Quietly Different

I used to think I was just… a bit odd. Not in a particularly dramatic or charming way—just gently, quietly misaligned with the rest of the world. Like everyone else had received an instruction manual at birth, and mine was either in a different language or had been lost in the post.

Of course, I functioned. I worked, I studied, and I navigated the world with something vaguely resembling competence. But underneath it all was a constant low-level hum of confusion. Why did everyone else seem to glide through small talk? Why were team-building days physically painful? Why did phone calls feel like preparing for an exam I hadn’t studied for?

For most of my life, I assumed this was just part of being human. Perhaps a slightly malfunctioning human. An overthinking one, maybe. But it never occurred to me that these persistent dissonances might actually have a name—and not only that, but that a whole community of people had been quietly living through the same soundtrack.

The Suspicion Years

In hindsight, there were signs. Many signs. I was told I was “a bit different” by more than one person. Teachers described me as intelligent but “difficult to place.” I often felt like I was watching conversations happen from behind a screen—able to follow, but somehow never quite able to join in naturally. It was like playing a game I hadn’t been taught the rules for.

Someone first mentioned autism to me about twenty years ago. I don’t remember the context exactly, just that I reminded them of their autistic nephew. I nodded, possibly said something like “Oh right,” and then proceeded to file the comment away under ‘mildly interesting, definitely not relevant.’ At the time, autism still carried a weight of stereotypes that didn’t match how I saw myself. I wasn’t Rain Man. I wasn’t counting toothpicks or reciting Pi. I was just… me. Slightly odd, quietly exhausted, frequently baffled, but still functioning.

There were a few other comments over the years—rarely unkind, mostly careful. My old boss once told me, with what I think was genuine warmth, “You definitely have your special ways of doing and understanding things.” At the time, I took it as a compliment. And really, it was. But it was also another little clue I managed to overlook.

Isn’t Everyone Just Faking It?

I genuinely believed everyone was faking it. Surely no one actually enjoyed parties? Surely everyone hated phone calls? I thought everyone needed to mentally rehearse what they were going to say before they walked into a room. That they also felt a small but constant background noise of anxiety whenever someone said “Can I have a quick word?”

So when I saw people moving through the world with ease, making casual conversation, joining in office banter, and answering the phone without visibly recoiling—I just assumed they were performing. Like I was. That they were masking, just better at it.

Turns out, no. A lot of them really are just fine. They’re not internally scripting responses or scanning for subtext or mentally bracing for unexpected questions about weekend plans. They’re just… being. The discovery of this fact was as shocking as it was deeply unfair.

The Discovery Phase

Looking back, the clues were there—scattered like breadcrumbs I wasn’t quite ready to follow. I’d always been told I was a bit odd, an outsider in the friendliest possible terms. Not ostracised, not unliked—just different. Like I’d arrived at the party of life a few minutes late, missed the instructions, and decided to improvise.

The first time someone mentioned autism to me was about twenty years ago. They said, casually, “You remind me of my nephew—he’s autistic.” At the time, I nodded politely and filed it under “Interesting but probably not relevant.” It didn’t seem to fit. I wasn’t antisocial, I didn’t have any dramatic meltdowns (at least not in public), and I wasn’t particularly fussed about trains—surely that ruled it out?

There were other moments, scattered through the years. A throwaway comment here, a curious glance there. None of it ever cruel—just gentle nudges I was perfectly content to ignore. I had, after all, spent a lifetime adapting, tweaking, overthinking and internalising. I thought I was just someone who happened to take things a bit literally, needed a lot of alone time, and had a strong dislike of ringing phones and vague plans. Who doesn’t?

Then there was my old boss, a very decent and perceptive person, who once told me with a kind smile, “You definitely have your special ways of doing and understanding things.” It wasn’t a dig. If anything, it felt like a compliment. I was different, yes, but in a way that seemed to work—like being a left-handed person in a right-handed world but still managing to write legibly with a fountain pen.

The real shift came when I began stumbling across people online who—astonishingly—thought like me. It started with a few blog posts, a couple of oddly specific memes, and a forum thread about autism in adults that felt like it had been lifted directly from my internal monologue. These weren’t people discussing grand, dramatic traits. They were talking about the small things: the mental fatigue from everyday socialising, the discomfort of overhead lighting, the obsessive, joyful dives into a specific topic that could last weeks.

I began to notice how many of the traits, habits and oddities I’d seen as quirks—or worse, flaws—were shared by these people. People who openly identified as autistic. People who weren’t ashamed. People who weren’t broken.

That’s when the realisation hit—not as a single, thunderclap epiphany, but more like the slow pulling back of a curtain. It wasn’t just me. And I wasn’t just “weird.” There was a pattern here. A shared language. A community I hadn’t known I was already part of.

And suddenly, all those things I’d brushed off made a kind of sense.

The “Oh, That’s Why” Years

Life post-discovery becomes a highlight reel of retrospective clarity. All those little social oddities you tried to rationalise suddenly snap into focus.

That time you didn’t go to a friend’s party because you genuinely couldn’t face the crowd? That wasn’t being antisocial. That was sensory overload avoidance. That week you couldn’t function after a three-day training conference? Autistic burnout. The way you couldn’t stop playing with your pen in meetings, or how you always had a “thing” you were obsessively into (Victorian rail networks, anyone?)—all perfectly textbook.

You start looking back with a new lens. All those odd habits and off-kilter interactions you’d long chalked up to personal quirks or “being difficult” now slot neatly into a recognisable pattern. There’s comfort in the explanation, but also a ripple of sadness. How many years were spent second-guessing yourself? How often did you try to change something that wasn’t broken?

It’s not about rewriting your whole past—just translating it more accurately. There’s a softness that comes with that. An ability to look back at the awkwardness, the overwhelm, the exhaustion—and not see failure, but a different operating system doing its best to run someone else’s software.

And that moment of realisation, the quiet “Ohhh, that’s why…”—well, that lands like a deep exhale after a very long inhale.

It’s not everything. But it is something. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

Masking: A Talent You Didn’t Know Was Costing You

The concept of masking—suppressing natural behaviours to appear more socially acceptable—was new to me. But the experience of doing it? Oh, that I knew intimately.

I had spent years performing. Not lying, exactly, just heavily editing. Watching people to learn the right responses. Practising facial expressions. Prepping small talk in advance like an actor running lines. I thought this was normal. I thought everyone did it. But apparently not everyone leaves a staff meeting feeling like they’ve just run a psychological marathon in clown shoes.

And it takes a toll. You don’t realise how much energy you’re spending trying to appear “normal” until you stop—or at least try to. And when you do, you’re left with the unsettling question: who am I when I’m not performing?

Conversations with Neurotypicals: Field Notes from the Other Side

Since I got used to the idea that I’m autistic, I’ve started noticing just how differently I process the ebb and flow of conversation. Not in some flashy, headline-making way—just in the quiet, granular mechanics of it. The bits most people don’t even realise they’re doing.

I watch people chat with casual ease, bouncing effortlessly from topic to topic, reacting in real time, cracking jokes that land correctly. They don’t rehearse. They don’t silently review every sentence they just said. They don’t sit up at 2 a.m. replaying a casual chat in Tesco and wondering if they accidentally insulted someone’s aunt. They just… talk. Unscripted. Instinctive. Like birdsong, but less melodic.

Meanwhile, I’m mentally running subtitles, adjusting tone, calculating timing, buffering.

Trying to explain this to neurotypicals can be… an experience. Some people are lovely—curious, respectful, and willing to listen. Others, not so much. There’s polite confusion, blank nodding, the occasional “but you don’t seem autistic,” and at least one person who will suggest yoga.

There’s always a moment of hesitation before I mention it, too. Because bringing up autism in conversation is rarely casual. There’s no slick segue from “So anyway, I love podcasts,” to “By the way, my brain is wired differently and I’ve been masking social exhaustion for four decades.”

But sometimes I feel the need to bring it up—not because I want to explain myself, but because I don’t want people to mistake me for aloof, disinterested, rude, or just a bit weird in a concerning way. Some say I shouldn’t have to explain it—and they’re right—but if I don’t, I worry they’ll walk away thinking I’m about to have some sort of breakdown because I excused myself from a team lunch due to “noise reasons.”

And when I do mention it? Oh boy, the cultural references start rolling in. Rain Man. Sheldon. The hacker guy from that one show. Sherlock Holmes if he’d had a therapist and less cocaine. And my personal nemesis: Dr. Spencer Reid from Criminal Minds, who manages to be both a genius savant and have a wardrobe budget. No pressure.

Here’s the thing: I’m not Rain Man. I can’t count cards or tell you how many toothpicks you’ve spilled. I don’t have photographic memory. I can’t solve crime scenes through deductive jazz hands. What I do have is an overactive brain that wants to know the rules but also second-guesses the rules, and a sensory system that sometimes reacts to overhead lighting like it’s a form of personal betrayal.

TV autism is all drama and dazzling intellect. Real-life autism is me sitting in the office or library wearing noise-cancelling earbuds, hyperfocused on a spreadsheet or section of my thesis, drinking a lukewarm tea I forgot I’d made. Less cinematic, more geeky.

But the good ones—the friends, colleagues, even strangers who just get it—they make the world a bit softer. They adjust. They don’t question the discreet but bright red ear buds. They don’t flinch when I go quiet. They don’t expect eye contact to mean emotional intimacy or laughter to equal happiness. They let me show up as me—even when I’m not entirely sure who that is yet.

Adjusting to the New Normal That Was Always There

Post-discovery life isn’t dramatically different. I still hate phone calls. I still prep emails like they’re formal apologies or an early draft of a Victorian Naval Treaty. I still retreat after social events. But now I understand why.

More importantly, I allow myself to accommodate. I build quieter days into my calendar. I say no without guilt. I stop trying to outmask myself. I lean into the things that bring comfort—even if they look weird to someone else.  Discreetly hidden fidget toys are a real benefit, so long as it doesn’t look like I’m fiddling with myself…

And beyond that, I’ve started to embrace acceptance—real acceptance—not the kind that comes with caveats or apologies. I’m not going to keep masking all the time, especially not at the expense of my own wellbeing. I won’t force myself to endure things that cause me mental and physical pain. If I need ear protectors in a noisy room, I’ll wear them. If I need to step away from a crowd, I’ll do it. To hell with what others think.

I will not be embarrassed for doing what I need to do. I won’t shrink myself to fit a mould. I will just be me—without apology, without shame, and without a script.

Because weird doesn’t mean wrong. And different doesn’t mean broken.

So… I Wasn’t Broken, I’m Just Autistic

Discovering I’m autistic didn’t change who I was. It explained who I’d always been. And it gave me the language to forgive myself—for the confusion, the overwhelm, the “special ways of doing things.”

It’s not a dramatic plot twist. It’s not the end of a journey. It’s a lens. A name for the quiet, lifelong feeling of being slightly out of step. And now, I’m learning to move to my own rhythm—awkward, specific, sometimes offbeat, but mine.

And if any of this feels familiar—if you’ve ever thought, “Wait, isn’t everyone just faking it?”—you’re not alone. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not just you either.

Oh, and if you do happen to discover that you’re autistic—don’t worry, it’s completely normal for it to become your hyperfocus for a while. Welcome aboard.