I used to think I was just bad at life.
Too sensitive. Too distracted. Too overwhelmed by things other people seemed to brush off like lint on a sleeve. I thought I was lazy, messy, dramatic—every label I’ve worn like armor just to survive in a world that didn’t fit me. But what if I’m not broken? What if I’m wired differently—and that wiring deserves care, not shame?
This week, I finally said it out loud to my psychiatrist:
“I think I’m autistic. I think I’ve been masking my whole life, and it’s killing me inside.”
I expected dismissal. A shrug. Maybe even an awkward silence.
But instead, she met me where I was—with curiosity, not conclusion. She didn’t slap on a label. She recommended therapy. Not to fix me, but to help me understand me.
We’re starting with anxiety. With the OCD patterns that make me feel like I need order—but leave me spiraling when I can’t keep up. I crave structure so deeply, yet I can’t hold onto it, and that disconnect is its own kind of torment. Especially as a mom, a creator, a woman who’s spent years holding it all together on the outside while unraveling in silence.
And now… I’m choosing a different path. One where I stop pretending.
One where I allow myself to be loud, messy, disorganized, and still worthy of peace.
I’m going to therapy not because I’m failing, but because I’m finally ready to bloom beyond survival.
If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the world runs on a rhythm you can’t match—like you’re exhausted from pretending to be “normal”—I see you.
You’re not alone. You’re not lazy. You’re not too much.
You’re just navigating a life that wasn’t designed for your kind of brilliance.
I don’t know where this road leads. But I’m walking it—with my full self this time. No mask. No apology.
And maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk beside me too.
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