The Red Couch

I remember the red couch

too bright, too big, too red

its scratchy fabric pressing into my legs

as I sat beside Mum,

hands clenched in my lap,

while the air buzzed

with nervous stillness

that made it hard to breathe.

The lights flickered in that cold, clinical way,

and everything smelled faintly of paper and antiseptic,

like all the waiting rooms before

the ones where no one said what was wrong,

only that we were still “trying to figure things out.”

I didn’t know what to expect,

but I felt the weight of something coming

soft, heavy and slow,

like a storm inside my chest.

The psychologist’s voice was calm,

but her words echoed

down a long hallway

I hadn’t known I’d been walking.

Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Three words,

spoken like a sentence

but felt like a question.

What does this mean for me?

Why does this make so much sense?

Suddenly, without warning

everything shifted.

Not loudly or dramatically,

but like the sun after rain,

when the world feels damp

but warmer somehow,

and hidden things

start to show in the light.

I wasn’t just “too much”, “too quiet” or “too weird.”

I was a pattern named,

a song recognised,

a puzzle piece always there,

just not in the box others used.

But it wasn’t relief, not yet.

It was like being handed a map

to a place I’d lived in

without knowing its name.

That day became the starting point,

sending ripples through every future me

through friendships I’d struggle to keep,

through scripted conversations,

through the noise that made my ears burn,

and tags in my shirt that made my skin crawl.

It changed how I saw myself

and how I let others see me,

how I explained meltdowns,

how I forgave my need for quiet,

how I realized

I wasn’t broken

just different

Over time,

I saw the things that once made me feel outside

my love for animals,

my obsession with art and music,

my need for routine, space and silence

weren’t weaknesses to hide,

but strengths to embrace.

The red couch is gone now,

but it lives in my mind

in every quiet victory,

in every loud misunderstanding,

in every time I look back

and see how far I’ve come

from that little girl gripping her knees

on a too-bright couch

in a world she didn’t yet understand.

Because that moment,

that memory that clings tight,

wasn’t just about a diagnosis

it was the beginning

of learning how to live.