There are moments in life when everything shifts—but not always in the loud, dramatic way we expect. Sometimes, it happens quietly. Sitting on your couch, laptop open, camera on. You’re wrapped in a blanket, clutching a comfort item without even realizing it, trying to hold your breath steady while your therapist looks at you gently through the screen and says the words that will change everything:

“You’re Autistic.”

And suddenly, nothing is ordinary anymore.

I didn’t expect those words to hit so hard. I had suspected. I had researched. I thought I was ready. But nothing prepares you for how strange and heavy it feels to say the words out loud:

I am Autistic.

I have Autism.

Even now, I hesitate to say them. I catch my breath. Because while the diagnosis fits—so perfectly it explains holes I didn’t even realize I’d been living around—it also unearths something deeper. Something raw. Something knotted in my chest.

Shame.

Not because being Autistic is shameful—but because of everything I was taught to believe before I knew who I was. Because for most of my life, Autism was whispered about like a secret, shrouded in misunderstandings and misconceptions that painted a distorted picture of reality. In my family, it was the thing we didn’t talk about, a specter lurking in the corner of our conversations, the invisible wall that kept us from engaging openly. The thing we hoped wasn’t the case, as if our collective denial could somehow alter the truth. The thing that was too complicated, too uncomfortable, too stigmatized, was often reduced to mere labels and stereotypes, denying the richness of the experiences and perspectives that come with being Autistic.

It was something that was diagnosed for boys and boys alone, a narrow view that sidelined countless others who also deserved recognition and understanding. My nephew being one of those boys, his diagnosis seemed to carry the weight of unspoken fears and unexpressed emotions, a stark reminder that clarity and acceptance were often overshadowed by societal expectations and familial silence.

It was never meant to be my label.
I was “too smart,” “too social,” “too creative.”
I didn’t look Autistic.
As if Autism comes with a costume and cue cards.

But here’s the thing:
Autism is a spectrum. And no two people experience it the same way.

This diagnosis didn’t force me into a box. It opened a door.
It helped me see clearly—for the first time—how I’ve always existed.

So why has it been so hard to accept?

Growing up, I often sensed that I was different from my peers, navigating a world that felt overwhelming and confusing. I was the child who experienced sensory overload in loud environments, the one who struggled to make eye contact and could become deeply absorbed in my interests. I learned to mask these traits, to adapt and fit into the expectations that surrounded me, but it left me feeling detached and isolated.

When I received my diagnosis, it was both a relief and a burden. Relief because I finally had a word to articulate my experiences, a framework that made sense of the struggles I’d faced. Yet, it was also heavy with the weight of societal stigma, laden with the fears of how others might perceive me. The challenges of navigating relationships, engaging in social situations, and addressing the misconceptions about Autism loomed large.

It’s essential to recognize that the journey of understanding what it means to be Autistic extends far beyond the diagnosis itself. It invites deep reflection and the reshaping of identities. The feelings of shame, however, don’t vanish overnight. They linger, tied to years of internalized beliefs about what it meant to be ‘normal’ and the unspoken rules that seemed to govern social existence.

But as time passes, I am sure I will begin to embrace my identity with more confidence. I seek out communities where I can connect with others who share similar experiences, where our stories can intertwine, and where I can find support among those who understand the nuances of being Autistic. I joined several on Facebook and even on Discord through my Therapy Provider. I realize that my neurodiversity is not a flaw but a unique way in which I perceive the world. This recognition is empowering, shifting my narrative from one of shame to one of acceptance.

The journey is ongoing, filled with moments of self-discovery and healing. By sharing my story, I hope to challenge the stigma surrounding Autism and shed light on the intricacies of living as an Autistic person. Through vulnerability comes strength, and through community, I have found a place where my differences are celebrated rather than shunned. Ultimately, my path is uniquely mine, woven with challenges and triumphs, leading me towards a deeper understanding of who I am.

People often ask why it’s more difficult for adults diagnosed later in life.
Why we grieve. Why we spiral. Why we sometimes resist the very thing that finally gives us clarity.

But that clarity? It comes with grief.

The grief can be profound—not just for what we have lost or the parts of ourselves we have hidden away, but also for the future we envisioned without knowing the full picture. Each acknowledgment of our autistic identity can prompt a reckoning with the societal expectations we’ve felt pressure to conform to, which often feel at odds with our intrinsic nature.

Because we spent our entire lives being told we were wrong.

Here’s the simple, painful truth: Navigating the adult world with a previously unrecognized neurodiversity can feel like walking through a landscape full of untamed terrains. For many of us, years of adapting to a world that didn’t seem to accommodate our differences led to the development of coping mechanisms that, while functional, often masked our true selves.

We were forced to navigate a world that was not built for us.
We were taught to suppress our instincts, our sensitivities, our inner truth—so we could blend in.
We were scolded, corrected, mocked, bullied, medicated, dismissed, misunderstood, or ignored.
We were told to be “normal,” or at least act like it.
And we tried—so, so hard.

Some of us were literally beaten or manipulated into compliance. Others were praised for how well we could mask. For how well we played the part. For how little we inconvenienced anyone.

We became experts at shrinking.
Experts at disappearing into roles.
Experts at enduring sensory overload, emotional shutdowns, social confusion—alone, and without a name for it.

And then, one day, someone finally sees us.
They say, “You’re Autistic.”
And the floor drops out.

“What’s wrong with me?”

For decades, I believed I was just broken.
Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too loud. Too quiet. Too intense. Too much.
Or worse—lazy, dramatic, selfish, unmotivated.

Now, I know better.
Now, I know who I am.

Because I have ADHD. I have OCD. I have Dyslexia. These things have shaped me and I’ve worked around them for 42 years.

But now, I also know I’m Autistic.
And that final puzzle piece, though it fits perfectly, still stirs something inside me I can’t quite name.

The initial relief of finally having a name for our experiences can quickly give way to a turbulent mix of emotions. We grapple with the weight of past misunderstandings, the moments of isolation we’ve endured, and the realization that many facets of our lives have been shaped by this invisible thread of Autism that we were unaware of until now.

This journey is not merely a solitary one; it is intertwined with the relationships we maintain and the roles we play in our communities. Acceptance may come slowly, and that’s okay. Each step taken to embrace our identity is a step toward a more authentic existence, where the spectrum of our experiences is recognized and valued.

But that doesn’t erase the years I spent blaming myself.
That doesn’t silence the looping thoughts shaped by old shame.

Because now I ask myself hard questions: Is this why I was unable to hold onto certain traumatic memories? Is this why I learned to disappear from myself when it got too hard to stay present?
Is this why I clung so tightly to comfort items, ritual foods, and familiar media—just to feel safe in a world that never felt soft enough?

The answer is yes, and it hurts. Because it wasn’t just Autism I was living with. It was confusion. It was unseen pain. It was masking, and misdiagnosis, and the constant question:

In this complex dance of acceptance, the key lies in self-compassion. The path may be fraught with challenges, but it also presents the opportunity to reclaim our narrative, shed societal labels, and pave the way for a deeper understanding of ourselves and others.

Because it makes sense now. It explains the meltdowns. The exhaustion. The obsession with routine. The hyperfocus. The shutdowns. The deep empathy. The dissociation. The need for comfort shows, soft clothes, favorite foods. The way I vanish into silence when the world is too loud.

It is a mixture of so many things all thrown together at once in this labyrinth of emotions. It’s grief, anger, relief, validation, and above all a new beginning.

It’s also an invitation to rewrite the dialogue I’ve carried for too long.

So here’s where I am now:
Learning to speak gently to the version of me that thought she was broken.
Learning to unlearn the scripts I was handed.
Learning to say: “This is who I am, all of me. My brain is different, my thought process is different, I see everything differently. And it is enough.” [ Not that I felt like I was not enough before, but sometimes there was this lingering little voice that would chime in saying: Are you sure?]

Instead of thinking, “I’ve always struggled with this; I should have figured it out by now,”
I’m reminding myself: “This has always been hard, and now I know why. That knowledge gives me power, not shame.”

Instead of masking, I’m trying….Bit by bit, to unmask.
To show up as I am. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because yes, it is painful when others make assumptions about what Autism is “supposed” to look like. Yes, it is exhausting when people try to explain your experience to you based on outdated stereotypes or shallow representations.

For instance, the assumption that there are only high functioning autistics and those who are considered low functioning stems from practices established three to four DSM editions ago. Over time, this narrow understanding has evolved significantly as researchers, clinicians, and advocates have begun to learn more about the complexities of the autism spectrum and the diverse ways individuals may experience it. This shift in perspective recognizes that autism is not a linear scale, but rather a broad spectrum where each person exhibits a unique combination of strengths, challenges, and needs. As awareness and research about neurodiversity expand, society is beginning to appreciate the wide array of abilities and potential that each individual on the spectrum possesses, moving beyond rigid categorizations and embracing a more nuanced view that encompasses the vast diversity of human experience.

But I’m not here to perform.
I’m not a trope.
I’m a person.

A person still figuring it out.
A person learning to trust herself again.
A person choosing to speak the truth—out loud, and with pride.

As I move forward in this portion of my journey, I need to practice saying the following:

“Hi, I am Jess. I am an Autistic Adult who also has ADHD, OCD, and Dyslexia.” Each part of my identity shapes who I am, and it’s important for me to embrace these aspects with pride. I need to remember to be kind to myself and honor my truth in all its forms, recognizing the unique challenges and strengths that come with each condition.

But also, I need to gently remind myself that I am more than any one of my diagnoses, health-wise or mentally. I am a complex individual with a variety of passions, interests, and dreams that define me beyond my struggles. Each diagnosis is merely a part of my journey, not the entirety of who I am. I constantly strive to embrace my strengths and celebrate the moments of joy and growth, recognizing that my worth is not determined by labels or challenges. In the grand tapestry of my life, my resilience, creativity, and love for others shine brightly, reminding me that I am an intricate being, capable of overcoming obstacles and evolving every day.

I want to remind myself that my experiences are valid and that it’s okay to seek support when navigating the complexities that arise. By being gentle with myself, I can cultivate a positive mindset that allows me to thrive. This journey is not just about acceptance but also about celebrating my individuality and the diverse ways I perceive the world. Each day offers a new opportunity to embrace my authenticity and to express it openly, fostering understanding and connection with others.

I hope that my journey, my words, and my experiences resonate with you or help someone you love, that is my purpose here. To spread love, understanding, and above all to be an advocate for those who have yet to find their own voices. Every story shared is a step towards bridging the gaps between us, fostering connections that bring warmth to the heart and clarity to the mind. It is my belief that through vulnerability and openness, we can cultivate a community where everyone feels seen and heard, where our shared experiences serve not only as a source of encouragement but also as a beacon of hope for future generations. Together, we can create a world where every individual is empowered to express their truths, inspiring one another to rise above challenges and embrace the beauty of our diverse narratives.

Together, we can create a world where every individual is empowered to express their truths, inspiring one another to rise above challenges and embrace the beauty of our diverse narratives.

And so, I leave you with this:

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Affirmation:
🌿 “I honor my truth, even when it feels unfamiliar. I release shame, I embrace understanding, and I rewrite my story with compassion.”

Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B