I never knew I was different.
I spent my entire childhood thinking I was just better than everyone else.
Not in an arrogant sense - more that I’d been dealt a lucky hand. I was quicker to understand things, more logical, more emotionally self-sufficient. I could focus deeply, remember details, spot patterns others seemed to miss. I felt incredibly privileged to have the skills I had. There was no sense of being above anyone else; I just assumed I was fortunate. It’s hard to explain the inner workings of an undiagnosed neurodivergent child’s mind - especially one you didn’t have language for at the time - but that’s just how I felt.
It wasn’t until I had left university, working in my first job as a history teacher, that I even considered the fact that my brain might work differently to others. My whole life, I’d done things my way - studying, writing, playing, creating… anything that I did was on my terms, because my way was the right way. Enter: professionalism. The need to follow someone else’s way of doing things. The requirement to adhere to someone else’s to-do list rather than my own. The need to liaise with people I don’t know. And the need to remember the names of the 150+ children I taught.
Even then, I just thought I was struggling. That I needed to adapt. And I tried.
The school I worked at was considered a local ‘hub’ in terms of support for children with Special Educational Needs and Disabilities (SEND), so training was being offered to all staff as a means of ensuring everyone was capable of supporting these pupils in the ways they required. But in one training session, 3:15pm on a cold, dull Monday, a colleague took to the front of the hall to discuss neurodivergence with us.
*Click*
Slide 1. Common Traits of Autism. The screen was divided in half, each side listing common traits of autism which might be more common in boys and girls, and a small section in the middle with some ‘overlapping’ traits. “This is not gospel. Autism does not look the same in everyone,” she explained. “It’s vital that we understand that, because it’s why so many children go undiagnosed - especially the girls.” She explained that in most cases, autism doesn’t show up as the stereotype. “And remember - this is just the parts that we can see. There is always so much more to it - things that happen at home, or things these children completely keep to themselves.”
My mind instantly envisioned me as a child, excelling at school - top of my class, of course - but barely being able to unpack my bag or get any homework done once I was home. I thought of how, as a teen, I would glide through the school day, but crash the moment I walked through my front door, arguing with my parents and then shutting myself away in my bedroom for the rest of the evening. I could feel myself relating to a lot of what she said. Until…
*Click*
Slide 2. Common Traits of ADHD. Again, divided screen, gendered traits with some overlap. My eyes darted across the screen. Yep. Yep. Yep. Oh. Any thoughts of possibly being autistic were immediately replaced with the realisation that I most definitely had ADHD. No question about it.
I spent all night researching.
I told my line manager the next day that…well, something was going on. That I think my brain works differently and that I was trying to wrap my head around it all. She was incredibly supportive, reassuring, and didn’t press or push.
From there, I spent a year compiling a list in my notes app of every tiny way I struggled, every small quirk or skill I had. It became clear very quickly that I had ADHD, but there were some parts of the puzzle which just didn’t seem to fit. Were they just quirks? Or was something else at play?
I couldn’t make sense of it, and, as someone who needs answers, who must know, I fed my extensive list of traits into ChatGPT out of desperation for…something. I asked it to categorise the traits based on common neurodivergent diagnoses.
Yep.
Both.
I knew it.
I wasn’t asking AI for a diagnosis, rather that I was looking for someone (thing) else to confirm my suspicions when I had nowhere else to turn. I needed some form of validation, to tell me that I wasn’t making it all up.
And so started another year, of what can only be described as impostor syndrome. Living with the knowledge that my brain definitely worked differently to others, but without the confidence to say that I was neurodivergent (without an official diagnosis to support it). Should I even seek a diagnosis? What would be the point? Nothing would change - my brain would still work in exactly the same way, right? Maybe I’m just being dramatic - reading into things way too much.
But I knew that if I wanted to accept myself, to feel confident in who I was, diagnosis was essential. I needed someone to categorically tell me ‘Yes, you’re neurodivergent’ so that I would have the power to accept that I am.
I’m not going to go into the full diagnosis process here - as with many countries, the UK’s system is messy, unreliable, and stressful. I was really lucky, in comparison with other waiting times across the UK, that my experience was somewhat quick. From my first GP appointment to formal diagnosis took 11 months, and I was able to pursue both diagnoses in parallel. Luckily, I didn’t have to complete one, wait, and then start the other; they ran side by side.
The relief I felt is indescribable.
I’m not a control freak - I need structure and routine. I’m not a fussy eater - it’s a sensory thing. I’m not a mother with a bad temper - I’m a woman who gets overstimulated by repetitive loud noise. I’m not scared of going outside - I just feel safer in the comfort of my own home.
Part of me was right - as a child, thinking my neurodivergent traits made me ‘better than everyone else’ was an extremely optimistic way of looking at things. And I’m proud of her for seeing it that way. I’m glad she thrived.
And as an adult, I now have the confidence to own exactly what makes me me. After 27 years of being told I was too this, too that, I can finally find exactly who I am.
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Your work is incredible Georgia! Thank you for sharing 🫶
I read a lot of other people's experiences, which interests me. I'm glad that your route helped solidify your understanding about yourself.
When my daughter was diagnosed as autistic, I ended up realising that it was inherited from me. I also spent my whole life wondering why I never seemed to fit in or understand the world around me, also thinking that I just needed to try harder. After that realisation and some further thinking, I decided I didn't need a formal diagnosis to continue - in my case I didn't believe it would ultimately change anything in my life, and I felt comfortable enough to just know why I felt different. The people who care for me know, and that's all I needed.
Thanks for sharing.