The Life I Lived Before I Understood
For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was watching the world through a glass pane. I could see how things were supposed to be, how people moved through life, how friendships formed, how conversations flowed. But somehow, no matter how hard I tried, I never quite got it right.
At three years old, I sat with books, tracing the letters with my fingers, sounding out words that no one had taught me. I didn’t just read—I absorbed. But while words made perfect sense, people never did.
I spent my childhood on the outside, looking in. I watched the other children play, effortlessly slipping into friendships, giggling over inside jokes I wasn’t part of. I wanted to be included, but when I tried to join in, I always got it wrong. My words came out awkwardly, my timing was off, my excitement too intense or my silence too heavy. I tried to mimic, to copy what I saw, but it never felt natural. And so, I stayed on the edge.
At school, my brain worked in ways that didn’t fit the system. I could reach answers before teachers finished explaining—but if I got there the “wrong” way, it didn’t count. I could solve complex problems in my head, but I struggled with the way they wanted them written down. I could understand entire concepts intuitively, but if I was asked to break them into steps, I got lost.
Tests were the worst. My brain would race ahead, but my hands couldn’t keep up. Answer sheets confused me—why were the questions here and the spaces for answers there? I knew the material, but matching up the right answers felt impossible. And so, despite knowing I wasn’t struggling with the subject, I failed, over and over again.
When I entered the working world, things changed. For the first time, I was thriving. I threw myself into my job, hyperfocused, determined, efficient. I was the one people relied on, the one who solved problems no one else noticed, the one who saw the patterns no one else did. My managers loved me. I moved up quickly. I exceeded every expectation.
And then, the crash came.
The exhaustion built up quietly at first. I ignored it, pushed through. But then my mind began to slow down in ways that terrified me. I forgot simple things. My focus, once laser-sharp, became scattered. Tasks that had once been effortless felt like climbing a mountain.
I kept going, convinced I just needed to try harder. Until one day, I couldn’t.
I lost jobs—not because I lacked ability, but because my body and mind gave out before I could recover. And each time, I walked away feeling like a failure.
Relationships weren’t any easier. I loved deeply, but in a way that didn’t fit expectations. I wanted connection, but I also wanted space. I craved deep conversations, but small talk drained me. Physical closeness could feel suffocating, even from people I loved. I could never explain it in a way that made sense. Why did I pull away when I wasn’t upset? Why did I need so much time alone?
For years, I forced myself into roles I didn’t fit. I played the part of a good student, a good employee, a good partner. And I thought the exhaustion was normal.
Then, at thirty-four, I sat in a room with a professional who asked me questions about my childhood. About my social struggles. About my sensory sensitivities. About the way my mind worked.
By the end of it, I had a diagnosis. Autism and ADHD. AuDHD.
I thought it would bring relief. And in some ways, it did. But in other ways, it broke me open.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything—and Nothing
I had spent decades explaining away my struggles. I was “too sensitive.” I needed to be “more organised.” I was lazy and overthinking all at once. Now, there was an explanation. It wasn’t laziness, or weakness, or a personal failing. It was neurology.
But now that I knew, I had to redefine everything.
I started replaying my past through a new lens. Suddenly, every friendship I had struggled to maintain made sense. Every school failure, every moment of frustration at work, every relationship that had strained under the weight of my sensory needs and social exhaustion.
And with that understanding came grief.
Grief for the child who never quite fit in.
Grief for the teenager who thought she was just doing everything wrong.
Grief for the adult who pushed herself into burnout over and over again, believing it was just what life required.
I looked back on all the times I had berated myself for being “too much” or “not enough” and saw them for what they were: evidence of a world that wasn’t built for me.
Relearning Myself
Understanding I was neurodivergent wasn’t the same as understanding myself.
I had spent so long adapting, I had no idea who I was beneath the expectations, the masking, the performance of fitting in.
What did I actually enjoy?
What environments allowed me to thrive instead of just survive?
Which habits were helping me, and which were just remnants of a lifetime of pretending?
I had to learn how to listen to myself—to my needs, my instincts, my preferences. I had to unlearn the guilt that came with rest, the shame that came with setting boundaries, the fear that came with saying, this doesn’t work for me.
And that’s what self-discovery really is.
It’s not about reinventing yourself.
It’s about reclaiming who you’ve always been.
So many late-diagnosed neurodivergent adults find themselves in this place—standing at the edge of a life they’ve carefully constructed and realising that now, for the first time, they get to choose.
That’s why I created a self-reflection journal for neurodivergent minds—not because journaling magically fixes everything, but because taking time to process, to question, and to reframe our experiences is a crucial step in this journey.
We have spent our lives shaping ourselves around the world. Now, it’s time to shape the world around us.
If You’ve Been Diagnosed as an Adult…
You are not alone.
Your feelings—whether relief, grief, anger, or exhaustion—are valid. This process takes time.
If you’re still figuring out who you are beneath the layers of expectation, that’s okay.
If you’re still unlearning, still reframing, still searching, that’s okay.
There is no deadline for self-discovery.
The only thing that matters is that, from this moment forward, you give yourself permission to exist as you are.
Because you were never broken.
You were just misunderstood.
And now, finally, you get to understand yourself.