perfection but their willingness to be seen mid-process. They remind us that healing doesn’t come prepackaged and that even immense privilege can’t insulate you from human complexity.

Their truth doesn’t have to match ours to matter. It simply asks to be witnessed.

Final Thought

The Smiths aren’t the celebrities to cancel; they’re the ones to learn from. Because if we had more people like them — imperfect, self-aware, unashamedly human — we might finally stop mistaking vulnerability for weakness and the beautiful, complex “weirdness” of neurodivergence for something wrong.