Autism as my identity

Content Note:
This story reflects on personal experiences with depression, identity challenges, and emotional healing. If these themes feel heavy for you, please take care as you read.

Discovering I am autistic wasn’t the end of a journey; it was a new beginning. I felt relief like I have finally found the puzzle my pieces belong to. For me, autism isn’t something to grieve—it’s an integral part of who I am. How could I grieve something that felt like coming home to myself? I know not everyone feels this way about their diagnosis, and that’s okay. Each journey is personal, but for me, this was a moment of affirmation, not loss.

Autism is what makes me the person I am today, with all my strengths and challenges, intricately blending traits that shape my world. My autism influences how I see the world, the way I interact with it, think about it, everything. It’s in the way I notice the subtle rustling of leaves in the wind, the rhythm in my daily life, or the joy I find in places others might overlook. There would be no me without my autism, and I wouldn’t want to be anyone else. I embraced who I am long ago, and in that acceptance I found contentment. 

My therapist told me there is a grief period after discovering you’re autistic. She explained how, before my diagnosis, I might have hoped that I would change—that things would get better. But now, she said, I would have to come to terms with the fact that change wasn’t going to happen. Her words caught me off guard. Grief? It didn’t feel like my story. I had already faced those feelings—and let them go—long before my diagnosis.

I gave up long ago in hoping that being alive would get easier. 

In high school, I was deeply depressed. Puberty brought waves of confusion—my body felt foreign, my mind chaotic. Why was I attracted to girls sometimes, when society insisted I should only be drawn to boys? What was happening to me? Incomprehensible sensations churned inside me, leaving me disconnected from who I thought I was. The way I perceived and analyzed the world shifted. 

And outside of myself? 

I was adrift in a sea of societal norms I couldn’t decode. No one handed me a manual on how to navigate relationships, and the stories I passionately devoured offered little guidance for the real world. When I tried to act like others, I was left drained. When I followed my instincts, I was left lonely. It felt like no path led anywhere I could truly belong.

I have only a few memories of that period apart from my inner turmoil. For months, I struggled silently. My grades dropped slightly—nothing drastic, but enough to lose my place as a top student. To others, I seemed fine. My success hid my turmoil. I was alone in the middle of a storm no one could see. 

That’s when I had to make a decision. I couldn’t live like that anymore. I stood at a crossroads: either find beauty in my life or let it all slip away.

Luckily, I found the beauty. I saw it in every blade of grass, in the endless shades of green that swayed in the wind. The sky became an infinite canvas, shifting from soft pastels at dawn to fiery golds at sunset. Even the sun filtering through the trees seemed like a gift. The world was full of colors, smells, and wonder, waiting for me to notice.

Once I acknowledged that beauty, my inner world began to calm and grow. My head, once filled with chaos, overflowed with stories again. I began to write, weaving meaning into my life one word at a time. And then, I discovered metal music. No one has any idea how those aggressive sounds saved me. The thunderous guitars, pounding drums, and raw, unfiltered power weren’t just sounds—they were a lifeline. In that music, I found myself.

The music didn’t just echo my emotions; it shared my vibration. It spoke a language I understood instinctively, one that made me feel whole. Even now, I still feel its power. Through music and writing, I found the connection I so desperately needed. They reminded me that life could be vibrant and that I could be part of its wonder.

So grief?

No, there is no grief in my diagnosis. I grieved long ago for what I couldn’t fix, for the expectations I couldn’t meet. I gave up trying to change myself and chose instead to love who I am. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the only one that allowed me to survive. 

My diagnosis doesn’t bring me grief—it brings me joy. It’s a confirmation that I’m not broken, that I’m not alone in how I feel and experience the world. Being diagnosed as autistic opens doors to authentic connections, to finding balance, and to discovering how to live in a way that doesn’t hurt.

No, I won’t change. I made peace with that long ago. But the way I see the world can change. I can prioritize myself, learn to care for my needs without guilt, and hope that one day I will wake up to a life that feels lighter and more aligned with who I am.

There is no grief. There is only joy. This is an identity I fully embrace because it fully represents me. Autism isn’t a limitation—it’s a lens. It shapes how I see and connect with the world, filling my life with beauty, creativity, and authenticity. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Autism isn’t just part of my story—it’s the foundation of the life I’ve built and the life I am proud to live.

Short story

No one is coming to save me. I am all alone. I scream, but it is silent. I cry, but my tears are dry. I am no one. I am nothing. Alone amidst a crowd, lost and never found. I am a ghost, an illusion. I take up space, yet nobody is seeing or feeling me. I'm here but I'm not, alone, forgotten, lost. 

I'm not gonna be saved. Only I can save myself, but I am strong enough to do that? I'm tired. Tired of every day feeling like a fight, tired of suppressing, denying who I am. Better days are not in sight, and I am scared, so scared of going back to that place where every part of me feels like it’s swallowed and slowly and painfully digested in the stomach of an ancient monster. I want to be free, I want my voice to be loud and clear. I want to do good, but first, I want to feel like I'm alive. This is what I want most: to live and live and live and live.

But I am dead inside, only a tiny sparkle that might someday reignite life.

Armchair diagnosis

There are so many things I want to talk about I don’t even know where to start. I planned this article three weeks ago, but my life is kind of busy right now (too busy for an autistic person, but this is not what I want to talk about today). Since then, things have evolved and changed in my mind. 

It all started with me seeing a podcast that talked about a lot of things, armchair diagnosing celebrities as autistic being one of them. I want to talk about this subject today. 

For those of you who don’t know, armchair diagnosis is a term that refers to making assumptions about other people’s mental illness without having the credentials to do so (or without actually treating the person). So, it is easy to understand why there is an entire debate on whether it’s right or wrong to do it. And obviously, in most cases, it is wrong.

Is it ever right? 

It depends on the reason behind the assumption. For example, telling a friend they meet the criteria for a certain mental illness or disorder might be out of concern and only to advise them to seek a medical opinion. It’s no different than saying, “Hey, one of your eyes looks a bit funny and red, has a doctor seen you?”

So how about armchair diagnosing celebrities? We cannot claim to be doing that out of concern because just because I say a certain star might be autistic it will never give them the help they will need if my assumption is true. Yet, I’m sure that most of us have found ourselves at one point or another in our lives doing something similar. Why?

Obviously, I can’t answer for others, I can only answer for myself. So, for me, it’s the lack of representation. If there were actually autistic celebrities outhere, I wouldn’t have to speculate about other celebrities being autistic. I want to find myself in someone, so each time I notice I have things in common with a famous person or another, I wonder if they are autistic. I especially do this with musicians when I find myself in their lyrics. Especially if their lyrics resonate highly with my autistic experience. I like to think that somebody out there understands me, feels the same as me, and has translated that feeling into art. 

In contrast, I care less about actors because actors have the combined personalities of all the characters they bring to life. However, it would be nice to see more autistic characters beyond the few white boy stereotypes that are now available. Women and people of color, autism represented through various cultures, and with its multiple ways it can present itself. An array of human experiences that is just as varied as life itself, offering each of us a chance to find ourselves. 

Until we have that, I will speculate. I will speculate about musicians based on the music and lyrics they compose. I will speculate about famous people who show the public parts of their personalities that seem to match mine. And I will especially speculate about the characters I see on TV or read in books. 

If it’s about real people, I will obviously speculate in private. I don’t believe I have that much power that if I make a claim about someone it will instantly go viral (in other words, it doesn’t matter what I say), but I can’t forget that these are real people, and I’m no medical professional. It doesn’t matter what I think I know and understand, the truth will always be that I don’t know these people. I only know the parts of them they’re showing to the public, which might not even be real. 

When it’s about characters, I allow myself to talk more freely about my beliefs. After all, they are out there for us to dissect and talk about them. They do not get hurt by our words or have anything to lose because of them. They live only to enrich our experiences and help us learn. And we, by claiming a certain character is autistic (or ADHD, or any other neurotype), do nothing else than saying we saw parts of ourselves into that character. That should be the goal of every author. 

So maybe now you’re wondering which characters I believe are neurodivergent? Who are those characters I found myself in? The list is obviously quite long and I can’t remember them all from the top of my head, but I’ll talk to you about some.

Lily from Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares. She is highly resistant to change, obsessed with Christmas, prone to screaming fits that look a lot like meltdowns and finds fitting in with other people difficult. 

Jasmin Santos from From Lukov with Love. A determined figure skater who can’t help speaking her mind and is often mistaken for rude. She’s dyslexic, but I believe she acts a lot like an autistic person. We all know that the two neurodivergences often appear together.

Antonia (Nina) from The Beautiful Ones. She doesn’t understand the rules of behaving in society (this is an etiquette book). She prefers clothes that are comfortable over those that are beautiful. She’s candid and genuine. And mostly, she has meltdowns that in the book are described as an unhinged use of her magic.

Niamh from A Fragile Enchantment. She’s not autistic but ADHD. And I believe the sole reason the author doesn’t openly name her so in the book is because ADHD doesn’t actually exist as a diagnosis. But the author actually names her “scattered-brained”.

Now that I talked about needing representation and not finding enough of it, I want to also talk about those few openly autistic celebrities who inspire me.

I’ll start with actress Chloe Hayden who plays the magnificent character Qunni in the wonderful TV show Heartbreak High. I highly recommend watching it. And the way she brings Qunni to life has been highly commented on and acclaimed by many autistic people. Even more, after watching the show with my husband, I noticed that he got a lot better at handling those negative parts of my autism, like my meltdowns and such. This is all you need to know about how authentic this character is. 

I also like autistic authors and novelists. Helen Hoang, Talia Hibbert, and Chloe Liese, with Chloe being my favorite. They all write romance novels with disabled characters (autistic or other disabilities). Mazy Eddings is also a great neurodivergent author, but I don’t know about the flavor of her neurodivergence. Her characters are autistic or ADHD or suffer from anxiety.

 I love them all. I follow them all. 

But they are not enough in terms of representation.

How about you? Do you know more autistic celebrities to add to this list? Do you want to tell me about a certain character you believe to be autistic? Feel free to do so. 

Sensory overload in an office space

What do you do when the world becomes too much? The light is bright and cold. It hurts my eyes, it hurts my brain. I want to concentrate, but I can’t even see properly. Words and numbers become blurry, table cells merge and become the same. People talk left and right, behind me and in front of me. Two phone conversations happen at the same time, and close to me, two people explain to each other some concept or other. 

Humming. The humming is always here. People clicking and typing, pages shuffling, someone blowing off their nose. Computers and monitors produce sounds. The AC is singing its off-kilter song. Someone makes a coffee and the coffee maker bubbles. Someone else is printing, and the printer screeches as it spews out paper. Something has fallen to the ground, thudding on the carpet. The neon above me is buzzing, the light dancing ever so slightly that nobody else notices. Yet, to me, it feels like a laser slicing my skull in two. 

Smells. A sweet perfume that makes me nauseous. Vaping. Food. I can even smell the breath of those who are close to me. My airways feel clogged, I feel assaulted, and there’s nowhere I can escape. Even the smell of cleaning substances makes me sick. 

Clothes rub on me, and I want to take them all off. Strip naked in the middle of my office so I will feel nothing. Or rather, change into a pj, and wrap myself in soft cotton. Naked, I feel the air on my skin, and I need protection from that. But even when I only opt for the most comfortable things, at some point something feels wrong. It feels itchy, or it’s too tight, or it finds another way to annoy me. 

I eat and eat because taste is the only one of my senses I still have control over. I eat and eat because feeling something in my mouth keeps me calm. Eating is the only part of my life that still feels like control, and yet, it is the part of my life the most out of control. I need to keep myself healthy, I know, but what does healthy means when what I struggle with is keeping myself alive? When everything hurts, when the now is so painful, how can I think about the future? 

Noise-canceling headphones, music, and audiobooks. It helps, yet it can’t keep all noises at bay. I still hear people talking, I still hear the electronic machines humming. When there’s too much noise, there’s too much noise and I can’t escape it. 

I run from my office, but there’s no place I can escape the humming and the smells. The kitchen smells of too many foods and the water purifier is always on. The bathroom smells of shit and piss and cleaning products, and the ventilator never stops, no matter what I do. Neons hum in the hallways, people talk everywhere. Every place is too bright. 

Outside. Outside there’s traffic, a different kind of noise, and a different kind of light. At least, there are some green trees, but their leaves look sad under the pollution they have to endure every day. And I? I am dying inside while my body keeps moving. I am wasting away day by day, the light in me dwindling until I have nothing left to shine. And I long for the dark. 

Communication

I don't know if it's because of who I am, because I'm autistic, or because I grew up as an undiagnosed autistic person, but I really struggle to communicate my needs. Sometimes I struggle and I endure until I can't anymore. Until I'm bent and broken, sick and on the ground. Sometimes, even then, if I'm around people who aren't family, I would crawl on the ground, digging my fingernails in the earth until they break, instead of asking for help. Asking for accommodation. I don't think I deserve it. I look around and see other people walking with ease and think that I should be like them. I should be able to do what they do without any accommodation. That it isn't fair to ask for more. That I would gain some advantage, when in fact, an accommodation would only place me on even ground. So I go on struggling. 

Why am I writing it? Partially because I struggle. I really, really struggle. I'm in burnout. I'm spent to the point that I'm almost constantly sick. An ugly UTI at the beginning of this year lasted more than two months. Now, for over a month I have been fighting with a cold. I am tired. A tiredness that goes as deep as my bones, that seems that it would never go away. I'm overweight, I overeat, and I'm way too sedentary for my own good. I should exercise, keep myself healthy, but I'm too busy keeping myself alive. I'm well aware that I'm likely giving away years of my life just to survive now but what can I do?

Yes, what can I do? My husband helps me as much as he can. My parents help, too. Could they do more? Maybe, but it gets down to that blasted communication. I don't know how to ask for help. I don't even know what to ask for.

As for outsiders, I don't think anyone else is even aware I'm struggling. How could they be, when I asked for nothing? How could they be, when I never complain? 

Work is horrible. Not the actual work I'm doing, but being at work, handling the lights, the constant noise, the assault of smells, the people. Yes, the people. Being around them and all their emotions is the worst thing I know. Especially when I feel like a sponge ready to absorb everything and carry it with me. I'm too empathic, but not in a helpful way that lets me connect with others. No, in a way that makes me want to run and hide from everybody. 

I have the possibility to ask to work from home. I have no guarantee it would get approved, but as my sister said, at least I would know where I stand. Still, I didn't. Why? Partially, it's anxiety. Yes, talking, and especially requesting something for myself, gives me anxiety. 

But it's more than that. It's that deep down I think I'm just a fraud that invented her struggles. I believe I don't have the right to ask for it. I believe I would gain an unfair advantage. So I imagine people saying all these things about me. I imagine them judging me and denying me. I build conversations in my head, think over and over again how to formulate my request, my answers to accusations that might never come. I convince myself that I can endure a little more, just a little more. All so I won't be judged, all so I won't face my judgment. 

I hate my internalized ableism. 

But even for those who knew all their lives that they were autistic, who learned about their needs, and who know they have a right to prioritize them, communication is sometimes difficult. Or maybe not exactly communication. We, autistic people, can easily communicate with each other. But when it comes to communicating with neurotypicals… sometimes we have trouble making our needs understood. I don’t know why. One would say that a person who always speaks their mind and is very direct in expressing themselves and their thoughts will be easily understood, but this is not the case. Even when we say “I need this because of that,” some people do not understand us. They think we mean something else, or maybe they downsize our need (here could be an entire debate, but maybe that would make the subject of another article). Whatever it is, misunderstandings often occur between autistic and neurotypical people. 

I was watching a TV show the other day, and one of the characters is autistic. She had this big fight with her girlfriend because when she communicated her needs, her girlfriend failed to understand that that was the extent of her capacities. To me, she communicated clearly. To her girlfriend, apparently, it wasn’t clear enough. 

This kind of thing happens often in my life. When I say that something affects me badly, when I say that I’m in pain or bothered by something, people rarely understand how bad it actually is. My parents didn’t understand what I’d suffered through. To people outside the family, I don’t even know if I bothered explaining. My husband is the only one who understands, my best friend.

But let’s get back to my parents for a while. In a recent conversation with my mother, she talked about how I didn’t have problems communicating when I was younger, and that I had friends. Obviously, interactions between children are far less complicated than interactions between adults, and this plays a part. And it’s true that why I wasn’t Miss Popularity, I wasn’t completely lonely either. 

But there’s a lot to the picture she didn’t see. All the bullying, the rejection I suffered until I was finally accepted. How gaining those few weak friendships I had felt like a fight, like pushing my way through undercurrents of water. How I had to adapt and change myself so I would fit. Wrongly, inexactly, but I was finally in. There were always parts of me I kept hidden because if shown, they would’ve been ridiculed. 

The girls who ended up being my friends were my neighbors. We had no choice but to be each other’s company if we wanted company. We grew up together and became friends not because we were alike or we liked each other, but because we were always together. Surely, over the years some of them maybe started to like me and I liked some of them. But our friendship started with rejection. Or better said, with their rejection of me, and me changing so they would accept me. Without me making an effort to fit in, I would’ve never had friends. 

Maybe it would’ve been better. I would've been lonely, but at least I would’ve stayed myself, so later I would’ve had the chance to make genuine connections. Maybe I wouldn't now feel the need to hide. I wouldn't have to fight with that part of myself that tells me to be hidden is to be safe. I would've stood in front of the others, accepting mockery or an embrace on equal measure. 

But how could a young child be so insightful? Back then, I wanted to belong, I wanted to be like the others, I wanted to be accepted. I wanted people to respect me and not make fun of me. I couldn't see that I was sacrificing temporary solitude for a long time alienation from myself. I couldn't see that I was winning people while losing me. 

How can autistic children end up differently? Obviously, I cannot give a definitive answer. But if there's one piece of advice I could give them, that would be to love and accept their children exactly as they are, to never try to change them (I know you fear that the society will not accept your child, but the first step to change that is to accept him yourself), and not to put pressure on them to make friends. Likely, your children will never have many relationships, but those they will have will be genuine and true. 

Christmas and Autism

 Hello! It’s funny that my first article here happens to be about Christmas, but so it is. Before I begin, I want to warn everybody that what I’m about to write is solely my own experience, and it’s not true for all autists. We are all different; our sensory sensitivities are very different from one another, so other might face challenges where I don’t or vice versa.

I’m one of those people who love Christmas. If I think back about my childhood, Christmas has always been a magical time of the year. It meant pretty lights all over, grandma’s cooking, and time spent in bed reading or watching TV. It was the Christmas tree, with its wonderful smell and the shiny decorations. The carols and the sound of music resounding from everywhere. For the child-me, it was a time when everything slowed, and no one had any expectations of me. A time to meet those I loved and be with my family (which is not a big family, and definitely not a noisy family, as I’ve noticed with others). Christmas also meant presents, of course, but I don’t think they were ever my main reason for enjoying the holyday. Mostly, it was the sensory experience and the lack of structure to my day. Or the lack of social expectations (I know that for most autistics family time often means social overload, but with my family, I always knew I was loved regardless of what I said or if I actually said anything, and I was always allowed me time when I felt too full).

As an adult, things changed slightly. I still love Christmas, obviously. But I have more to handle, so it’s easier for me to feel overwhelmed. I have two children and I want to offer them the same magical experience of Christmas I had. I love decorating, but sometimes, after long days of work and everything, I have barely any energy left to decorate. Luckily, as my children grow, they begin to carry on the decorating by themselves. And I love the Christmas tree, but sometimes I’m bothered by all the time it takes in my house, especially since it’s going to be there till February, most likely (everybody in my family suffers from executive dysfunction, so putting it up is fun and all, but taking it down is harder).

One thing I definitely do not love are the swarms of people you can find everywhere during this time of the year. I actually do love shopping, but only as long as it’s not crowded. Picking things off the shelves makes me happy, but only when I have time to admire everything and I’m not distracted by groups and groups of people passing over me, pushing into me, wanting the same thing I want. I hate accidental touches or when others breathe to close to me. I hate when others can’t wait for me to pick what I want and move away before choosing their own desired items. When this happens, I only want to leave the store. Thank God for delivery.

Some years I do the Christmas shopping in advance, and those are good years, where I can relax before the holyday and meet it prepared. Lately, with my little one catching every childhood illness and needing days of care and medication, I almost forgot that Christmas is coming until it was almost upon us. Last year was extremely overwhelming.

This year I’ve done all my Christmas shopping this week as well. The stores were busy, people everywhere, and I had to be careful not to forget anyone, to think about what everyone might want. It was exhausting, but I’m so proud of myself for being able to find thoughtful gifts for everybody. My parents are having a tough time this year, and if I manage to put a smile on their faces, it would be worth it.

I am proud of myself for putting up the Christmas tree and decorating it with my children. It was tiring, but we had fun. It was definitely worth it for them, but honestly, I just look at the Christmas tree and think that it’s so beautiful, so it was also worth it for me. To see something pretty in my house every day.

That’s about all I’ve done this year. My husband did some cleaning. Well, to be honest, my husband did a lot of cleaning because he’s much better at it than I am, and under his touch the house actually looks clean unlike when I try to do that job. Of course, with his ADHD, he’s a very spur-of-the-moment cleaner, so when he feels like it our house is spotless, and when he doesn’t, all we have is my failed attempt. He felt like it this Christmas.

But then, he didn’t feel like cooking. And nor did I. And we were both okay with it. After all, one of our children’s got the flu, the other a throat infection, so just seeing them feeling relatively all right was enough. We ate leftover pizza from yesterday and the cake I ordered a day in advance. I cooked a quick vegetable soup for my little one who doesn’t want to eat anything too chewy at the moment, but that took about ten minutes. We enjoyed our presents and made good use of them (I mean, the kids did of their toys; we’ve got jewelry and perfumes, so we will only use them when we leave the house).

Presents are the only aspect of the holyday that is really important to me and I cling to. Presents put a smile on other people’s face. So no matter how tired, I make time to buy presents for the other people. Important presents when I can afford them, but at least something symbolic and thoughtful if I don’t have the means to buy more. It makes me happy, and it makes everybody else’s happy.

This year on Christmas day, there was only the four of us, but we celebrated with the extended family a day in advance. As I’ve said, my family is cool. We can really be ourselves when we are together, and we are not that loud to worry about overwhelm. But if any of us does get overwhelmed, we are free to go sit by ourselves until we recharge.

I just read this morning an article with advice for relatives of autistic people on how to make the holyday more enjoyable for the said autistic people. The thing is, all those rules seemed to me like things that don’t need to be spoken for people with enough common sense and who really care about their relatives. I mean, in my home, no one ever forced me or anyone else to speak when I didn’t feel like it, or out of time by myself (maybe they asked if anything was wrong, and if I said nothing was wrong and that I needed to be by myself, that was fine), no one forced me to play any games or wear scratchy clothes, and so on and so forth. The fact that rules like this need to be said and that not every family applies them by default is really sad and it’s no wonder so many people see autism as a disorder. We are not disorderly at all if given a chance to live the way we enjoy and be whoever we are. Of course, there still are things like executive dysfunction and other aspects of being on the spectrum that can make our lives harder, but if people are willing to live with us the way we are, help where we struggle, they will find that we also have so much to offer. As for myself, because of the way I see the world, I do struggle sometimes, but also I can spot so much beauty others are unable to see that it’s worth it. There’s no other way I’d rather be.

If this article seems not entirely structured and all over the place, I apologize for that. I wrote it in two sittings, after some events that affected me emotionally happened (my kids got sick again, and I’m not feeling that well myself). But there were things I wanted to say and I didn’t want to edit the whole thing. I hope somebody can benefit from reading about my experience with Christmas.