Before I knew I was autistic, I spent most of my life feeling like an outsider without understanding why.
I didn’t know why I struggled to understand jokes, so I laughed along to avoid looking foolish – never realising how that made me vulnerable to people taking advantage.
I didn’t know why a simple trip to the supermarket would leave me overwhelmed and frazzled.
I didn’t know why I rehearsed what I wanted to say, or why I constantly checked my face, body, and tone so I didn’t appear flat or awkward.
And I didn’t know why lights, sounds, textures, or temperature could make me anxious and scan for the nearest exit.
Our generation learned to hide in plain sight – to mask our differences, copy social behaviours, and push through sensory and emotional overwhelm without understanding why life felt so much harder for us. With no sensory accommodations, pacing strategies, or awareness of energy accounting, we lived in a state of chronic overdrive – our nervous systems frazzled, hypersensitive, and flooded.
Then came the weight of social and gender expectations. Many of us were taught to be good daughters, agreeable partners, selfless mothers, and dependable friends. These ideals often clashed with our autistic needs for rest, solitude, honesty, and gentler rhythms. Each time we fell short, our self-esteem chipped away a little more, as if our worth depended on how well we could perform these roles.
Without understanding or support, we became easy targets for bullying, gaslighting, or misunderstanding. Each painful experience confirmed that the world wasn’t safe, teaching our bodies to stay braced and guarded.
When we struggled, we were told we were lazy, weak, or “too sensitive.” Over time, those words sank in and hardened into shame.
And perhaps most quietly of all, we faced much of this alone. Without co-regulation – the shared sense of calm that comes from someone who truly gets it – our nervous systems had nowhere to rest, often spiralling into cycles of anxiety and self-blame.
Girls like me slipped quietly through the cracks, often praised for good behaviour, empathy, and compliance, yet quietly struggling to make sense of a world that didn’t seem to have space for us. We became what many now call the lost generation – bright, capable women who survived through camouflage, people-pleasing, and relentless self-doubt.
We grew up before autism was widely understood in its diverse presentations. It took decades for the diagnostic criteria to catch up after previously being shaped mainly by how autism appears in boys and how it was portrayed in films like Rain Man.
For as long as I can remember, I carried an unexplained sense that something about me was different. There were so many small clues, yet no one had put them together – not even me. Without the lens of autism, I mistook my natural reactions to things like sensory overload or social fatigue as personal failings. I constantly second-guessed myself, with a quiet voice in my head asking, “What will I get wrong today?”
Most experiences and situations frightened me, and I lived in a constant state of being on edge and anticipating anxiety. My quiet demeanour was put down to being ‘shy.’ My mum tried to encourage confidence – drama lessons, making phone calls to find out information (this was before the internet), and other ways to help me fit in. Little did we know, these interventions were often the opposite of what my frazzled nervous system needed.
Despite my best efforts, I often felt on the outside looking in. I endured a perpetual feeling of being boring and nerdy. I hated rollercoasters (many of our school trips involved theme parks), didn’t get jokes, and was highly gullible – making me the target of pranks.
Shame wasn’t a passing feeling; it became a lifetime of small misunderstandings that gradually hardened into self-criticism. It was the exhaustion of trying to decode social situations, the confusion of being punished for honesty, and the deep ache of never quite being understood.
My bedroom, with my books, music, and my cat Rosie, was my safe haven. I loved research, building collections of stamps and Smash Hits, and immersing myself in my own little world. At home I could be myself – free from all the confusion, misunderstanding, and hurt.
Even now, my home and especially my bedroom is where I can truly relax. Stamps have been replaced with Lego, and Smash Hits with Psychologies magazine and books on autism.
Receiving an autism diagnosis later in life – for me, aged forty-five – brought both relief and grief. Relief in finally having an explanation, a name for the lifelong sense of difference. And grief for all the years not knowing, for the version of myself that tried so hard to fit in.
Diagnosis stirred a sense of injustice when I recognised the layers of social conditioning I had been subjected to. The expectations placed on women are already heavy – for autistic women they are crushing.
We are expected to manage emotions (ours and others’), be sociable and communicate with ease, tolerate overwhelming environments, multi-task endlessly, and smile while doing it all. When we struggle – when the noise, lights, or chaos become too much – we are seen as dramatic or fragile. When we seek control or predictability to soothe our nervous systems, we are called controlling. When we speak honestly, we are told to soften.
So, we learn to perform. We curate our facial expressions, the way we stand, edit our tone, watch how others behave and copy them, suppress the urge to leave when a room feels too bright or noisy. We push through exhaustion, stay in roles that drain our energy, and hide our struggle because we are praised for being compliant, helpful, and hardworking.
We learn early on that saying “no” brings discomfort, questioning instructions feels like disobedience, and advocating for ourselves might make others angry. By adulthood, many of us have lost touch with what we actually want. We know how to please others but not how to honour ourselves.
When we can no longer maintain that performance, when burnout or exhaustion forces us to stop, the shame deepens. We feel like we’re failing at being women. Everyone else seems to juggle careers, friendships, parenting, and social lives fairly easily. We, on the other hand, may struggle with daily tasks like cooking, shopping, or maintaining routines.
The world rarely sees the effort we put into daily life – the planning, self-regulation, mental rehearsals, hours of recovery afterwards. Instead, we are judged in the moments we fall short and internalise that judgement. We call ourselves lazy when we’re overwhelmed, disorganised when we’re overstimulated, awkward when we’re anxious. We believe the lie that we are failing, rather than recognising that the standards we compare ourselves to were never made for us.
The Landscape of Difference
One of the most healing and heartbreaking moments after diagnosis is realising that nothing about us was ever wrong. We weren’t too sensitive, dramatic, or difficult. We were autistic, moving through life with a completely different internal landscape that nobody had ever named. This realisation led me to create the Landscape of Difference.
The Māori word for autism, Takiwātanga, meaning “in my/his/her own space and time,” captures it perfectly. That’s exactly how it feels: we move through the world differently, not wrongly. Looking back, this landscape explains so much of the shame that quietly shaped our lives. Shame didn’t appear out of nowhere; it grew in the spaces where our way of being clashed with the expectations of the world around us.
Understanding this landscape gives us a map – not to change who we are, but to understand how we move through life, connect, and reclaim our energy, voice, and self-worth. The nine themes of this landscape act as guideposts. They illuminate where misunderstanding, exhaustion, and shame were seeded, and where our unique strengths, clarity, and authenticity can flourish.
What follows is a walk through these nine themes. Each one is a window into our experience- how we sense, perceive, relate, process, and organise life differently. Each carries echoes of shame, whispers of self-doubt, and lessons we can now use to understand ourselves better. Each shows that once we recognise and honour these differences, we can step fully into who we truly are.
1. Social Code -A Lifetime of Misunderstandings
Autistic communication leans toward honesty, clarity, and depth. Many of us grew up answering literally, asking direct questions, and assuming others would say what they mean. But the world often spoke in hints and unspoken expectations. If someone said, “It’s cold,” we might naturally reply, “Yes, it is,” not realising they were hinting at turning the heating on.
When we missed these hidden rules, we were told we were rude, blunt, naïve, or too trusting. It was easy to internalise the feeling of, Why do I keep getting this wrong?
Even a simple “How are you?” can be confusing. Do they want the truth, a brief answer, or just the expected polite reply? For many non-autistic people, these expressions are social rituals rather than genuine questions, making it difficult for us to know how honest to be.
This mismatch is what Dr Damian Milton calls the double empathy problem-communication difficulties between autistic and non-autistic people are mutual. Each person is trying to connect, but emotional signals are interpreted and expressed differently. Because we’re often the minority, our style is more easily misunderstood, and autistic people are too often blamed or seen as “lacking empathy,” even though it’s just a difference in communication.
As Dr Milton notes, many autistic people develop a deeper understanding of non-autistic society than the other way around, often because we’ve had to, simply to navigate a world not built with us in mind. Connection requires effort from both sides, and when it works, it reminds us that the differences aren’t flaws they’re simply different ways of relating to the world.
2. Sensing- Growing Up Inside a Loud, Bright World
Autism affects many internal systems, especially sensory processing, interoception, and alexithymia. Our nervous systems often take in information more intensely, which can show up as heightened or reduced sensitivity to sound, light, touch, taste, and smell.
This means the world can feel louder, brighter, faster, or more intrusive than it does for others. What’s “background noise” to a non-autistic person might overwhelm us. Lights may glare, textures may feel unbearable, and temperatures may hit our bodies with unexpected force.
Internally, things can be just as complex. Interoception- noticing hunger, thirst, pain, or fatigue-can be hazy, and alexithymia can make our emotions hard to recognise or name. These differences shape how we understand ourselves and what we need.
For many of us, our reactions were misunderstood or dismissed, leading us to feel dramatic or “too sensitive.” But none of this was weakness. Sensory processing differences are biological. We weren’t overreacting- we were reacting to more.
Understanding our sensory profile can bring huge clarity. It helps us see that our responses are natural signals designed to protect us from overwhelm. With this awareness, it becomes easier to recognise our needs and advocate for the accommodations that support our wellbeing. Self-awareness turns confusion into understanding and understanding into empowerment.
3. Perceiving the World - Detail First, Always
We notice the small things: patterns, textures, inconsistencies, the tiny threads others miss. It’s how our minds make sense of the world, by starting at the roots, not the surface. We often see the individual trees rather than the whole wood, taking in details before we can grasp the bigger picture.
This way of processing also affects daily life. A room full of clutter, or a household task that involves several steps, can feel overwhelming. Instead of knowing where to begin, our minds freeze. What others see as “just getting on with it” can tip us into autistic inertia because our brains are trying to process every piece of information at once.
Growing up, this depth was rarely recognised as a strength. Instead, we were called fussy, slow, distracted, or overthinking. It left many of us quietly wondering, Why can’t I keep up with what everyone else seems to manage so easily?
But we were never behind. We were perceiving differently and often far more deeply than those around us.
4. Relating - Wanting Depth in a World of Small Talk
Connection, for many autistic women, has always been about honesty, steadiness, and depth. We weren’t interested in popularity or busy social scenes; we wanted the real stuff, the kind of relationships where you can exhale. But in a world that values small talk and constant socialising, we were labelled shy, awkward, or “not trying hard enough.”
It’s no wonder so many of us questioned where we belonged. Our way of relating was never inadequate- it was intentional, loyal, and deeply human.
Many of us have struggled with saying no to social occasions or group events we know will drain us, worrying we’re “bad friends” for not keeping up regular contact. Yet, as Dr Megan Ann Neff describes, some of us are like social cactuses- we don’t need constant interaction, but we take great nourishment from the infrequent, deep conversations that really matter. Understanding this about ourselves allows us to honour our energy, maintain our boundaries, and cultivate connections that truly sustain us.
5. Processing & Communication Pace- When the World Moves Too Fast
We often need a little more time to sort through everything coming in- to process spoken words, social situations, and emotional information. This isn’t about intelligence or sharpness; it’s simply that the volume of information can be huge, and we’re giving it proper attention before responding.
Neurotypical communication tends to be quick, back-and-forth, which can leave us feeling rushed, unheard, or excluded. We often take a little longer to process words, emotions, and social cues, not because we’re slow, but because we’re taking in everything: the tone, the body language, the context, and our own reactions. In a world that prizes speed over depth, our thoughtful pace can feel like a liability. We feel shame when our words don’t come out quickly enough, when people seem impatient, think we’re ignoring them, or are surprised when we respond or ask a related question minutes later.
Of course it doesn’t mean we’re incapable. Depth isn’t measured by the speed at which it arrives. Taking the time to truly process allows us to respond authentically, notice nuances others miss, and act with insight rather than impulse.
6. Energy Regulation- The Cost of Keeping up
Autistic energy systems work differently. When you’re constantly juggling sensory input, social decoding, emotional regulation, masking, and anxiety, exhaustion comes quickly. Other people may see it as laziness, drama, or a lack of resilience but that judgment is a reflection of society’s pace, not of your effort or worth.
We weren’t failing. Our bodies were working harder than anyone realised, doing their absolute best in conditions never designed for us. Tools like Spoon Theory or traffic light systems can be incredibly helpful for tracking energy, recognising early signs of overwhelm, and learning when to pause. They give structure to self-care in a world that rarely adjusts for neurodivergent needs.
Even with these strategies, the constant pressure to keep up can feel relentless. Ableism is baked into expectations about speed, productivity, and “normal” social energy. Understanding how your energy works and honouring it isn’t indulgence. It’s survival, self-compassion, and a way to navigate life on your terms.
7. Authenticity vs Masking - Losing Ourselves to Survive
Many autistic women mask so instinctively they don’t even realise they’re doing it. We adjust our tone of voice, soften our facial expressions, mimic body language, force eye contact, smile or nod even when we don’t feel like it, and sometimes rehearse conversations in advance- anything to blend in, stay safe, and avoid judgement.
At work, we may suppress stimming or over-explaining to seem “normal.” In social situations, we might push ourselves to attend events even when they drain us, or pretend to follow conversations we don’t fully grasp. Around sensory input, we might ignore discomfort from lights, sounds, or touch to avoid standing out. Because masking often works, we start to believe it’s the only way to navigate the world, or that we don’t have a choice in making decisions that are best for us.
Masking wasn’t a failure of who we are. It was survival. And returning to authenticity isn’t indulgent- it’s healing.
8. Time & Routine- Our Quiet Anchors
Routine isn’t control; it’s comfort. Predictability isn’t stubbornness; it’s steadiness. These rhythms keep us grounded when the rest of the world feels unpredictable. Even small patterns like looking forward to fish and chips on a Friday, or Sunday evenings spent watching the Antiques Roadshow with sandwiches, tea, and cake after a full Sunday lunch help us navigate the day with ease.
For many of us, these routines weren’t something we consciously sought as children, they were naturally built into family life. Yet as we grew, others sometimes misread our need for steadiness as inflexibility or defiance. We learned to question ourselves: Why can’t I just go with the flow like everyone else?
Our nervous systems are wired for safety, not chaos. Routines aren’t restrictions they’re anchors that help us move through the world with less stress, more clarity, and a sense of stability. Honouring this natural rhythm isn’t weakness; it’s a form of self-care and resilience.
9. Identity & Self-Understanding -The Missing Piece
Before diagnosis, many autistic women spend years trying to make sense of why they feel different. Without the right language, that confusion turns inward and becomes self-blame: I don’t know who I am, so it must be me.
Identity doesn’t begin with fixing yourself - it begins with understanding yourself. Naming your needs, your wiring, your truth. And once you finally have the words, everything that seemed like a personal failure suddenly makes sense. You weren’t lost- you were unnamed.
If there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s this: shame may have followed us for decades, making us believe that our needs, our sensitivities and our ways of being were wrong. But through awareness, understanding and self- compassion, that shame can be transformed. It can become a guide, showing us where boundaries are needed, where rest is vital and where authenticity is our greatest strength. While self-acceptance begins within, connection reinforces it. Engaging with autistic mentors, communities, or trusted friends provides co-regulation, validation, and shared understanding. You don’t have to navigate this journey alone. Even small connections- a conversation, a support group, or an online forum- can offer a mirror for your experience, a reminder that your way of being is not only valid but valuable.