I Don’t Have the Answers — But Here’s What I’m Learning

I hope that planet doesn't fall on me. Do planets fall out of the sky? What are the statistics of being hit by something from space? I wish my voice didn't crack. I'm tired now. 

I don't have the answers, but there’s a quiet ache that arises when you find out that you have spent your life trying to fit into something that doesn’t fit you back. Finding out you are a chameleon — which is something you have been subtly aware of, but never understood why — a life behind a mask. You have adapted to become whatever keeps you safe, liked, successful or invisible.

It's hard being told you have spent years living in that space — surviving by adapting. For a long time, I didn’t know why everything felt so overwhelming.

Why social situations drained me.

Why I felt like two different people. 

Why group conversations felt like noise I couldn’t follow.

Why I had to rehearse being “normal” while everyone else just lived it — I thought everyone was putting in the same effort as me...they were just better at it. 

Then I was diagnosed as autistic. And it's taken some time to accept, but things are slowly starting to make more sense.

But “understanding” isn’t the same as peace.

You can start to discover who you are and still feel lost inside the world you don't feel you were built to be a part of. 

For most of my life, I thought there would be a moment when things would finally make sense. A turning point. A full stop. Some kind of resolution where I’d feel certain about who I was, where I was going, and what I was meant to do.

That moment never came.

Instead, what came was crisis. Collapse. Loss. Silence.

I had lived a life of “shoulds” — the person I was taught to be, the rules I thought I had to live by, the mask I wore to stay accepted, useful, invisible. 

A life striving for perfection. 

But should comes at a cost. It chips away at who you really are.

It tells you to stay quiet when you don't understand something.

To suppress emotions when you don't understand the meaning of them.

To play it safe even as something inside you is begging to feel something.

A life ruled by fear of failure. 

And it’s strange — the moment you start listening to yourself, everything gets louder. Your doubts. Your fear. Your shame.

But underneath all of that? There’s something honest. 

I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know how all of this will turn out. But here’s what I’m learning:

You can’t think your way into healing. I had researched how to support my mental health for years, but now I realise that a lot of the advice is built for neurotypicals.

You have to carefully let go of who you thought you were to make space for who you are.

Most people are performing. Few people are free.

Sometimes survival looks like stillness. And that’s okay.

Clarity doesn’t come in lightning bolts — it comes in moments of silence 

My diagnosis is starting to change the way I see things and I am beginning to accept a few truths. 

I need to understand things deeply and process them slowly.

I often miss what’s implied and focus on what’s said.

I get stuck on detail and forget the “big picture” everyone else seems to see so clearly.

And yet, these same qualities help me notice what others miss.

They help me silently question what doesn’t make sense.

They help me write with clarity, precision, and honesty.

I don’t need fixing. I just needed a different path.

And maybe that’s all anyone needs — permission to stop pretending they’re okay and start building from where they actually are.

There were days I thought I’d never get through. And even now, I have no idea what the future holds. But what I do know is this:

You can build something out of rock bottom.

You can come out of hiding and still be loved.

You can fall apart and still move forward — one decision, one breath, one day at a time. 

"Just make it through today. It's just a day".