Starting to See Myself Clearly

There was no dramatic movie-moment epiphany. No spotlight, no orchestra. Just a quiet noticing—first a whisper, then a growing murmur in the back of my mind that refused to be ignored. It started when I came across a thread online. Someone was talking about their life as an autistic adult. I didn’t click expecting anything life-changing. I was just scrolling, killing time, half-distracted. But then I saw a sentence that made me stop cold: “I always thought I was just bad at being a person, until I learned I was autistic.”

I read it again. And again.

There was something painfully familiar about the way they described their childhood—sensitivity to sounds, intense interests, social confusion, exhaustion after simple interactions. It felt like they had reached into my life and pulled out moments I hadn’t shared with anyone, not even myself.

Still, I told myself it was coincidence. After all, everyone’s a little weird, right? I mean, who doesn’t get overwhelmed sometimes? Who doesn’t zone out at parties or hyper-focus on hobbies?

• I closed the tab. Tried to forget about it.

• But the thought didn’t go away.

In the following days and weeks, I started looking into it more. Slowly, cautiously. I didn’t want to “self-diagnose” recklessly, and I certainly didn’t want to be one of those people who throws around a label because it feels convenient. But the more I read, the more it all started to make sense. Not just surface-level quirks, but core pieces of who I am.

Things I used to beat myself up for started to look different in the light of understanding. Why I had such a hard time making eye contact. Why I hated sudden changes to my plans. Why I could talk endlessly about topics that interested me but struggled to maintain small talk. Why I found group projects at school not just annoying, but anxiety-inducing. Why I memorized dialogue from cartoons as a kid and repeated it word for word—not to be funny, but because it felt comforting.

It wasn’t just shyness. It wasn’t laziness. It wasn’t being “too sensitive” or “overthinking.” It was something deeper.

At first, I didn’t want to believe it. I kept second-guessing myself. I’d think, “But I can talk to people... sometimes,” or “I’m not like what I’ve seen in movies.” Then I realized that a lot of what I thought I knew about autism came from stereotypes—media portrayals that didn’t reflect the full spectrum.

I started listening to autistic adults. I followed writers and creators who spoke openly about their experiences. They weren’t broken. They weren’t robotic. They weren’t lacking empathy. In fact, many of them felt too much, not too little. And their stories felt like home in a way I couldn’t explain.

It was both freeing and heartbreaking. Freeing, because I finally had a framework to understand myself. Heartbreaking, because I wondered how different my life could have been if I’d known sooner. If teachers had recognized the signs. If I hadn’t spent so much time trying to be “normal.” If I hadn’t blamed myself for things that were never my fault.

There’s grief in that realization. But also hope.

Because now, I can begin the process of unlearning the shame. I can start to build a life that suits me, not one that’s shaped by pretending. I can allow myself the accommodations I need—quiet time, routine, boundaries. I can let go of the need to constantly explain or justify why I am the way I am.

I haven’t pursued a formal diagnosis yet. For now, understanding myself is enough. Maybe someday I will. But I no longer feel the pressure to prove or perform. I don’t need permission to know who I am.

This journey isn’t over. In many ways, it’s just beginning. But I’ve stopped fighting myself. I’ve stopped trying to squeeze into spaces that don’t fit me. I’ve started asking, “What if I build spaces that do?”

And for the first time in a long time, that question doesn’t feel like a burden.

It feels like hope.