I was diagnosed with autism at 34

I spent most of my life being told I had anxiety. If you’re a woman, you might relate.

That was the explanation for everything: why I shut down in loud spaces, why I got overwhelmed so easily, why I needed routine, why I never felt like I belong. “Anxiety” was the catch-all label that sort of made sense - until I found out it was more than that.

Looking back, there were signs everywhere. I’ve worn black tank tops for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t about fashion; it was about comfort, predictability, and avoiding the sensory nightmare of unfamiliar fabrics.

I had safe foods, long before I even knew that was “a thing.” My two go-tos were mac and cheese and Taco Bell’s 7-layer burrito. If those weren’t options, sometimes I'd rather not eat. I didn’t fight it or analyze it, it’s just what felt normal.

I’ve always been a deep diver. When something interests me, I don’t dabble. I consume. I disappear into ideas and information. As a kid, I thought that was just being curious. As an adult, it became part of what made me feel “too much” for other people.

But maybe the clearest sign was this: I didn’t feel like I was naturally part of the world… I felt like I was studying it. I studied people. I watched how they talked, how they reacted, and what seemed “normal”. And then tried to recreate it. I scripted conversations in my head before I had them. I rehearsed jokes. I planned out responses. And because it took so much effort, I often focused so hard on maintaining eye contact, which I was told was required to be polite, that I completely forgot what the person was saying.

People always said I was “good with emotions,” but the truth is I was just hyper-attuned to them. I could feel shifts in someone’s mood like a change in air pressure. I didn’t always know what to do with that information, but I felt it intensely.

Still, through all of this, no one (including me) ever considered autism.

It was always chalked up to anxiety, sensitivity, being shy, being picky, being dramatic, being “quirky.”

Motherhood is what finally broke the pattern.

I have five children, three of them have higher support needs. During one of their assessments, a therapist looked at me casually and said, “You know… these traits often run in families.”

Something slowly shifted inside me. It wasn’t automatic. But overtime, I started replaying everything in my head. The sensory sensitivity, the safe foods, the scripts, the overthinking, the hyper-empathy, the obsessive learning, the constant exhaustion.

Maybe it wasn’t anxiety?

I started to see my life through a different perspective.
Not a dramatic one. Nothing scary, either.
But a true one.

Oh shit, am I autistic?

I didn’t trust myself to diagnose myself. I know self-diagnosis is valid, especially when access is limited, but I also know myself well enough to admit that I like my feelings affirmed by people I respect in the field. I wanted someone who understood autism in women to help.

So I got an assessment.

And then I got a second opinion.

And both professionals came to the same conclusion:

Girlie, you’re autistic!

There was relief in that. Not because I needed permission, but because I needed clarity. I needed to trust what I already knew inside.