In the spirit of Autism Awareness Month, I shared on Facebook that I’m a late diagnosed autistic woman. My goal was simple, to start removing some of the stigma around what autism actually looks like.
What surprised me most wasn’t sharing it. It was the responses I received… and in some cases, the responses I didn’t.
There are so many different directions I could go with this, and if people are interested, I’m happy to explore more. But today, I want to focus on one specific piece of this.How we respond when someone shares a diagnosis.
Because that moment, when someone chooses to reveal something like that, can be incredibly vulnerable and honestly a little scary.
And this doesn’t just apply to autism.Any time someone shares something personal, something that shapes how they move through the world, we have an opportunity in how we respond. Small shifts in those reactions can create a more inclusive, supportive environment for everyone.
For context, I’m almost 46 now, and I was diagnosed at 40 as high functioning, Level 1 autistic. This was previously referred to as Asperger’s syndrome, a term that is still sometimes used to describe a similar level of support needs.
A big reason it took so long to diagnose me is something called masking.
Masking is the process of consciously or unconsciously hiding autistic traits in order to fit in. It can look like rehearsing conversations, forcing eye contact, mirroring others, suppressing natural reactions, or constantly monitoring yourself to match what you think is expected.
Over time, you get really good at it. So good that people don’t see the struggle. You just look like you’re handling everything.
But what they don’t see is the cost.I’m often described as “high functioning,” but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. It just means the effort is mostly invisible.
For most of my life, I’ve felt like everyone else got the instruction manual for the game of life, and I somehow missed it. I’ve been trying to catch up ever since, learning as I go, adjusting constantly, and hoping I’m getting it right.
When that effort slips, it can come out in ways that don’t match the version of me people expect. And that can feel more devastating than the struggle itself.
Lately, that’s been amplified. Perimenopause has heightened my anxiety and depression in ways that feel unpredictable. I had a full emotional meltdown over cashews, not because of the cashews, but because I didn’t feel heard. It sounds small, but the feeling underneath it was not.
That’s part of what invisible struggles look like.There’s also something called autistic burnout, which is what happens after years of masking, pushing through, and operating in environments that don’t match how your brain works. It’s not just being tired, it’s a deep exhaustion that impacts everything.
And the mental health side of this is real. Rates of anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts are significantly higher in the autistic community, especially for those of us who are diagnosed later in life and spent years not understanding why things felt so hard.So when someone shares something like this, the response matters.
Comments like “everyone’s brain is unique” or “I have that too” are usually meant to connect, but they can unintentionally minimize what’s being shared.
The responses that help are simple: “If you’re comfortable sharing more, I’d love to understand. ”What is something you wish people knew?” “How can I support you?”
Those responses create space. They make it safe to be real, instead of feeling like you have to explain or defend yourself.
And the truth is, we shouldn’t have to defend our diagnosis in the first place.
This isn’t about getting the perfect response. It’s about being open, being curious, and being willing to meet people where they are.I’m still me. This just gives better context to how I experience the world.And if there’s one takeaway, it’s this: small changes in how we respond can make a big difference in whether someone feels safe to be fully themselves.
