Realising I Might Be On The Spectrum (PART 1).

Diary Entry – 5 May 2025

Today, I find myself still questioning everything. The idea that I might be autistic—might be neurodivergent—feels both unreal and deeply true. I sometimes worry that people may misunderstand this possibility, that they might see it as an attempt at ableism or as though I’m misappropriating an identity that isn't mine. But this is not about labels or appearances—this is about trying to understand the roots of my experience.

When I was a child, I couldn’t talk until I was two years old, and I couldn’t walk either. Mummy and Daddy prayed, and Daddy said that not only would I speak, but I would sing. God answered that prayer. Now, I talk—too much sometimes—and I sing. Someone once exclaimed at how much air my lungs can pack. It’s a part of me I carry with wonder and quiet gratitude.

I’ve always been high functioning and wildly creative. I'm indomitably resilient, expressive, and deeply intuitive. I am a terrible liar, and despite appearing socially fluent, much of it has been learned behavior and people-pleasing. After overcoming cancer, all of this self-discovery feels like too much to carry, yet it also feels necessary. This isn’t about claiming a label—it’s about reclaiming a truth I never had the words for. I've now booked an assessment, and we will see what comes of it. Whatever the outcome, this step feels like a powerful act of listening to myself and honouring all the questions I've carried. It flickers between disbelief and recognition like a light I can’t quite switch on or off. Some days, it feels obvious. Other days, I wonder if I’m just imagining it all.

I think about how naturally I stick to routines, how hard it is for me to lie, and how quickly I make decisions—not rashly, but with a kind of internal certainty. I reflect on how often I can read people correctly in context. I don’t always know what kind of connection I have with someone—friend? acquaintance? something deeper?—but I feel things with a strange clarity. It's like decoding invisible signals. I'm almost always right, yet I still give people chances even when the signs tell me not to. Sometimes it feels like this isn't logic or instinct alone, but a blend of spiritual guidance and the naivety of someone who still wants to believe in the best.

I can’t help but ask: is neurodivergence a special kind of emotional intelligence? A 360-degree dissonance that lets me see from the outside and the inside at once? How can something so core to how I move through the world go unnoticed for so long?

This entry is the beginning of a diary—a space where I can reflect on the unfolding path toward assessment, understanding, and hopefully, self-acceptance. I plan to return here after I speak to my GP, after the referrals, and eventually, after I have answers.

For now, this is what I know: I’ve survived. I’ve masked. I’ve questioned. And now, I’m listening—to myself.

For most of my life, I knew how to be friendly. I knew how to make people laugh, sing, and feel good in my presence. I’ve often been described as charming, warm, and intuitive. But underneath all of that, I always felt a deep sense of disconnection. Despite my outward ease, I struggled to form real connections with people. Something always felt slightly off—like I was acting out a version of myself that wasn’t quite real.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to consider whether I might be autistic. It sounds almost unbelievable to say that out loud, as an adult. Like many others, I had learned to survive by masking—adapting my behavior, mirroring others, and becoming whatever version of myself was most acceptable in any given context. I had no idea that this was something so many neurodivergent people do just to get through the day.

When the thought of autism first crossed my mind, it wasn’t through a clinical lens. It was through the slow and painful realization that I didn’t really recognize myself. I’d been in survival mode for so long that I didn’t know what it felt like to just exist without trying to please others. I’ve always found it hard to lie—truth and authenticity feel non-negotiable to me. And my intuition, particularly about people’s emotions and undercurrents in social situations, has always been intense. These aren’t traits I associated with autism—until I started learning more about how it presents, especially in adults who weren’t diagnosed as children.

I decided to talk to my GP about it. I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I wrote out my thoughts and included some of the self-assessment tools I’d taken online, like the AQ-10 and the RAADS-14. The more I read, the more I saw myself—not in the stereotypes I had grown up with, but in the subtle, often invisible ways that autistic adults navigate the world.

The journey is still unfolding. I’m in the early stages of seeking a professional assessment through the NHS. The waiting lists are long, but I know now that I’m not imagining things. There’s a reason so much of life has felt harder than it should. There’s a reason I’ve always had to work so hard to seem “normal.”

And while the realization is shocking, it’s also a relief. I’m grieving the years I spent not knowing, but I’m also hopeful. Hopeful that I can begin to show up for myself without so many masks. Hopeful that I can build relationships that don’t rely on performance. Hopeful that I can finally understand myself—and be understood.

If you’re reading this and something resonates, you’re not alone. There’s a whole community of late-discovered autistic people out there, sharing stories, wisdom, and solidarity. And every story, including mine, is a reminder that it’s never too late to know yourself.

Resources That Are Helping Me:

1. Embrace Autism (embrace-autism.com)

2. AQ-10 and RAADS self-assessment tools

3. "Unmasking Autism" by Devon Price

4. Online communities like Neurodivergent Rebel and #ActuallyAutistic spaces on social media

The journey inward is powerful. And sometimes, it begins with a single, brave question: What if I’m not broken? What if I’m just wired differently?

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