A Common Story not Commonly Told A Journey to an Autism Diagnosis

For most of my life, I assumed the problem was me. I was sensitive to things other people seemed to barely notice. Sounds, textures, and certain environments could quickly become overwhelming in ways that were difficult to explain. Social interactions often felt like something I had to study rather than naturally participate in. I watched people closely, learning patterns and responses, trying to understand how conversations and relationships were supposed to work. Despite my efforts, I was often perceived in ways that didn’t match my intentions. I was described as blunt, rude, “a bitch.” When messages like that are repeated often enough, it shapes how you see yourself. Over time, I came to believe that something about me was wrong, that I needed to change or become someone different in order to be liked and fit in.

 

Like many autistic adults who are identified later in life, I became very skilled at masking. Masking is the process of consciously or unconsciously adapting behaviors in order to appear more socially typical. It can include rehearsing conversations, carefully monitoring tone or facial expressions, suppressing sensory discomfort, or closely observing others to determine the “correct” way to respond in a situation. While masking can help someone navigate social environments, it is also exhausting. Over time, it can create the sense that you are constantly performing rather than simply existing as yourself. It can also reinforce the message that something is wrong with you.

 

Autism was not something I initially considered for myself. It entered my life through my daughter’s diagnosis. In order to help her navigate her diagnosis and to support her, I began learning everything I could about autism. As I read more and listened to autistic individuals describe their experiences, something unexpected started happening: many of the things I was learning felt deeply familiar. The sensory sensitivities. The effort it takes to navigate social situations. The feeling of observing and analyzing interactions rather than instinctively knowing how to move through them. 

 

Gradually, I began to consider the possibility that autism might also explain parts of my own life. 

 

What many people don’t realize is that receiving a diagnosis is not a single moment; it’s a process. First there is the decision to pursue an evaluation. That decision alone can take time, reflection, and often a significant amount of courage. Then comes the challenge of finding a qualified professional and scheduling the appointment. Only after those steps does the evaluation itself begin. My first evaluation did not go the way I expected. I was not assessed using standard diagnostic measures. Instead, I was told verbally that the clinician believed I had a mood disorder. When I later read the written report, the language strongly suggested a personality disorder.

 

It was devastating.

 

Not only because it didn’t resonate with my lived experience, but because it reinforced something I had felt for much of my life, that I was wrong, flawed beyond repair, needed to be fixed. Later, my therapist confirmed what I had suspected when we reviewed the report together: the conclusions did not align well with the information that had actually been gathered. Unfortunately, this part of the story is not uncommon. Many adults seeking autism evaluations encounter misunderstanding or misinterpretation along the way, particularly if they have spent years learning to mask or compensate for their differences. Research and lived experience increasingly show that many autistic adults, especially women and those who have learned to mask, are identified later in life.

 

Eventually, I sought a second evaluation. This time the process was more thorough and included standardized measures along with a careful review of developmental history. Even when the evaluation is done well, the process itself can be difficult. Looking closely at your life, your childhood, relationships, and patterns across decades can be cognitively exhausting and emotionally overwhelming. Some questions bring up memories or experiences you may not have revisited in years. At times, the process can be triggering. But this time something else began to happen. I began to accept that I was not wrong or fundamentally flawed. Slowly, I began to understand that many of the struggles I had internalized as personal failures were actually differences in how my brain processes the world. The realization did not happen overnight. It unfolded gradually throughout the entire process–deciding to pursue evaluation, preparing for it, and moving through it.

 

Somewhere along the way, another shift occurred. I began to decide that being myself was not something that needed to be fixed. Being me became easier. My journey to diagnosis didn’t just change how I understood myself; it also changed how I practice as a clinician. Through both my personal experience and my experience as a parent, I saw how often the mental health system is not designed with neurodivergent individuals in mind. Processes can be rigid, environments overwhelming, and interpretations of behavior sometimes miss the broader context of neurodevelopmental differences. These experiences ultimately influenced my decision to open my own private practice. I wanted to create a space that approaches mental-health care with greater understanding of neurodivergence and the many ways it can shape a person’s life. My experiences, both as an individual and as a mother, continue to influence how I listen, how I assess, and how I support the people I work with.

 

My story is not unusual.

 

Many adults spend years believing something about them is fundamentally wrong before discovering that their experiences reflect a different way of processing the world. The path to understanding that can be complicated, frustrating, and at times painful. But it can also be clarifying. And sometimes, it can make being yourself just a little easier.