Yesterday, I was formally diagnosed with Autism and ADHD.
Relief that it's finally done. A deeper understanding of myself. But also sadness and anxiety.
I finally have language for the patterns, challenges, and sensitivities that have shaped my life. But the diagnosis came with a painful realisation: I've spent decades feeling like I was the problem, when in fact, I was navigating systems that weren't built for me.
Looking back
The assessment meant revisiting my entire life, looking for patterns I'd never had words for. School, work, relationships. All the moments I felt out of place, misunderstood, or just wrong.
Years of feeling too much or too intense. Being told to adapt, to calm down, to play the game. Masking, working harder than most just to appear fine. Being misunderstood, even when I was doing my absolute best.
Every story I shared during the assessment made me see my past differently. I wasn't awkward. I wasn't difficult. I wasn't broken.
I was autistic. I had ADHD.
Inclusion still isn't real
This diagnosis doesn't change who I am. But it helps explain why some things have always been so hard.
I've worked in places where I was expected to be a brand, not a person. Where process and fairness were only followed when convenient. Where integrity clashed with office politics, and people-first values were just slogans on the wall.
I've been in rooms where the rules were changed halfway through, and when I spoke up about it, I was made to feel like the problem.
My sense of fairness, structure, and justice doesn't bend to internal politics. That's often misunderstood.
Even in workplaces that call themselves inclusive, neurodivergent people are often accepted only if we act the part. Mask well. Don't rock the boat. Never ask for too much.
Getting support shouldn't be a privilege
Thanks to private insurance, I was able to access an assessment fairly quickly. I know that's not the case for everyone. People I know have been waiting far too long for NHS assessments, with no clarity, no timeline, and no support in the meantime.
That access should not depend on what you can afford. People need support now, not in months or years. The impact of that delay is often invisible but enormous.
What comes next
I'm still figuring out what kind of support I need. Learning what helps me thrive. And starting to unlearn the years of shame, self-doubt, and anxiety I've carried quietly through most of my adult life.
But I'm finished hiding.
I'll be writing more about this. About leadership, neurodivergence, and what needs to change in the way we design work and support people.
Not just for awareness days. Not just in HR policies. But every day, in every meeting, in every team.
We need more than inclusive language. We need inclusive systems.