⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This post discusses mental health, suicidal ideation, generational trauma, and neurodivergence. Please take care of yourself as you read.
The word autism gets thrown around a lot these days — usually by people who don’t really understand how broad and complex the spectrum actually is. It’s not a one-size-fits-all diagnosis. It’s not a stereotype. It’s a vast, beautiful, chaotic, sometimes painful spectrum that holds so many of us — whether we’ve got a piece of paper that says so or not.
I’ve never been officially diagnosed. Not yet. Maybe never.
But the more I research autism and ADHD for my son, the more pieces of my own life fall into place. The more memories from my childhood hit me differently. The more habits, thoughts, and struggles I realize weren’t me being “weird” or “lazy” — they were me, living with a brain wired differently in a world built for neurotypicals.
And honestly?
That realization?
It’s world-shattering.
I don’t say that dramatically. I say that as someone who spent years thinking I was broken. Someone who lived in constant fear of not fitting in, who was teased relentlessly, and who spent too many nights wondering if the world would be better off without me. I grew up believing that if I just tried harder, I could be “normal.” Spoiler alert: I never could, and I never will.
And you know what? That’s not a bad thing.
🖤 The Blessing and Curse of a Neurodivergent Brain
Having a neurodivergent brain is both a blessing and a curse.
We think differently.
We feel things deeper.
We see details others miss.
We hyperfixate. We burnout.
We spiral. We soar.
The world, though — it wasn’t made for us. It was made by and for neurotypicals, who tend to stick to what makes sense to them. That’s why neurodivergent folks thrive in fields that require innovation, outside-the-box thinking, and complexity. Because we were never wired to follow the map — we were born to redraw it.
But growing up in a world that labels you as “too much” or “not enough” in all the wrong ways leaves scars. I didn’t have the language for it as a kid. I just knew I was different. And difference wasn’t safe.
🖤 Parenting While Navigating My Own Mind
Now, I’m raising a neurodivergent child of my own. And I see so much of myself in him. His creativity, his frustration, his curiosity. I caught him under a table once at two years old, dismantling a toy and building something new out of the pieces. I was equal parts terrified and proud.
But when he hit kindergarten, the struggle began.
Teachers didn’t get him.
Rules didn’t fit him.
He didn’t fit them.
And I realized… I was fighting for him in ways no one ever fought for me.
At the same time, I’m trying to reparent myself — breaking cycles, learning healthier ways to handle my overwhelm, trying to choose empathy when I was raised on survival. I love my parents. I miss them every day. But back then, mental health wasn’t something you talked about. It was a weakness, a family secret. And now, I’m doing everything I can to rewrite that story.
🖤 The Fear of a Diagnosis
Some days, I want to get tested. I want that validation. That proof. That permission to stop carrying the weight of “maybe I’m just broken.”
But fear is a powerful nemesis.
Fear of judgment.
Fear of people thinking I’m being dramatic, attention-seeking, or pitying myself.
Fear of what it might mean to see it written down.
So, for now, I focus on my son. I apply what I learn to both our lives. And I try to be gentle with myself when old habits and hurts surface.
🖤 What I Know for Sure
Autism isn’t a disease. ADHD isn’t a pandemic. AuDHD isn’t a label to fear.
It’s a different way of being.
A different way of seeing.
And sometimes? It’s absolutely amazing.
There’s beauty in our chaos.
There’s brilliance in our sensitivity.
And there’s strength in our softness.
I read something recently that said:
“You’re not too sensitive. You’re not lazy. You’re not broken. You’re AuDHD. And you’re not alone.”
And if no one’s said it to you before — let me be the one:
You are not alone.
Our kids won’t be alone either.
We’ll navigate this wild, infuriating, beautiful world with empathy, with curiosity, and with defiance when necessary. And when the ableist assholes get loud, we’ll fantasize about throwing bricks… and then settle for making the world a little softer, a little safer, and a little brighter for the ones like us.
🖤 Final Thought
I don’t know if I’ll ever get that official diagnosis.
And maybe it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that I’m still here.
That my son is here.
That our story isn’t over.
And neither is yours.
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