Ava’s autism diagnosis — aged 18: “My diagnosis has given me the understanding to take my distress seriously.”

I feel like a cliché, but as with so many girls, Ava’s neurodivergence went undetected for many, many years as she ‘successfully’ navigated school and society while inwardly falling apart. 

As a child, Ava would make certain noises, look down at her feet an exact number of times and, if one part of her body touched a door, had to touch it with another part to even it out. 

Like Oliver, she was sociable and friendly. Unlike Oliver, she excelled at school, was polite and went out of her way to be helpful. 

To the outside world, Ava was the perfect child — sunny, clever and kind but, at home, we’d see exhaustion take over. She spent increasing amounts of time away from us all, escaping into fantasy worlds through her dolls or, later, her favourite TV programmes. 

Later, we had a lot of teenage angst — tears, shouting, door slamming — you know the drill (or maybe you don’t but, believe me, neurodivergence or not, if/when you are blessed with teenage girls, there’ll be some of that!). She went out with friends but, before leaving the house, would have to return to her room multiple times to brace herself to step out the front door. Even then, autism didn’t occur to me. 

Ava’s fall from grace was more measured and internalised than her brother’s. When the therapist she had been referred to following suicidal ideation suggested she might be autistic, I was stunned, until I wasn’t. When I thought about it, it made complete sense of her strained mental health, chaotic approach to life, need for escapism, ritualistic
behaviour, extreme reactions and intense special interests. 

For Ava, an ADHD diagnosis came first — unmistakeable and obvious. Her autism diagnosis took longer as she didn’t instantly fit the mould. Despite a few tell-tale signs (too enthusiastic, overly polite, talking as if reading from a script), after 18 years, Ava had become so good at blending in and appearing normal that it took a second detailed questionnaire for those assessing her to see through the masking to her autism.

This is her take on what that autism diagnosis did for her.  

Ava’s perspective on her autism diagnosis

By the time I received my diagnosis, I was exhausted in ways that I couldn’t properly name. I had spent years thinking I was simply bad at coping. Too sensitive, too intense, too disorganised, too overwhelmed by things everyone else seemed to manage effortlessly. 

Receiving my diagnosis didn’t change all this, but it did change how I treated myself. Suddenly, the mental and emotional chaos had an explanation. I wasn’t failing at being a person. I was navigating a world that hadn’t been designed with my brain in mind. 

I didn’t realise how much having a diagnosis had affected my mindset until I got to university. I felt able to ask for support without shame and to structure my work around my rhythms rather than against them. For the first time, I felt allowed to exist as I actually am.

But I can’t help imagining how different GCSEs and A-levels might have been if I’d understood myself then. 

I remember those years as being filled with quiet panic and a sense that I was constantly one second away from collapse. Teachers saw a bright, capable student but they didn’t see the cost. I cried often, but I didn’t understand why I was crying or what I was meant to be feeling. My emotions felt blurred, as though they existed outside of me, rather than within me. After a while, I began feeling nothing at all. I was shut off from myself, like I was a cardboard cut-out rather than a real person.

I know now that this emotional numbness was a period of intense burnout, caused by pushing myself beyond my limits for too long. Burnout is common among those with neurodivergence and is not simple tiredness, but a protective emotional shutdown. It creates those feelings of numbness and detachment that I was experiencing.

At that time, I didn’t realise that what I was feeling was my nervous system’s way of coping. Instead, I believed there was something fundamentally wrong with me that didn’t seem to exist in anyone else. 

If I’d known earlier, I might have learned how to rest without guilt or how to ask for adjustments before reaching breaking point. I might have realised sooner that struggling didn’t mean I was incapable.

Still, my diagnosis didn’t arrive too late to matter. It allowed me to re-see my teenage years not as a series of unexplained difficulties, but as years shaped by unknown neurodivergence rather than personal inadequacy. And while I hurt for the younger version of me who didn’t have this understanding when she needed it most, my diagnosis has given me the understanding to take my distress seriously. Knowing that when my body gives me a sign to rest, I should listen.

The overdiagnosis debate

In the end, diagnosis didn’t change who Sam, Oliver or Ava were. It simply
changed their internal dialogue, and gave them the tools, language and compassion they needed to accept themselves and for others to understand them. 

Meanwhile, the debate rages on: too many diagnoses, too many labels, too many people using neurodivergence as an excuse. 

The truth is that more diagnoses doesn’t mean more neurodivergent people; it means we’re finally finding the people who have been neurodivergent all along. Diagnosis is empowerment, not a trend.