I was out recently, catching up with some old work friends. We were huddled around a table, sharing food and the usual bits and bobs of life. We talked about families and caught up on news from my former school. We reflected on the general changes that happen when you haven’t seen people for far too long. It was lovely, actually. Nothing too triggering—just a long-overdue catch-up.
In a quieter moment, just talking with one or two of the people I was with, the subject of my autism diagnosis came up. One friend, with genuine curiosity, leaned in and asked, “But did you never think you were?” She wondered if it had really never occurred to me that I might be neurodivergent.
I said no. In that moment, I meant it.
The core truth of late-diagnosed neurodivergence is that we often miss the signs because we see our struggles as personal failures rather than biological differences.
Why I Never Saw the Signs
It wasn’t until I was neck-deep in screeners and assessment forms for my eldest son that the penny finally dropped. I was reading through descriptions of traits—the way he processed the world, the sensory quirks, the need for predictability. Suddenly, I saw myself staring back from the page.
But before that? Never. Not once.
When I was a teacher, I’m ashamed to say I held the same narrow view of autism and ADHD that many people still do. I only saw the high-support needs side of the spectrum. In my mind, autism was something that happened to other people’s children. I thought of the ones who couldn’t communicate in traditional ways or who required constant 1-to-1 supervision.
I didn’t see it in the man standing at the front of the classroom. I was someone who found a deep sense of peace in the organised structure of learning and the stability of predictable days. Yet, at the same time, I thrived on the novelty of the new content and ideas I was teaching.
The Weight of Being “Fundamentally Broken”
So, if I didn’t think I was autistic or ADHD, what did I think? Well, to put it bluntly—and this still stings a bit to say out loud—I thought I was broken. Not a little bit broken, or temporarily under the weather; I thought I was fundamentally, right-down-to-the-marrow broken.
For many undiagnosed adults, the absence of a neurodivergent label results in a self-perception of being a “failed human” rather than a differently-wired one.
I carried that feeling with me everywhere. It was a constant hum in the background of my life. It was a sense that everyone else had been given a manual for existing that I’d somehow missed out on. This feeling only intensified when I became a dad. Moving from a life of relatively controlled routines into the beautiful, chaotic, and loud world of parenting two children was a massive shift. Suddenly, the “broken” parts of me felt louder than ever.
The Science of Seeing Yourself
There is a profound power in neurodevelopmental diagnosis, even if it comes decades “late.” Statistically, late-diagnosed individuals are at a significantly higher risk for burnout, anxiety, and depression. This is often because we’ve spent years “masking.” We have spent a lifetime trying to force a square peg into a very round, very unforgiving hole.
Clinical validation through diagnosis provides the necessary framework to replace “I am a failure” with “I have a specific set of neurological needs.”
Once you realise you are neurodivergent—whether that’s through a formal assessment or the deeply valid path of self-diagnosis—everything changes. It’s like being handed the key to your own internal code. It gives you a license to finally give yourself a break.
The Many Layers of the Map
Of course, a label like “autistic” doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It sits alongside everything else that makes me who I am. I am a gay man, a vegan, a former teacher, and a father. Each of those parts adds its own layer to the sensory and emotional load I carry.
As a teacher, I was used to being “on”—performing a version of myself that was acceptable and professional. As a father to two adopted, dual-heritage boys, my world is now about balancing my own needs with theirs. I am helping them navigate a world that isn’t always kind to their identities either.
Reframing my life through the lens of autism isn’t about finding excuses; it’s about finding a better way to live. It is also why I’m currently pursuing an ADHD assessment. As I peel back the layers of my own high-masking history, I’m becoming much more aware of a deep internal tension. There is a constant tug-of-war between a restless desire for change and the absolute safety of my routines.
I’m also looking more closely at my struggles with emotional regulation—those moments where my internal compass spins a little too fast. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to the puzzle than just autism. I’m still far too harsh on myself (old habits die hard, don’t they?), but I’m learning. I’m researching how to build a life that actually works for me, rather than one that just looks “right” to everyone else.
The goal of understanding your neurodivergence is to move from surviving a world that feels hostile to thriving in one you’ve finally learned how to navigate.
It’s a journey, isn’t it? A bit of a muddle at times, certainly. But for the first time in my forty-odd years, I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t broken after all. I was just waiting for the right map.
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