I was diagnosed as being neurodivergent at 36.
That sentence still feels strange to write, not because the diagnosis surprised me, but because it explained so much that had gone before it. I am autistic, I have ADHD.
For a long time, I thought I couldn’t be autistic, not because the criteria did not fit, but because I had been told they couldn’t possibly apply to me. At 24, when I first raised the idea with a therapist I trusted, I was told I was “too chatty” to be autistic. At the time, the diagnostic manual said autism and ADHD couldn’t coexist, and the explanation offered to me was that I felt different because I was depressed not that I was depressed because I was different.
Cause and effect neatly reversed.
So I carried on. Coping. Functioning. Burning out. Despising my weakness.
The cost of “functioning”
From the outside, I appeared capable. I could talk, work, joke, parent. I had a busy corporate job, ran a Brownie unit, busy social life. Inside, I was exhausted.
I took frequent long absences from work for my mental health. I constantly felt I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t quite fit anywhere. I told myself I was lazy, forgetful, overdramatic. At school I was described as “immature”, not because I couldn’t learn (I thrived academically), but because I had no interest in brands, make up, or clubbing, and struggled to connect with other girls in the expected ways.
This is one of the biggest myths about autism and ADHD; if you can function, you must be fine.
Executive function is not memory. Knowing what needs to be done does not mean your brain can initiate or organise it. Being able to name my medication doesn’t mean I remember to take it. Working as a food scientist did not stop me from forgetting to eat lunch. Being erudite doesn’t mean social interaction is easy or cost-free. Looking competent doesn’t mean you aren’t disabled.
And masking (the effort of consciously or unconsciously hiding autistic traits) isn’t always a choice. For many undiagnosed people, it’s survival.
Diagnosis: relief, then grief
I was eventually diagnosed alongside my eldest child. By then, many online friends were also being diagnosed, and while researching autism and ADHD for my son, I realised just how much of the criteria described me.
The dominant feeling when I received my diagnosis was relief. Things finally made sense.
The grief came later, grief for the younger version of me who thought they were failing at life, when actually they were navigating the world with an unsupported disability. The younger me who thought they were a terrible excuse for a horse but was actually a very normal zebra.
There’s no support after an adult autism diagnosis, particularly because autism isn’t something you “treat.” Reports can be strangely invalidating. Mine notes that I can wave, which is true, but misses the depth of my skills, insight, empathy, and perseverance. I know others for whom their diagnosis felt like a damnation, a limitation placed on their future possibilities, encased in a list of their “deficits.”
So instead of waiting for support that was not coming, I started to find my own; autism became my special interest, I took qualifications, read countless books and blogs, watched hours of TED talks, followed brilliant neurodivergent creators. Then signposting other autistic people to communities, resources, and spaces where they could build their own network of understanding and care.
“But I’m not naughty”
Community changes everything.
When my son first heard we thought he might be autistic, he said quietly, “But I’m not naughty.” When my daughter was told the same, already surrounded by autistic adults and children, she said, “Of course. Just like you and my brother.”
Those two reactions, side by side, show exactly why representation, language, and belonging matter. ADHD isn’t a moral failing. Autism isn’t a tragedy. It’s a different neurotype. Of course people have different profiles and needs, and those should not be minimised, but context and community play a large part in empowering neurodivergent people.
Why inclusion matters and why I support The Neurodivergence Project
As a teaching assistant, I see so many young people who would thrive with the right environments, the right opportunities, and the right sense of belonging. I know that’s true not just in my school, but in schools up and down the country.
That’s why I’m proud to support The Neurodivergence Project, a UK-based initiative creating opportunities for neurodivergent people to build confidence, community, and self-esteem through shared sailing experiences.
The details of how it began are the founder Matt’s story to tell, but at its heart is a simple, powerful idea: when you place neurodivergent people in environments that work with their brains rather than against them, extraordinary things happen.
The project is currently fundraising for its first trips. These aren’t just activities; they’re chances for people to feel capable, included, and understood.
I didn’t “become” neurodivergent at 36. I just finally had the language to understand myself. Today, I have an incredible community of neurodivergent people across the world, people who just get it. My hope is that projects like this help others find that same sense of belonging much earlier than I did.
If you believe in inclusion that goes beyond words reach out to The Neurodivergence Project to support their work.
Because the world doesn’t need neurodivergent people to try harder to fit in. It needs more places where they already belong.