Discovering You're Autistic: A Life-Changing Journey

"Looks like two worlds colliding"

There are moments that split your life in two.

For me, one of those moments came with a sentence: “You’re autistic.”

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t feel instant clarity or comfort.

I said I understood. I nodded.

But inside, everything was unravelling.

It didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like grief.

At first, I thought everyone had known before me.

That I was the only one who didn’t get the memo.

I looked back at the people in my life — family, teachers, friends, colleagues — and thought, “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

I remembered the jokes. The way I was called “autistic Matt” during rugby.

I thought it was just banter — a nickname poking fun at how focused or intense I was.

I didn’t think it meant anything.

But once I had the diagnosis, everything I’d masked suddenly stood out.

I thought I’d hidden it perfectly — the routines, the shutdowns, the rehearsed social scripts.

I thought I was blending in.

But, maybe I wasn’t.

And still… most people didn’t really know.

They saw the difference, but not the reason.

They had no idea what was underneath.

And neither did I. It's not their fault or mine.

I didn’t understand what it meant to be autistic.

Not in a way that connected to my life.

Not in a way that explained why everything always felt just slightly… harder.

I’d never seen Rain Man (I understood the plot), but I remembered how my dad used to say “246 toothpicks” whenever something unusual happened on a game show. I left an appointment with my therapist, got home, dropped matches, picked them up. God knows why, after being told “You’re autistic”, I thought it would suddenly mean I'm a savant.

But that just shows how naive I was about what autism actually is — and what it really means.

Masking Is Survival — Until It Isn’t

I thought I was just bad at life.

Bad at work and having to stay later to keep up, a loner because I didn't want to socialise...bad at “normal.”

I thought everyone else was putting in the same effort I was —they were just better at it.

I had no idea I was masking.

No idea that rehearsing eye contact, mimicking facial expressions, scripting answers or jokes, and shutting down when I was overwhelmed, were all ways I was adapting.

It wasn’t acting. It was surviving.

But survival comes at a cost.

And if I stopped performing — even just a little — things always started to fall apart...so I had to gather all my strength to push harder. I was tired.

Because I didn’t know how to be without the mask.

I’d never had the space to figure it out.

The Diagnosis Brought Grief, Not Relief

People assume a diagnosis is a solution.

That you get the label and everything clicks into place.

But for me, the diagnosis was the start of mourning.

Mourning the years spent thinking I was just difficult, lazy, or weird.

Mourning the time I spent trying to fix myself instead of understand myself.

Mourning all the times I said “yes” when I meant “no,” just to avoid conflict or confusion.

Mourning a life lived without the right tools or language.

Deep in thought thinking “do I have enough strength to work out what this all means?".

I went through the stages of grief — depression, denial, anger, depression, bargaining, depression, and now… maybe the beginning of acceptance...with a light dusting of depression to keep things spicy (Maybe the pills are finally working? Can autistic people have a sense of humour? When was the first joke recorded? - an insight into my brain).

It wasn’t linear. It still isn’t.

Some days I feel empowered.

Other days I feel completely lost.

Some days I question how I now fit into this world.

Other days I wonder how no one said anything when they did.

Mostly, I just wish I’d known sooner.

What I’m Learning Now

I don’t have the answers.

But I’ve started asking better questions.

I used to ask: “What’s wrong with me?”

Now I ask: “What’s true for me?”

I used to ask: “Why can’t I be normal?”

Now I ask: “What do I need to feel safe being myself?”

I’m learning that:

• You can say “I’m fine” and still feel completely lost.

• You can look like you’re coping and still be breaking inside.

• You can know something isn’t working and still have no idea how to fix it.

• You can grieve for the version of you that everyone celebrated — while quietly learning to honour the one that was hiding underneath.

Here’s What I Think

• Masking will keep you accepted — but it will also keep you disconnected.

• You don’t have to “prove” you’re struggling for your needs to matter.

• Understanding your mind is a lifelong process — and there’s no rush to have it all figured out.

• Diagnosis isn’t the end of the journey. It’s the start of coming home to yourself.

If You’re on This Path Too

If you’ve recently been diagnosed — or if you suspect something but aren’t sure what —you’re not alone.

You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re not overreacting.

You’re waking up to a truth you’ve been carrying for a long time.

Let yourself feel what comes.

Let yourself grieve.

Let yourself be angry, confused, relieved, numb — all of it.

It’s okay if it doesn’t make sense straight away.

It’s okay if it never fully makes sense.

You don’t have to build a whole new version of yourself.

You just have to stop abandoning the one who’s been there all along.

And that — quietly, patiently — is what I’m learning to do.

I'm just trying to give myself time. I owe the people around me that.