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.
