Have I told you I’m Autistic? Finding Myself at 41

At 41 I have finally learnt I’m autistic and have ADHD. Getting that diagnosis felt like someone handed me the key to a house I’d lived in my whole life but always as a guest, never as the owner. It was a mix of relief and grief; relief that there was finally an explanation for why I feel the world so intensely, and grief for all the years younger me was treated as “too much” or “too difficult” when really I just couldn’t process things the way others could.

The funniest part? My friends had been calling it for years. “You’re so autistic.” “You’re definitely ADHD.” I’d laugh it off, roll my eyes, and insist it was just “lolsies.” Turns out… they were right. Annoyingly right. They are always right about me, which is both comforting and irritating in equal measure.

Younger Me: Weird, Eccentric, Chaotic… and Wonderful (As It Turns Out)

I was the child who was always a bit much. Weird, eccentric, chaotic and messy. I had strange OCD patterns, especially with flicking light switches until they felt “right” or until the rhythm in my head matched the room. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t defiance. It was the only way I could settle. I just had to have my routine or something terrible might happen.

And I collected things…. rubbers, stickers, shells, pogs, beads; if something came in multiples, I wanted to have them all, to sort and arrange and line them up until the world made sense. My bedroom looked like an explosion of “projects” half-finished creations and carefully curated treasures that only made sense to me.

Friendships were hard. I felt everything too deeply, got attached too quickly, and then confused when people pulled away. I never understood the invisible rules. I’d say something blunt that made perfect sense to me, but left someone upset. Other times, I’d mask so hard to fit in that I’d come home completely burnt out. I carried this idea that I was somehow “wrong” or too intense, too emotional, too awkward.

Now, looking back, I want to hug that girl. She wasn’t broken. She just didn’t know her brain was wired differently.

Motherhood: Loving Fiercely - Doing It Differently

When I had Fin and Imi, I thought I’d magically turn into the kind of mum who wanted to go to baby groups, who happily swaps nap tips and sings “Wheels on the Bus” with a smile. I absolutely didn’t.

Mum groups were my worst nightmare. The noise, the small talk, comparing birth stories, whose boobs hurt more, the invisible hierarchy of who’s “got it together”… it all made me want to run. So I didn’t go. Instead, I felt guilty and a bit like I was failing the “right” version of motherhood.

Maternity leave wasn’t the blissful bubble everyone said it would be. I loved my babies fiercely, deeply, with a kind of love that felt like a punch to the chest, but I also felt trapped in endless days with no structure beyond feeding, changing, and rocking. I craved adult interaction, real conversations, and mental stimulation. So I went back to work sooner than expected, and of course, people had opinions. “Don’t you want more time at home?” they’d ask. I did. But I also needed to feel like me again. I felt like I was doing something wrong and being judged by the Mummy Mafia.

I’ve never been the “mumsy” mum, and that’s something I still question. Am I too much, or not enough? But I’ve learned that my love doesn’t have to look like Instagram perfection. My love is showing up at 11pm to make a Great Fire of London building; it’s sitting next to them in silence, each of us lost in our own world but together. It’s fierce advocacy when someone misunderstands them or dares to wrong them.

Relationships: Connection, Masking, Rejection and Meltdowns

Romantic relationships have always been intense for me. I burn bright at the start, all-in, all-feeling. But underneath it all is this lifelong fear of rejection. I’m constantly scanning for signs that I’m “too much” or that they’ll leave.

Because I’ve been so afraid of being alone, I’ve let the wrong people in; people who didn’t see me or, worse, made me feel mad for needing what I need. I’ve been called “mental” for begging for space to process, when all I wanted was a moment to breathe. If I don’t get that space, my nervous system crashes. I spiral. I fly off the handle. Everything escalates, and I’m left feeling empty, helpless, and so full of self-loathing that I can’t think straight. Then I feel guilty.

The truth is, being alone is when I’m at my best. Solitude isn’t loneliness for me; it’s clarity. It’s where I recharge, where I find myself again. Ironically, I spent so many years terrified of that space, constantly surrounding myself with people who didn’t fit, just to avoid being alone. Now I know I’d rather be alone and at peace than surrounded and misunderstood.

Space and Company (Because I Want Both)

I’m a walking contradiction. Seriously. I crave solitude but also hate being alone with my own thoughts for too long. Ideal for me is parallel presence; someone nearby, but not in my face. You do your thing; I do mine; we exist together in the same space but not tangled.

Crowds overwhelm me. As for physical touch outside of intimacy? Honestly, it makes me cringe. I can love a good cuddle if I’m ready for it, but don’t grab my shoulder from behind or press against me while I’m trying to focus. My nervous system just… short-circuits.

Injustice Radar: Why My Circle Is Small

I can’t handle dishonesty or backstabbing. I’ve never been able to. Do it and it’s like an “X” has etched on you. I see through people faster than I can explain it - a tone, a look, a shift - and once I see it, I can’t unsee it. It’s probably why my circle is small. I just don’t have the energy for fake friendships or people who twist the truth. I can entertain them, but in their presence I am always on alert.

What the Diagnosis Gave Me

Finding out I’m autistic and have ADHD didn’t fix everything. I still feel the overwhelm, the overthinking, the big emotions, but it has given me a map. It has given me permission to stop asking “what’s wrong with me?” and start asking “what do I need?” It’s allowed me to parent myself with compassion. To accept that my brain is just wired differently, not wrongly.

And most importantly, it’s allowed me to see that solitude isn’t a failure or a flaw. It’s me. And I like me. In fact, I’m glad to be me because, frankly, most people are a bit shit and dull.