Chapter 1: Awakening to Autism

It was a two-day professional development workshop that finally validated my lingering thoughts about my own autistic traits. My reflections began after the diagnosis of my teenage son, Holden. His diagnosis brought relief, as it meant he could access the support he needed, and our family began to grasp aspects of his behavior that once felt alien to us.

After Holden's diagnosis, my husband Jack and I immersed ourselves in literature and podcasts about autism. To my surprise, I learned that autism has a genetic component, prompting us to consider my own traits. Jack, while acknowledging his role in our son’s ADHD, quickly pointed out that I was likely the source of Holden's autism.

I had always identified as introverted, but when Jack read my book last winter, he remarked that my writing seemed quirky, almost neurodivergent. I had received comments on Medium suggesting I might be on the spectrum, and while they were well-intentioned, they left me contemplating my identity.

A 71-point checklist for identifying high-masking, high-functioning autistic women caught my attention. To my astonishment, I found I could easily relate to 68 of those points while making a compelling argument for the remaining three. Engaging with podcasts, I often felt an emotional resonance, but I couldn’t quite understand why. After all, I was still me—wasn’t I?

Despite my newfound insights, I wasn't seeking a formal diagnosis; my life was simply too hectic. With four kids and a career, I preferred reading and writing over consultations with a therapist. For weeks, I tucked this self-awareness away, treating it as a mere fact.

However, during the professional development training, my self-reflection began to haunt me. This was an opportunity to explore deeper aspects of myself, and it felt oddly significant.

As the training approached, I was surprisingly optimistic. Colleagues who had attended previous sessions touted it as the most impactful training we had ever experienced. Yet, I also felt a familiar tension about changes in my routine, even as I craved the break from monotony.

I arrived at the venue, navigating a building I had never been to before, armed with a packed lunch and a plan to steal away for some quiet time during lunch. I was also acutely aware that a former colleague might be present, which added to my anxiety.

Unexpectedly, I found myself lost, arriving late and slipping into the circle just as introductions were underway. Holding a stress ball, I introduced myself, explaining my tardiness with humor, which elicited laughter from the group. This interaction sparked a sense of bravery in me; I was not shy, but public speaking often made me uncomfortable.

The training focused on trauma-informed behavior management, a topic I found deeply engaging. The small group discussions allowed us to share personal stories and vulnerabilities, enriching the experience.

Instead of retreating to my minivan for lunch, I reconnected with former colleagues, realizing how much I had missed them. For a brief moment, I felt like a social butterfly, reveling in the camaraderie.

However, by the afternoon, fatigue set in. Despite my interest in the material, I found myself fighting to stay awake, overwhelmed by sensory input—the uncomfortable chairs, the fluorescent lights, and the incessant background noise. I caught myself picking at my cuticles and shifting my posture obsessively to maintain an appearance of engagement.

As the day wound down, we once again passed around the stress ball to share our takeaways. By this point, I was hyper-aware of my racing heart and the pressure to formulate a unique response amidst others' contributions.

After the training, my mind craved silence. I opted for calming music on my drive home instead of an audiobook. Upon arriving, I quickly changed into yoga clothes and prepared dinner, feeling mentally drained. My extroverted daughter joined me, but I struggled to engage in conversation.

Later that evening, I shared my experiences with Jack during our walk. He smiled knowingly, having observed my tendency to zone out in social settings—an echo of past college parties.

Reflecting on my experiences, I began to wonder if my feelings of disassociation and sensory overload pointed to a diagnosis on the autism spectrum. I often labeled my discomfort as mere fatigue, but perhaps it was more profound.

This might explain why my son retreats to his room after school, seeking solace from the world. He, like me, needs time to recharge and reset.

As I prepared dinner that night, I focused on simple tasks to ground myself before diving into writing. Yoga helped me unwind, allowing my mind and body to recalibrate. Just like Holden, I required my own comforts and ample time to recuperate.

Jack often turns to me for insights into Holden’s needs, perhaps because I resonate with his experiences on a deeper level. While I lack a formal diagnosis, the similarities between Holden and myself are undeniable. Could I also be autistic?

If you found this narrative compelling, you might also be interested in exploring the long journey of understanding my son's autism through our family's lens.

The first video, "[Raw & Uncut] Autistic Women Reveal the Truth About High Masking - FULL INTERVIEW," offers an intimate look at the experiences of high-masking autistic women, shedding light on the complexities they navigate daily.

The second video, "BSW ICB autism training: Masking: autistic women present differently to autistic men," discusses the nuances of how autistic women and men express their traits, providing valuable insights for understanding autism's diverse presentations.