Seeing Myself Through the Adult Lens: My Late Autism Diagnosis

My story isn’t unique.

When your children get diagnosed with Autism, it’s impossible not to start looking at the parents. I did it too…. Only I looked at the other parent first—my children’s biological dad. It took me years before I turned the adult lens on myself.

But when I did, I remember the moment so clearly.

That moment when I thought, “There’s a reason I understand these kids so well…”

The reason? I was living it too.

The Moment It Clicked

It all came together when I started meeting other diagnosed Autistic adults. These were people who were unmasked, unapologetically themselves. And even though we had just met, it felt like we had known each other forever. We could talk for hours, connect on a level I had never experienced before.

That’s when it clicked.

Diagnosed children don’t just “grow out” of Autism—they become Autistic adults. And the more I reflected, the more I saw the signs in myself. The way lights and sounds overwhelm me. The constant pull toward structure—schedules, lists, routines. The anxiety. The emotional meltdowns that I had always written off as quick bursts of depression.

It was a huge shift in how I saw myself. But for the first time, everything made sense.

The Diagnosis Process

A colorful brain and a clipboard

Once I realized I was Autistic, I just knew. You couldn’t tell me any different.

Self-identifying is completely valid in the Autistic community. And I was done questioning myself. I researched. I joined groups. I made online friends who were also Autistic or in the process of getting diagnosed. Connection is such a huge thing—it helps everything settle into place.

The only reason I decided to get formally diagnosed was because of the amount of people who questioned me. Everyone seemed to have an opinion or wanted to weigh in, and honestly, it got exhausting. I felt like not everyone would believe me without the paperwork.

But I also wanted to break the stigma. I wanted to show people—yes, this is what Autism can look like. I wanted to lead by example for my kids, so they would never feel the need to hide their diagnosis the way I hid so many parts of myself for so long.

Getting diagnosed was by far the hardest and most enlightening experience of my life. Having the opportunity to fully know, understand, and embrace yourself is an experience I wish for everyone to have in their adult lives. Suddenly, the dots connected. My past made sense.

One year later, I’m still looking through the adult lens and learning more about myself every single day. With every new trait or experience I recognize, I lean into my parenting more, understanding how to better support my kids. It’s a huge, ongoing journey of self-discovery.

Masking: Living Behind the Smile

One of the first things I became hyper-aware of was my constant overthinking—the way I second-guess every thought, feeling, and action. I’m always wondering if I’m doing “the right thing,” but what my brain is really doing is flipping through its mental deck of socially acceptable cue cards.

Every social misstep I’ve ever made?

Stylish and confident, a young woman embraces a retro look with her oversized sunglasses, denim jacket, and bright yellow turtleneck - and you have no idea what she is feeling or thinking on the inside.

Every time someone told me I responded “wrong”?

Logged. Memorized. Filed under: Never do that again.

I’ve always been good at masking. Sometimes, too good.

I’ll put myself on hold completely to take care of friends, family, kids—until I hit total burnout. And even then, I often won’t stop until I’m forced to.

For so long, I felt like I had to do it all, be it all.

I would put on the smile.

Keep everything running.

Look efficient, capable, together.

And then cry alone when no one could see me.

I stuffed down my feelings, ignored the exhaustion, and tried to keep up appearances. But the cost? Extreme mental fatigue, depression, anxiety. Total burnout.

It’s only now, with more awareness, that I’m learning to stop before I hit that wall.

Social Struggles, Overthinking, and Sensory Realities

Despite being what most people would call an extrovert, I struggle socially. I’m not shy. I meet new people easily. But once there are multiple voices in the room? I fade into the background.

I get self-conscious, though I like to think I hide it well. In group settings, I have a hard time tracking conversations. Too many people. Too much happening. So, I mirror.

If they laugh, I laugh.

If they sigh, I sigh.

If they show empathy, I ooooh and aaaah along with them.

Faces and names? A nightmare.

Even when I try to memorize someone’s face, chances are I won’t recognize them next time—especially if their appearance changes. I love when people have bold features I can latch onto—a pink hair streak, unique glasses, something that sticks.

I’m also 100% guilty of telling people, “Sorry, I don’t have my glasses on,” even when I don’t need them….. just so I have an excuse for not recognizing them. I’ve texted people from across the room to confirm it’s them before I approach.

Names? Forget it. I constantly mix them up—Taya vs. Tayla, Crystal vs. Kristen. Sometimes, I can’t even come up with a hint of what they go by. People walk up to me in public knowing who I am, and I have no idea who they are. It’s embarrassing to admit how often I’ve chatted away with someone, completely clueless about their identity.

Living Inside My Mind

I have this superpower: I can completely block out the world around me and disappear into my own mind.

A woman sits in a meditative pose, eyes closed, in front of a large world map, embodying global peace and mindfulness.

I’ve walked down sidewalks, so caught up in music, that I don’t notice people walking toward me. Grocery stores? I can tune everything out and nearly crash into other shoppers.

Sometimes, one of my kids will be right in front of me, talking, and though I respond, I realize I didn’t hear a word they said. Headphones on? Forget it—my husband can walk into the room and I won’t even register his presence.

My mind plays movies in front of me, blocking out the world. It’s why I love meditation. In my mind, I can go anywhere, be anything. But I’ve had to train myself not to slip away like this in public—it’s not great to unintentionally ignore people I know. It still happens sometimes. Friends driving by, parents at school drop-off… I miss them all the time. It’s not intentional.

My Movie-Mind & Vivid Imagination

I think in pictures, movies, and interactive scenes. As a kid on the school bus, I’d replay my favorite films in my head—scene by scene. Books? They turn into live-action movies for me. I feel the characters. I know them. I see their world.

When a TV series ends, I actually mourn the characters, like they’ve been part of my life. I can close my eyes and visualize any room I’m in—zoom in, zoom out, full 360. I can even do it with my eyes open.

I was 41 when I learned not everyone’s brain works this way. My son’s does. Talking with him? It’s one of my favorite things.

Sensory Overload & Self-Regulation

I live in near-constant sensory overload—even when I’m not dysregulated.

A woman in a green blouse expresses frustration, holding her head in exasperation against a blank backdrop.

I hear everything: the room noise, cars outside, kids playing upstairs. I hate uncomfortable clothes. The second I get home, off they come. (I’ve even stripped off irritating pants in the car.) Shoes off in restaurants? Absolutely.

My weighted blanket, a pillow hug, noise-canceling headphones? Bliss. But in everyday life? If there’s music or the TV on, I can’t focus. A fan running? It’s nearly impossible to follow a conversation. Alone time? Music helps. But I can’t sleep to it.

Mornings are sacred. My coffee. My quiet routine. Skipping that? Recipe for a stressful day.

For years, I catered to my kids’ sensory needs, gathering tools and supports, without ever looking at my own. Learning to meet my own sensory needs? The best form of self-care I’ve ever given myself.

Meltdowns, Burnout & Emotional Release

For years, I believed I suffered from anxiety and depression. But in reality, many of those episodes were autistic meltdowns and burnout cycles.

During those times, I’d lose all energy. I’d retreat to bed, disconnect from my phone, and shut down from the world to reset. I’d cry uncontrollably. Sometimes scream. The emotional intensity was overwhelming—and I hid it from everyone.

Long-term relationships made it worse. Less alone time meant fewer chances to release those emotions. And when I couldn’t anymore? The meltdowns would hit even harder.

After diagnosis, everything shifted. I finally understood that my meltdowns weren’t a mental health crisis—they were emotional resets. Healthy, necessary releases when the world became too much.

Now, I work hard to let myself process feelings in small moments, to avoid bottling them up. It isn’t perfect. But I’ve learned to show myself compassion—and that has made all the difference.

Grief, Compassion & Liberation

After I got diagnosed, the emotional process hit hard.

I felt seen. I felt validated. But I also grieved deeply.

I grieved for the younger me—the one who struggled silently, who survived on autopilot, who never understood why everything just felt so hard.

For the first time, I allowed myself to show compassion to that younger version of me. I let those long-buried feelings rise to the surface instead of stuffing them away.

A person stands triumphantly on a mountain peak, arms raised high as the sun rises behind, casting a radiant glow over the misty landscape.

The liberation didn’t come all at once. It happened little by little, as I reprogrammed my thinking and got to know myself all over again—from the ground up.

Fixated Interests & Deep Dives

I’ve always had fixated interests, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

As a kid, it was dolls. Horses. Drawing. Books—15 from the library at a time, devoured despite everyone insisting I couldn’t possibly read them all.

My drawings turned into cake decorating. My fascination with children became a deep yearning to have my own. And when I was pregnant? I researched everything—birth, breastfeeding, child development.

When my first child struggled, I poured myself into understanding diagnoses, sensory processing, and Autism. The deeper I dove, the more it all made sense—not just for her, but for me too.

Over 10 years later, my fixated interest in Autism, neurodivergence, and inclusive practices remains. It’s reshaped my parenting, my relationships, and how I see the world.

Learning to Stim Again

Through unmasking, I learned to stim again.

Rocking. Spinning. Flapping. Dancing without inhibition. Singing at the top of my lungs. Repeating soothing sounds.

A woman gracefully twirls in a vibrant, floral dress, capturing a moment of carefree joy under the clear blue sky in a serene open field.

As a kid, those movements were often met with:

“Stand still.”

“Stop fidgeting.”

“You still do that mom-rock like your daughter’s a baby.”

It took time to unlearn the shame. To reclaim those movements for self-regulation and comfort.

Parenting Through a New Lens

Understanding my own Autism changed how I show up as a parent completely.

I finally understood overwhelm—in both myself and my children. I started narrating my thought process out loud. I shared when I was overwhelmed. I let my kids see me take breaks—especially after busy events or overstimulating places like Costco.

The more I modeled caring for my own sensory needs, the more they began to recognize and care for theirs. I wore my headphones and sunglasses out in public, not just for me, but to show them it’s okay to do what you need to feel safe and comfortable.

Parenting through this new lens has given all of us more connection, more understanding, and a lot more permission to just be.

A picture of me and my kids.

The Freedom to Be You

Diagnosed. Autistic. Neurotypical. Wherever you land—you are allowed to be you.

Don’t listen to society’s rules about how you’re “supposed” to look, act, or feel.

Feel comfortable in your own skin.

Embrace yourself.

Allow yourself to exist, exactly as you are.

Getting diagnosed and finally understanding myself was the most rewarding, validating experience of my life.

And if you see yourself in any of this—just know…

You deserve that same freedom.