Six months on from diagnosis: sending love to little autistic me

To the little girl who was perfect exactly as she was

April is Autism Awareness Month: a time to celebrate and honour the experiences and identities of autistic folks worldwide. So it feels very timely to share some thoughts about my journey of late diagnosis at 32.

In October 2024, I was diagnosed with level 1 autism and dyscalculia, a maths-based learning disability that, for me, also impacts spatial awareness. Since then, I have been reflecting a lot on my childhood. From a young age, I showed many signs of neurodivergence that were missed, most likely because of my gender (all autistic kids are boys, right?!), sophisticated language skills, and socially acceptable special interests for girls, such as books and animals. I was so good at hiding my struggles with socialisation and maths that I even believed my performance. I had no idea I’d turn out to be all kinds of neurodivergent.

For most of my life, the terms ‘neurodivergent’ and ‘neurotypical’ weren’t even in my vocabulary, because I, along with my family, friends, and teachers, didn’t think to question my brain. You see, I was clever enough to excel in most subjects at school. The rote learning model of Western schooling suited me just fine. I was diligent, studious, and eager to please adults. Even in primary school, I would spend hours doing meticulous research and produce assignments in my neatest handwriting, often with detailed illustrations. My parents – both primary school teachers – didn’t need to supervise my schoolwork; I was self-driven and self-taught.

I was a Very Good Girl. I read above my age level and listened carefully to instructions before following them. I was (mostly) kind and considerate to other children. I had friends … most of the time. I was tall and long-legged, with a natural aptitude for sports like high jump and sprinting. I won awards for writing competitions, community service, art, and performance. Teachers liked me, my peers tolerated me, and my parents assumed I was doing well.

As a young child, I was often lost in daydreams. I believed in fairy magic and had many imaginary friends.

[Image description: Sarah, around the age of four, sitting on a brick ball with a blissful expression. She is wearing fairy wings and blue leggings with a hole in the knee, holding a teddy bear and bunny.]

At first glance, I did seem to be doing well: I was a happy, playful child with a vivid imagination. A tad melancholic and obsessive? Sure. Extremely fussy eater? Absolutely, but aren’t all kids? Prone to insomnia and night terrors? Yes, but she’ll grow out of it. [Play into this more]

There were subtle and not-so-subtle signs that I was struggling. And over the years, some astute adults noticed my neurodivergence without realising what it meant.

Take the teacher who tried to help me hold a pencil correctly. I could not, would not, hold the pencil in the way she wanted me to, between index finger and thumb. Rather, I clutched it with all of my fingers except my pinky. Frustrated, the well-meaning teacher told my parents I was ‘too stubborn’. I now believe that my difficulties with pencil grip were to do with executive dysfunction; I actually couldn’t change the way I held the pencil because my brain was struggling to connect with my hand. I still have a callus on my right ring finger from holding pencils and pens ‘wrong’ – but to me, my grip feels right.

Then there was the child counsellor who flagged my panic attacks and catastrophic thinking with my mother. ‘This is more than your average anxiety,’ the counsellor explained. ‘Sarah shows signs of intense, irrational fears usually associated with a panic disorder. Has she experienced recent trauma?’

The answer was affirmative, but I’m unsure how much information Mum divulged. She would have likely shared something about the spectacularly messy divorce from my father, but left out the part about the strange man who lured me into his house that one time. Or the other strange man who followed me home and became my mother’s lover.

Signs of trauma and neurodivergence in children often overlap. While it’s true I had experienced childhood trauma, there were deeper layers to my experience that shouted AUTISM! From birth, I was a terrible sleeper. I was extremely sensitive to sound and would wake up when the floorboards creaked or my story cassette tape ended (yes, I’m old school). I still have heightened senses at night and wake up at the slightest buzzing sound or light shining through the window. I experience regular bouts of insomnia that I try to combat with a bubble bath, dim lighting, and a weighted blanket. It doesn’t always work.

But I digress a little. The point is that pieces of the ‘true’ me were always there. Sadly, it would be many years before I could fit them together and create a clear image of myself.

Let’s jump ahead to 2020. I’m 28 and living in Thirroul, a coastal suburb just north of Wollongong. Although it’s COVID-19 lockdown, I have formed a new friendship with P, who I met in an online queer group.

When we’re able to meet up in person, P informs me she’s autistic and has Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). ‘I can’t quite explain it, but … hanging out with you just doesn’t feel the same as hanging out with other neurotypical people,’ she says. ‘I can be myself with you.’

I smile at P and say, ‘Well, maybe that’s because I’m technically neurodivergent. Because of my OCD, I mean.’

Always an animal lover, I begged my Mum to allow me to have bunnies, cats, fish, silkworms, and even a hermit crab.

[Image description: Happy young Sarah with wet hair and a purple swimming top with flowery board shorts. She is holding a baby bunny inside an enclosure.]

I was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) in my early twenties, after experiencing repeated, disturbing, intrusive thoughts and compulsions over many years. In her book Different, Not Less, Chloé Hayden (an autistic ADHDer who plays the autistic character of Quinni in Heartbreak High) writes that autistic people are 13 times more likely to have OCD [1]. When I read Hayden’s book in 2022, I found myself relating to much of the content, especially her descriptions of overlooked autistic traits such as:

• Connection with animals

• Intense compassion and empathy

• Large and unique vocabulary

• Clumsiness

• Sleep problems [2].

Although I was in deep denial about my autism when I read Hayden’s book (but why did I buy it? Why was I reading it?!), I was intrigued by her explanation of the unique ways autism can present in girls/women/people assigned female at birth.

Autistic women tend to be shy and self-aware … Intense special interests are a classic autistic trait regardless of gender … they often present in women as a love for animals and media and the arts, such as literature, film and music … We tend to develop later than neurotypical girls and are more likely to be seen as incredibly youthful and naive.

– Chloé Hayden, Different, Not Less (2022)

Chloé Hayden as Quinni the sleuth in the new Heartbreak High, season 2.

[Image description: The character of Quinni with red plaits and a patterned yellow onesie looking through yellow sunglasses. Sourced from https://www.heute.at]

After the conversation with P that day, I began to self-identify as neurodivergent. However, I held firmly to the belief that my neurodivergence was purely OCD-related: there’s nothing else to see here, folks. Sure, many of the female autistic traits in Hayden’s book sounded like me … but I was just A Bit Of A Quirky Weirdo who spent years studying the narrative structure of coming-of-age novels, adored miniature animals, and couldn’t interpret people’s intentions towards me.

Yep, I had some serious cognitive dissonance going on.

Then, in 2023, I spoke to another friend, R (also autistic), about this topic.

R: ‘So, your favourite character in Heartbreak High is Quinni, and you feel resonance with her style and love of animals, but you don’t think you’re autistic?’

Me: ‘Oh no, of course not! I have basically no autistic traits.’

R: 'Erm. Babe, you know that flowery language you use? The 90s pop music you exclusively listen to? The bunny obsession? It’s all a little bit autistic.’

Me: * irritated silence *

R: ‘As your friend of 15 years, I say this with love.’

Me: ‘I can’t see it. Numbers get all jumbled in my mind, so I think I have dyscalculia. And I know I have OCD. But my mental image of what autism is? It doesn’t look like me.’

I have always loved dressing up and dancing around the room.

[Image description: Young Sarah wearing a blue feather boa and posing playfully with a hand on one hip.]

As a teenager, I loved to swim, pretend to be a mermaid, and explore rock pools. I was so fortunate to grow up by the ocean.

[Image description: Teenage Sarah smiling with braces. She is wearing a brown cap and blue towel on the sand.]

In her book Girl Unmasked, Emily Katy, an autistic ADHDer with OCD, writes that autistic girls are less likely to be diagnosed early because of male-centric assessment criteria, as well as the fact that ‘autistic girls may feel more of an intense desire to fit in’, increasing the likelihood of social masking and camouflaging [3]. When I started high school, I was overwhelmed by the new social pressures I faced, such as wearing make-up, shaving my body hair, and flirting with boys in my class. I still looked and felt like a child: I was thin and flat-chested, and deeply uncomfortable around boys. I wasn’t menstruating. Outside of school, I still secretly watched cartoons and played imaginative games with younger children in my neighbourhood.

My secret double-life continued for a couple of years. I read all the right magazines like Dolly and Girlfriend and pretended to have the same interests as the ‘cool’ girls: shopping, dating, fashion, and celebrities. I actually did have some fascination with these subjects, but mainly because I wanted to study the other girls so I could understand them. And as it turned out, my act was a thinly veiled one, because the girls I initially hung out with sometimes bullied me for being too weird, awkward, sensitive, and slow to keep up. I was pretty enough to be passable as ‘cool’ in their group, but my social skills were sorely lacking, and they could sense my weakness. I often misread the girls’ intentions towards me, not understanding when they excluded me from a conversation or spread rumours about me to make the boys laugh. As for the boys, they weren’t particularly interested in me because I had no boobs, couldn’t flirt (i.e. couldn’t read social cues), and sometimes wore my hair in pigtails which wasn’t ‘hot’. Fortunately, I didn’t feel much attraction to boys – or anyone at all until I was much older. Their eyes sweeping over me to look at the blonde surfy chicks kinda brought relief.

I managed to survive the social complexities of high school with my two best friends and fellow nerds by my side. We were Students of Distinction every year.

[Image description: Three teenage girls (Sarah in the middle) in white school shirts hugging while looking happy and excited about their medals.]

So, despite my exhaustive attempts at social masking in the early years of high school, nobody was fully convinced by my performance, including me. Then, in the later years of high school, something miraculous happened: I now had two beautiful best friends, A and M. These were true, deep friendships with people who adored all the shades of my childlike joy and creativity and idiosyncrasies. I felt a soul connection to these two very different but equally high-achieving, confident, sassy young women. With A and M, I felt seen and supported to be the ‘real’ me, and I fell in love with both of them, platonically. That’s how I do friendships: when I feel a connection with someone special, I hold onto them like something sacred and clutch them close to my heart for years and years. My commitment to friendship is almost like a spirituality, and I don’t make the same clear-cut distinctions between different kinds of relationships, such as who is a family member versus who is a friend. To this day, A and M are my sisters. My family. And I have other childhood and university friends who are like family, too.

You may have guessed that investing in lifelong friendship is important to me because I struggle with socialisation. Sure, I make it look easy; I am warm, friendly, and self-assured. That’s not an act. But beneath the surface, there’s the lingering doubt that I might say or do something that breaks a social code. For example, my Mum used to say that I was too ‘blunt’ and ‘tactless’ because I would say exactly what I felt without filtering it (she was also quite fond of adding, ‘Just like your father!’ after the tactless comment). It took me a long time to realise that my sometimes-painful honesty, which I like to think of as sincerity, is an autistic trait. As is my intense social anxiety. And the way I overanalyse and overshare information with both myself and others. I often lie awake at night rehashing conversations I’ve had with people to figure out whether I said something offensive or dismissive. I then rehearse future conversations I’m going to have with them to make sure I don’t accidentally say something wrong. And when I am having a conversation with someone and they ask me a question, I quickly delve into micro-details that aren’t particularly relevant to the person asking, but have formed part of my memory recall … so I blurt it all out in answer to their question. Just like I’m blurting out this whole process to you right now.

Sometimes, to help me quieten the noise in my mind, I make lists.

Here are seven reasons why I thought I couldn’t be autistic:

1. I’m female

2. I’m an excellent communicator

3. I make eye contact

4. I have many meaningful friendships

5. I’m a high achiever

6. I don’t have extreme sensory aversions to certain textures, sounds, smells etc.

7. I was developmentally normal as a young child.

Here are seven reasons why my neuropsychologist said I am autistic:

1. Females often internalise autistic traits so they’re less visible

2. An expansive vocabulary and love of words is a common level 1 autistic trait

3. I make eye contact because one of my special interests is people

4. ‘Being intense and possessive about friends’ is common in autistic females [5]

5. Autistic people often excel in their special interest areas

6. I’m sensory-seeking (e.g. I like stroking and holding soft, cuddly animals and toys)

7. Developmental milestones aren’t necessarily delayed in level 1 autistic children.

In 2023, I graduated from Deakin University with a Master of Arts in Writing and Literature, specialising in Children’s Literature. I did very well in this course because clearly, I’m a huge nerd.

[Image description: Sarah wearing a blue mortarboard and holding a testamur beside a pink neon sing that says, ‘I made it!’.]

Another key reason why I thought I couldn’t be autistic is that I’m academic. I have three university degrees, including a Masters degree, and I’ve studied at four different universities. According to data from the Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS), of all autistic people aged 15 years and older living in Australian households in 2022, only 5.2% had a Bachelor degree or higher, compared to 19.7% of people with another disability and 35.3% of people without a disability [4]. Sadly, an autistic woman with multiple degrees like me is a rarity. The journey hasn’t been without its struggles (mostly related to self-care and mental health), but in general, I have great hyper-focus on education and learning because it’s one of my special interests.

Noise-cancelling headphones have been a real game-changer for me. I carry them everywhere and wear them when I need to shut out the world for a little while.

[Image description: Sarah as an adult wearing a green swimmer top and denim shorts with black headphones.]

My special interests do occasionally shift, but many of them have remained the same since I was young. They are:

• Writing and literature (especially Young Adult fiction, queer fiction, and fantasy)

• Animals and nature (especially rabbits and birds)

• Friendships and people

• Neurodivergence and mental health

• Education and learning

• Social justice

• Dressing up

• Rollerblading

Although I don’t have extreme sensory aversions, I do have some minor ones. I can’t stand flashing or fluorescent lights. I actively avoid Christmas light displays and supermarkets. As I previously touched upon, I’m also sensitive to sounds, particularly at night. I’ve taken to wearing noise-cancelling headphones on my lunch breaks at work and I wear earplugs if I’m sleeping somewhere that isn’t my own bed.

I’m also sensory-seeking. A wonderful way I have started connecting with little autistic me is to allow myself to have and to hold cuddly toys again. I have two sloths on my bed now: one with arms and legs that can wrap around me, and one that’s flat and weighted. I often place the weighted sloth on my back or chest with my weighted blanket over the top, which has a deeply soothing effect on my nervous system.

Allowing myself to have comforts like noise-cancelling headphones, soft toys, and a weighted blanket is a huge step forward in my journey of self-acceptance. It feels like giving my younger self a big, warm hug and saying to her, ‘I see you. You are safe. You are held. You are loved. Go forth into the world, little one. It’s waiting for you.’

[Ground in present – future possibilities]

This sloth is one of several soft toys I now allow myself to have and to hold. Unapologetically.

[Image description: Adult Sarah smiling on the bed while holding a soft toy sloth.]

[1] [2] Hayden, C (2022) Different, Not Less: A neurodivergent’s guide to embracing your true self and finding your happily ever after, Murdoch Books, Sydney.

[3] Katy, E (2024) Girl Unmasked: How Uncovering My Autism Saved My Life, Monoray, London.

[4] Australian Bureau of Statistics (ABS) (2022) Autism in Australia, 2022, https://www.abs.gov.au/articles/autism-australia-2022, accessed 16th April 2025.

[5] Autism Awareness Australia (2024) Autism in women and girls, https://www.autismawareness.com.au/navigating-autism/autism-in-women-and-girls, accessed 18th April 2025.