*Autism is a spectrum which means that each autistic individual has unique experiences, difficulties and triumphs. This post is written from my perspective and in no way represents the community as a whole*
Trigger warning - suicidal ideation
When I began telling people that I'm autistic, I was met mostly with outright denial. From the woman I'd just met who worked with autistic kids, from my family, even from my closest friends. And though it hurt (in varying degrees) to get that response when disclosing something which I knew the world viewed as stigmatizing, but for me felt only healing, I never blamed anyone for their reaction.
Let's back up a bit.
I always felt like there was something inherently wrong with me. My childhood memories are tinted with the melancholy of feeling like I was somehow on the outside looking in. After being told that my cohorts thought I was weird (kids can be unintentionally cruel in their honesty), I put immeasurable effort into being liked. Making friends was awkward and challenging. Keeping friends was almost impossible. I cycled through friends until high school, always hyper-vigilant about my own social status, and about not being perceived as 'different'.
I had obsessive interests, which would become my entire personality. I would yell at my family when we were having dinner because they were chewing too loudly. I would catch every cold or flu that went around. I would throw household-disrupting tantrums until my early teens. I was a picky eater, to the point that I learned to cook for myself in order to eat what I wanted. At night, I would lie in bed, my brain spinning over the events of the day, refusing to settle into sleep.
I convinced myself the feelings of different-ness were a product of youth and the school environment, and I brute-forced my way through high school and to an early graduation. I got an entry-level job for a family company, and I began to live independently.
But the feelings didn't change.
I got better at hiding them. I got better at being someone that people responded positively to. I got better at recognizing the things I 'shouldn't say' because they could be taken differently than what I intended. I presented as a bubbly and happy young woman. I masked the growing anxiety that roiled inside me. I pushed down the feelings that simple things felt harder for me than they seemed to for others.
After only a few years, I realized that the corporate environment was not going to work for me. I couldn't seem to make friends with my colleagues. I was too emotional, and would break under pressure. I liked the work, but struggled when there wasn't enough to do. I resented only having 2 weeks of vacation, and couldn't understand why it was so unusual to request 'unpaid time off'. I got shuffled through departments and couldn't ever find somewhere to stick.
I found my way into massage therapy. It was something that had appealed to me for a long time. I was fortunate to experience massage as a child, and had taken advantage of my corporate health insurance to go semi-regularly as an adult. I liked the idea of being self-employed - of working shorter hours, setting my own schedule and having control of my time.
I met my husband. We moved in together shortly after meeting and began making a life together. I made friends, for the first time in adulthood. I got more comfortable in my existence. Sure, I still put on a 'smiling happy face' and tried to be pleasant around all the new people I was meeting, but I had decided that everyone masked - to some degree or another.
But the increased social load made me more and more anxious. I would burn out, feeling like I 'gave too much energy away', often resulting in an evening of crying in bed, my now-husband not understanding what he could do to support me. I would overthink social interactions before, during and after they were happening. I would get so anxious about saying hello to my coworkers in the clinic that I would freeze, then worry that they thought I was frigid or rude.
I looked into anxiety and depression. I tried therapy and meditation. I built up more coping skills, a stronger mask.
It didn't work.
In 2023, I hit the darkest period of my life. I was engaged to be married later that year. We had just bought our first place together, my career was flourishing. By all accounts, I should have been thriving. Instead, I was laying in bed, questioning my will to live. I dreaded the thought of talking to anyone. The harder I tried to mask it, the more distressed I would become. I wanted to climb into a black pit of nothing and stay there. The only thing that got me through was thinking about the people I loved. My sister, my friends, my husband. To not be there would be to hurt them, and that knowledge got me through the darkest moments, and to a place where I could gather some clarity.
Out of that darkness came the realization that I had to figure out what was going on. I didn't ever want to go back there. I needed to get some answers, no matter how difficult that would be. On a whim, I looked up 'autism in women' and I found a psychology today article. As I scrolled through the list, I realized.... yeah, I have all of these.
And things started to click.
My struggles with relationships. My ever-changing but still present special interests. My intense sensory reactions and needs. What I recognized now to be meltdowns, those hours-long cry sessions that left me feeling depleted for days. My need for structure and routine. My frustration at my husband's constant late-ness. My deep love for my cats. My passion for social justice. The way I randomly count in my head when I'm feeling too overwhelmed. The fact that making more than one meal a day feels like an absolutely unachievable goal.
And so I started to tell people, and the reaction wasn't great. Some people got it right away. My husband, after reviewing the 2-page long list I had created for self-analysis, agreed that it seemed to be spot on. He was one of the only people I had never tried to mask around, and he saw my challenges for what they were.
It would take me two years to get my diagnosis.
I wavered as to whether I wanted it or not. I knew I was autistic. I didn't have the finances for the diagnostic process, and the wait time was discouraging. I found a therapist who specialized in neurodivergence and I began to see her. I had been going to therapy for almost 10 years, and she was the first person to give me advice that actually made sense. I began the painful and difficult process of un-masking. Of breaking down my defences, and allowing the world to see me as I truly am. Of saying out loud when I'm overstimulated or uncomfortable. Of explaining to those around me the feelings I've had, and the way I experience the world. The people closest to me started to acknowledge that my self-diagnosis was likely accurate, and many apologized for their initial reactions.
I, like many members of the autistic community, believe that a person does not require a formal diagnosis to recognize their autism. There are plenty of free resources online where individuals can self-assess and get a general idea of their own neurodivergence. The barriers to diagnosis are much too rigid and expensive and leave the most vulnerable members of our community unable to access a formal diagnosis.
That being said, in 2025, right before my 30th birthday, I began my diagnostic process. My therapist was able to bill it to my (husband's) health insurance, and I wanted the diagnosis so that I could advocate for myself and other people like myself. I wanted to be honest with my patients, who I was building strong relationships with, many of whom were also discovering their neurodivergence. To no one's surprise, the results came back : Autistic, with a side of ADHD. I joke that I got the two-for-one diagnosis. More on the ADHD piece later.
My diagnosis empowered me to be even more outspoken about my autism and the way I've shaped my life around self-accommodation. It has granted me access to government programs which help me get ahead financially. It opened up access to medication which has drastically improved my quality of life.
Do I still get a full body sensation when my husband is chewing too loudly beside me? Yes. Do I still get anxious around new people? Absolutely. Do I still need routine and stability? Always. But learning why has provided me with the ability for radical self-compassion. It has made me so much more gentle on myself, and has opened up space for me to continue creating a life that works for me, regardless of what that looks like from the outside.
Thanks for reading.
Take care
Em <3
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