Neurofilm Spotlight #3: Beam Me Up, Scotty — A Neurodivergent Reading of the StarTreks Transporter Beam

In Star Trek, the transporter is clean. Predictable. Dignified.

No need to navigate corridors lined with awkward glances. No decoding social protocols. No getting cornered by someone who wants to “pick your brain” in the lift.

Just say the word —

“Four to beam up.”

And you’re gone. Atomised into light and logic, on your way to somewhere quieter. Somewhere kinder.

For many neurodivergent people, this wasn’t just science fiction. It was metaphor. Wish fulfilment. A sensory-safe, emotionally-consensual exit strategy disguised as tech.

A quiet, unspoken prayer dressed up in phasers and Federation logic.

The Neurodivergent Reality

Talk to enough autistic or ADHD adults and the pattern shows up faster than a Romulan cloaking device:

• “I used to hide in the toilets at school during lunch.”

• “Supermarkets melt my brain — the lights, the noise, the decisions.”

• “I dissociate in work meetings just to survive the jargon tsunami.”

The through-line?

Get me out — and fast.

Cue the familiar voice, echoing from deep space (and deeper nervous systems):

“Scotty, get me out of here.”

What the Transporter Actually Symbolises

The transporter isn’t just a sci-fi prop. It’s autonomy in action.

From a neurodivergent point of view, it becomes shorthand for:

• Consent-based transition

You don’t move until you say so. No nudging. No assumptions. No “shouldn’t you just…”

• Sensory recalibration

From full-volume planet chaos to the warm hum of the Enterprise. That’s not relocation. That’s regulation.

• Cognitive clarity

No route planning. No waiting in a queue with a migraine. Just shimmer and arrive.

It’s the assistive tech of dreams. No forms. No assessments. No paperwork to prove your overwhelm.

The Pattern Repeats (Over and Over Again)

Across TOS, Next Gen, Voyager, and beyond — whenever the mission derails or the situation gets socially feral, someone calls for transport:

• Mission gone sideways? → “Beam us out — now!”

• Uncomfortable diplomatic dinner party? → “Lock onto our coordinates.”

• Emotional meltdown incoming? → “Emergency transport!”

And the ship? It doesn’t argue. Doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t make you feel dramatic.

It just responds with:

“Energising.”

Imagine a world where that was the default response to someone saying, “I’m overstimulated.”

What It Sounds Like Down Here

We might not have starships, but we still send up the flare:

• “I need to go home — now.”

• “I’m tapped. Too loud. Too much.”

• “Can we rain-check? I’m cooked.”

  
  

But unlike Starfleet, the real world usually answers with:

“But we’ve already booked the table.”

“Just push through.”

“You seemed fine a minute ago.”

Spoiler alert: we weren’t. We were masking.

The Deeper Pull

What Star Trek offered — perhaps accidentally — was radical:

A future where transitions are seamless, exits are dignified, and knowing your limits makes you competent, not fragile.

The transporter didn’t make you weak.

It made you wise.

You recognised the red alert before everything exploded.

For every kid who fantasised about disappearing mid-maths test…

For every adult who daydreams about vanishing halfway through a corporate icebreaker…

The transporter isn’t fiction.

It’s a metaphor for agency in a world that punishes presence without compliance.

Final Coordinates

We don’t live on the Enterprise. But the longing’s still there.

We want exits that don’t require explanations.

We want our “no” to be enough.

We want a shimmer, not a shutdown.

So if you’re standing in a crowd, already halfway dissociated…

If your system is flickering and you need to eject with grace…

Just whisper it — to the sky, to your partner, to yourself:

Beam me up, Scotty

There’s nothing for me down here.

Or, in plain 2025 speak:

Let me shimmer my way out — before I melt.