For twenty-five years, I lived within a structure I thought was permanent. But when my marriage ended, the "scaffolding" of my life—the support, the safety, and the mask I didn’t even know I was wearing—was stripped away. I found myself in a state of total discombobulation, adrift on an ocean I didn’t have the map for.

It was in this space of profound instability that I found the truth: I am autistic.

My diagnosis at age 45 wasn't just a clinical label; it was a series of "popping candy" moments. It was the sharp, sweet spark of finally understanding why interruptions felt like explosions, why I got lost in "My Precious" interests, and why I’d spent a lifetime laughing at jokes I didn’t understand just to fit in.

But when the psychiatrist’s door closed, I was met with a hollow silence. I was handed a diagnosis but no directions. As someone who has spent years teaching mindfulness and supporting others through transitions, I was stunned by the lack of a "manual" for this new terrain.