How I Discovered I Was Autistic as an Adult Woman: A Late-Diagnosis Story

For most of my life, I felt like I was navigating the world slightly out of sync. Social situations felt like puzzles with missing pieces, and what seemed intuitive to others often felt foreign to me. I often thought others had been given a social skills manual at birth that had been denied me. When I was in my early 30s, I first considered that I might have autism after reading a list of autism symptoms, but the idea made me feel bad about myself, and I dismissed it after a few days. After all, I am nothing like Rainman or Sheldon Cooper. Approximately ten years later, I reconsidered the possibility that I might have autism after learning to diagnose autism and trauma in the children I was working with. It still took me three or more years of going back and forth on whether or not I had autism before I decided to get a diagnosis, and then I ended up seeking a second opinion after the first diagnosis. In many ways, the journey to understanding myself as a late-diagnosed woman with autism has been anything but straightforward.

Growing up, I internalized the belief that I was simply "too sensitive" or "too intense." As a child, I thought I could feel everything everyone else felt and even believed I was psychic due to my heightened empathy, a common trait for late-diagnosed females with autism. Socializing often left me needing to isolate for several hours or days afterward because it was so stressful for me. I learned to mask the parts of myself that seemed to perplex others. I memorized social scripts, mimicking behaviors to fit in, though it often left me exhausted. As a teen and young adult, I struggled with the fact that I could never be my authentic self around others. I wasn’t even sure who my authentic self was. The idea that there might be a neurological explanation for my experiences would never have occurred to me.

Autism, for much of my life, felt like a distant concept, tied to stereotypical images that did not reflect my reality. I excelled academically, maintained friendships, and appeared "normal" on the outside. Yet beneath that facade was an ongoing battle with sensory overwhelm, social fatigue, and a constant undercurrent of anxiety, common struggles for late-diagnosed autistic women. I questioned whether I was simply defective—why did things that seemed easy for others drain me so deeply?

My curiosity led me down a rabbit hole of research. I learned that many women, especially those diagnosed later in life, present differently than the traditional autism profile. We mask our traits more effectively, often to the point where even professionals overlook us. For the first time, I saw myself reflected in these narratives: the relentless perfectionism, the need for routines to feel grounded, the profound connection to special interests, and the aching sense of being different but never knowing why. These are traits of late-diagnosed autistic women that are often overlooked in standard diagnostic criteria.

Considering a formal diagnosis was complex. On one hand, a label could provide clarity. It might explain why I struggled with seemingly simple things like making phone calls or handling last-minute plans. It could also connect me with a broader community of neurodivergent people who understand these experiences without judgment. I imagined the relief of shedding the weight of self-blame, recognizing that my brain simply works differently. Late diagnosis in women often brings this sense of validation.

At the same time, the prospect of pursuing a diagnosis was fraught with uncertainty. Would it change how others see me? Would it change how I see myself? I worried that a diagnosis could invalidate the coping strategies I had spent years perfecting. There was also the practical concern: the financial cost and the emotional labor of navigating a medical system that often overlooks adult women seeking autism evaluations. And what if I pursued this path only to be told I was "not autistic enough"? This last concern seemed a very real possibility, as I had few, if any, female autistic role models to compare myself to. I am not a quantum physicist, and I have not, and will never, memorize the entire phone book. I simply harbor a passion for New Kids on the Block (I am in my 40s) and love to read stories (I have never met another person who reads as much as I do). I chew my tongue, sure, but never in public after having been teased about this in high school. I like to rock back and forth, but again, never in public after having it pointed out to me in my teen years. I like to bounce my knee up and down, and I like to rub my hands on my jeans or another soft, and noisy, texture. Yet these hardly seemed like the typical autistic sensory issues to me. After all, I can handle loud noises, and if I can’t, I simply leave instead of inconveniencing others or wearing obvious noise-canceling headphones. Furthermore, I am compassionate and readily able to recognize others' emotions—sometimes too well—and everyone knows that autistic people do not have empathy. Thus, the debate about whether I should be evaluated for autism as a late-diagnosed woman was not a simple decision for me.

Yet, despite these fears, I kept returning to the same question: What if knowing could be liberating? What if knowing could help me learn to like myself? What if there are others like me? What if I am a different type of normal? The possibility that my quirks and struggles are not character flaws but reflections of a neurotype was hard to ignore. Maybe I am not broken. Maybe I am just different.

I think about the future. Without a diagnosis, I would risk continuing to push myself beyond my limits and misunderstanding my own needs. The endless cycle of self-blame and doubt that overtaxing my limits causes me is painful. Knowledge could empower me to advocate for myself and to set boundaries that honor my capacity. If I could move through the world with more self-compassion, would it not be worth the discomfort of seeking answers?

There was also a part of me that hesitated because of the identity shift a diagnosis could bring. For years, I defined myself in relation to others' expectations. I say things that are awkward and sometimes rude. I sometimes miss the point of sarcasm or a joke. I am quirky, never quite fitting in with others, and this identity—that I am “off” in some way—has defined me my entire life. Who am I otherwise? Allowing myself to fully explore the possibility of autism meant letting go of the illusion that I was just "bad" at being a person. It required embracing a new narrative—one where my differences are not deficits but simply part of who I am.

I have spent so long hiding the pieces of myself that felt unpalatable to the world. What if, instead of masking, I allowed myself to be seen in my entirety? A diagnosis would not change who I am at my core, but it might give me permission to be softer with myself, to release the shame I have carried for so long. What would my life be like if I were to unmask as a late-diagnosed autistic woman?

Finally, after years of debating whether I should seek an autism diagnosis, I took the leap. I signed up for an autism evaluation with a company called Prosper Health. I had to have my mom complete several evaluations of my behavior as a child. I remember thinking that she would not notice any autistic behaviors because I act so "normal." I started to think that maybe getting an autism evaluation was pointless. I didn’t back out, though. I also had my significant other complete evaluations. I completed several evaluations myself before my telehealth appointment with a licensed psychologist. My meeting with the psychologist took two days to complete. After we were through, she told me that I was Level 1 Autism Spectrum Disorder. I felt immense relief. Finally, I had an answer. I really was wired differently. So often, I had joked to others after doing something goofy that my brain didn’t work right. It turns out I wasn’t too far off the mark. My brain really is wired differently.

After a few months, the self-doubt crept in. I am a Licensed Professional Counselor, and I have been trained to recognize the traits of autism. What if I had biased myself? What if I had just made up my mind that I had autism and that was why my evaluation diagnosed me as autistic? After six months, I decided to seek a second opinion. This time, I was evaluated by The Autism Group. I went through the same process of having my family members and myself complete evaluations. I once again met with a licensed psychologist who interviewed me over a period of two days. I once again received a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 1.

Ultimately, the decision to pursue an autism diagnosis as an adult woman is not just about seeking a label. It is about reclaiming your story. It is about understanding yourself on a deeper level and finding a language for the experiences that have shaped you. Whether or not you choose to pursue a formal evaluation, the mere possibility of autism will shift how you view yourself. I am beginning to believe that I am not defective—I am simply wired differently, and that difference is not something to be ashamed of. Maybe the same could be true for you. Maybe you are not "broken." Maybe you are also wired differently. Perhaps the answer lies not in whether you receive a diagnosis but in how you choose to honor your truth. For the first time in my life, I am willing to believe that my truth is worth honoring.