Finding Answers : Understanding my Neurodivergent Journey

Throughout my adolescence and adult life, I found certain situations difficult and was led to believe that I struggled with my mental health. I began seeing a GP at 17 and was initially told I had OCD. A few years later, this diagnosis shifted to depression and anxiety. From the age of 18, I was prescribed various medications to try to ease my difficulties and was given contact details for mental health “support” services.

Academically, I always achieved and hit key milestones. But socially, I often struggled. I was labelled as weird, awkward, and stubborn. As I got older and began working with neurodivergent young people, I started to notice similar traits in myself. I always felt like something didn’t quite fit. I didn’t believe I was depressed—I just wanted to understand why I felt the way I did and why certain situations overwhelmed me.

I struggled to regulate my emotions. At times, I would shut myself off from the world—even from close friends, family, and partners. Things would become too much, and the only way I could cope was to be alone, with no one in my mental or physical space. I often didn’t understand why people didn’t share my views or respond in the way I would. Busy places, bright lights, and noise were overwhelming. I became frustrated with myself, asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and “Why aren’t I normal?”—a word I now try to avoid. After all, what is “normal”?

At 37, I decided I needed answers. I kept a list of moments when I felt overwhelmed, the things I found difficult, and the routines I relied on. I went back to my GP and asked for a referral to adult autism diagnostic services. I was told, “There aren’t any in the area, so I can’t do that.”

But I’m persistent. Frustrated by the lack of answers, I contacted NHS Patient Advice and Liaison Service (PALS) to ask how an adult could access an autism assessment. They were incredibly helpful and informed me that a service existed just three miles from my home. Armed with this information and my notes, I returned to a different GP and requested a referral again.

This was pre-COVID, so thankfully the process wasn’t as long as it is today. Twelve months later, I was assessed, and within a couple of months, I received an autism diagnosis.

Initially, I felt relieved to finally have answers. I was able to access a small amount of short-term support, but unfortunately, that’s where it ended. I was grateful for what I received, but it wasn’t enough. If appropriate, long-term support had been available, I would have taken it without hesitation.

On good days, I can communicate well and reflect on my emotions—I’ve even been told I’m very self-aware. But what about those who aren’t? Those who don’t know where to seek help? Are they being missed entirely? How does someone who struggles to communicate—or is non-verbal—benefit from just a few sessions of post-diagnostic support before being sent back into the world?

When I asked, “What happens now?” I was told, “There is no long-term support available for adults.” That was it. And it’s not good enough!

I’ve always worked, although my employment history has sometimes been inconsistent. Society teaches us that we should go to school, then college or university, and then into work. But this model doesn’t suit everyone—especially those who are neurodivergent.

Every day is a challenge. I struggle with change. If plans shift unexpectedly, it throws me off completely. I rely heavily on routines and order. I like things to be in their place, and I find it difficult when they’re not. Public transport is overwhelming, so I avoid it where possible. If I’ve had a bad experience somewhere, I find it extremely hard to return.

Busy environments, strong smells, and bright lights can overwhelm my senses, leaving me anxious, unable to concentrate, and needing to escape. Planning is essential—I need to know what to expect, how busy somewhere will be, and how I can leave if I feel overwhelmed. Even making eye contact can feel difficult at times and requires conscious effort.

I’m also very direct. I say things as they are, which some people perceive as rude. So I constantly filter my thoughts before speaking—a daily mental effort that becomes exhausting.

Every day, I anticipate overwhelm. I plan everything in advance. It often feels like I’m risk-assessing my own life. My mind is constantly racing with thoughts that I imagine many neurotypical people wouldn’t even consider. Sleep is difficult. And one of the hardest things I experience is what I describe as feeling “stuck.”

Being “stuck” feels like being taken over by an imposter. Inside, I’m still me—my personality, humour, and emotions are all there—but something prevents me from accessing them. I feel trapped. During these times, I lose interest in everything. Even basic tasks like getting dressed, eating, or making a drink feel impossible. I withdraw from people for hours, days, sometimes weeks, until I begin to feel like myself again.

Just because I appear fine on the outside doesn’t mean I’m coping on the inside. Having a hidden condition is incredibly difficult. You can’t always see when someone is struggling—but put them in overwhelming situations, and their coping mechanisms will surface.

For me, that often means retreating—and eventually becoming “stuck.”

For years, I tried to keep up. I said yes to things I knew would overwhelm me. I masked how I felt to fit in with what society expected. But it was exhausting.

It took me four years to fully come to terms with my autism diagnosis—and a subsequent ADHD diagnosis. Four years of searching for support that didn’t exist. Four years of learning to understand myself, to be kinder to myself, and to accept who I am.

It’s OK not to be like everyone else.

It’s OK to say no.

It’s OK to prioritise your wellbeing.

And it’s OK to walk away from people who can’t accept the real you.

For those of us considered “economically active” or have “low support needs,” support is still essential—it just needs to be the right kind. We are not broken. We don’t need fixing. Our brains are different, and they always will be. So why are we so often directed toward mental health services and medication as the default solution?

I don’t consider myself mentally unwell. I don’t need to be fixed!

Do I sometimes wish I wasn’t autistic and didn’t have ADHD? Yes—especially on the hardest days. But there are also strengths. I’m methodical, organised, and a strong planner. I’m articulate, with exceptional pattern recognition. I’m determined and deeply value fairness.

I understand why people find it hard to reconcile how I can appear “fine” one day and completely unable to function the next. But this is the reality of being AuDHD.

For me, the support I needed—both before and after diagnosis—simply wasn’t there. I felt isolated. Even some of the people I thought would always be there for me weren’t. But those experiences forced me to grow, to understand myself, and to build a life that works for me.

Today, I surround myself with people who accept me fully. People who listen, learn, and support. I set boundaries without guilt and prioritise my wellbeing unapologetically.

So that’s why I started My:ND Space CIC—to provide the kind of support I wish I’d had. A non-clinical, judgement-free environment where neurodivergent people can connect, share, and support each other. No labels. No pressure. Just understanding.

We don’t claim to have all the answers. But we do have lived experience—and sometimes, that’s what matters most.

If any part of my story resonates with you, please know you’re not alone. There is a community out there that understands. Come and find your tribe!

Thank you for reading,

Ruth