At 35, Accepting My Autism

By Joyce Nash

At 35 years old, I felt like I was finally getting to know myself. Now, thanks to a recent diagnosis, I’m 35 years old and autistic. It feels like something new, but really, I’ve been autistic all along. 

When I think back to my childhood, all the signs were there. I obsessively collected rocks, books, clocks, pogs, and small figurines and spent many joyful hours arranging them in my room. I had intense “tantrums” where I held my breath until I passed out, and my parents struggled with my stubbornness. I had persistent difficulty fitting in and being socially “appropriate.”

Like many peoples’ stories about receiving an autism diagnosis, mine started with a lifelong feeling of being different. However, the possibility that I might be autistic didn’t cross my mind until I was in my thirties and learning more about trauma. I knew that I had CPTSD from childhood abuse, and as I researched online, I kept noticing places where my experiences with trauma sounded a lot like autism. 

Despite all the evidence, I thought autism mostly impacted boys, and my concept of it was characterized by symptoms like the inability to use spoken language, severe sensory distress, and repetitive rocking or hand flapping. I didn’t think my difficulties socializing or making friends qualified. 

While I was making progress on my trauma in therapy, I noticed how distressed I still was by noise, bright lights, and the feel of my clothes. I also began to understand how overwhelming other peoples’ emotions are for me, regardless of whether they’re expressing anger, sadness, or even joy.

Around this time, I took a few online autism assessments. All but one indicated that I was almost certainly on the spectrum and should see a doctor for a formal assessment.

So I did. 

As a kid, I was called argumentative, defiant, lazy, moody, rude, and selfish. As it turns out, I was autistic.

As an adult, I’m often considered irritable, hypersensitive, unreliable, unemployable, and too opinionated. As it turns out, I am autistic. 

This paradigm shift has been profound. 

For much of my life, I’ve been told that if I just try harder, I could be like other people. That if I dieted, exercised, or had a better attitude, I wouldn’t be so different. There’s a certain sadness when I consider that my childhood and teen autism traits were considered behavioral deficits, and I think being a girl played a role in that. Girls are often expected to exhibit higher levels of social skills than boys of the same age, but when those skills failed to materialize in me, the response was punishment and shame rather than support.

Accepting my autism means accepting that some things are overwhelming for me because my brain works differently. Social situations, schedule changes, unanticipated demands, phone calls, and certain sensory input often cause intense physiological reactions that inhibit my ability to complete “normal” tasks. 

Acknowledging this reality creates opportunities to do things for myself to make life a little easier. To avoid sensory distress, I wear headphones while I’m shopping, and choose soft clothing and familiar food options. I add to my overall resilience bank by getting enough sleep, moving my body, and making time for my special interests. I have compassion for myself when I do all of these things, yet still struggle. 

I’m figuring out how to accept my autism, but I wonder if other people will. 

Is it ok to visibly stim around other people, or will that lead to further social isolation? Could I ask a potential employer about working from home, or will I be seen as even less reliable than I already am? 

I’ve been autistic my entire life, and I have borne consequences for that. Do those go away once I self-disclose my autism? 

I am slowly sharing my diagnosis with family and friends, and the people I’m closest to have supported me as I come to understand my full autistic self. My husband and I have developed new systems and ways to communicate. Friends have celebrated my diagnosis and we laughed together at how much sense it makes. It’s been wonderful to express myself more fully and authentically among people who are making space for me.

On the other hand, when I told two of my healthcare providers about my diagnosis, it was received with condescension and skepticism. I thought it would help contextualize the anxiety I often have in their offices, but I was laughed at and brushed off. 

I have found that other people often attach shame to being an autistic adult, and especially an autistic woman. Autistic people are still widely seen as being less capable and less pleasant to be around. For some, it’s baffling that I am embracing this part of myself that has so often led to scorn.

Accepting my autism has given me a new lens through which to see myself, my limitations and capabilities, and the world around me. Embodying this knowledge is bringing me closer to my husband and my friends, but it also feels trepidatious to share outside my inner circle. It’s scary to place this vulnerable part of myself in someone else’s hands and not know how they will respond. Of all the things I’ve been working to accept, this has been the hardest.