What’s wild to me is that I’m autistic. Imagine that.

It took me nearly four decades to get the words for something I had always known but could never quite name. And now, with that knowledge in hand, everything clicks into place—the way I see patterns, the way I absorb environments whole, the way I just know things about people before they even say a thing. It wasn’t some mysterious, inexplicable ability. It was my brain, my wiring, my way of existing in a world that was never built with me in mind.

I had spent my life collecting details, registering shifts in energy, picking up on what was left unsaid. It wasn’t just perception; it was immersion. My mind didn’t just take in information—it absorbed it, dissected it, categorized it, and stored it for later. Every interaction, every micro-expression, every shift in tone became part of an intricate, unspoken language that I was fluent in before I even knew it had a name.

I grew up navigating a world where emotions weren’t spoken, only felt. For most of my life, I had no idea I was highly autistic, and no one around me did either. Every person I’ve ever interacted with had no clue, because I had perfected the art of adapting, of blending in without being seen for who I truly was——which honestly felt like trying to play hide-and-seek with myself, and somehow still losing. Discovering it didn’t just change how I saw myself—it shifted the entire framework of my existence. It explained why I interacted with the world the way I did, why I perceived things others missed, and why moving through spaces often felt different for me. People often view autism, especially at my level, as a disadvantage. But where they see limitation, I see precision. Where they see difficulty, I see depth. The world wasn’t built for me, but that’s never stopped me from making space. I thrive not because I conform, but because I navigate it on my own terms.

For me, being highly autistic means experiencing the world in a way that most people can’t begin to imagine. It’s like having every browser tab open at once, all still processing and downloading, and none of them will let me close out. I don’t just process information; I absorb it. Every detail, every shift, every unspoken hesitation is something I register before others even realize it exists. It’s an unfiltered, relentless awareness that has shaped every aspect of my life—how I communicate, how I adapt, how I survive.

And let’s not forget the intensity of it—because if there’s a quiet moment, my brain will gladly fill it with a full-scale analysis of a two-second interaction from ten years ago. My mind doesn’t just register information; it devours it, categorizing, analyzing, connecting it in ways I didn’t realize others couldn’t. It’s not passive observation—it’s full immersion. I don’t just hear a tone shift; I feel the energy change. I don’t just read a room; I become part of its undercurrent. There is no “off switch” for this kind of perception. It’s constant, and it’s deep—like an endless ripple beneath the surface, never resting, always pulling me into layers most people don’t even realize are there.

I wasn’t given the grace of clarity or support, so I built my own. It wasn’t a blueprint someone handed me—I had to sketch it out in real time, with trial, error, and a lot of mental post-it notes. I adapted. I masked. I played the role that was expected of me, even when it felt unnatural, even when it drained me. And I got good at it. So good that when I took the personality test in 2016, the result was Consul (ESFJ)—someone externally focused, driven by community, and attuned to creating harmony. That’s who I had learned to be because that’s what survival required. But underneath that polished version, something deeper was always there, waiting—like an old radio playing softly in another room—always there, just faint enough to ignore until I finally tuned in. Now? Now, I test as a Mediator (INFP), someone introspective, guided by internal values, focused on understanding myself and the motivations behind my actions. It’s not just a personality shift—it’s proof of an evolution, a reflection of how deeply I’ve grown in this game of life. And the thing is—I’m not one or the other. I am both, layered together, reflecting the journey from who I was expected to be to who I’ve always been.

I don’t just exist in both identities—I embody them, each representing a stage of my growth. One was shaped by survival, the other by self-ownership. They aren’t separate; they exist together, shaping how I see and feel the world. I don’t just study human behavior; I’ve lived it. I’ve navigated countless versions of myself, each one a snapshot in an ongoing reel, shifting when needed, reading a room instinctively, adjusting without thinking. But now, I do it on my terms. It’s no longer about survival—it’s about choice. And that’s what truly sets me free.

The deeper I go into understanding myself, the more I see the pattern—not just in my own transformation, but in the broader game I’ve been playing all along. It’s not just about connecting the dots of my past; it’s about seeing those dots form in real-time, weaving themselves into something bigger. It’s a kind of clarity that doesn’t just reshape my own understanding but reframes how I navigate the world. Every detail, every shift, every interaction—it all fits into a system, and I can see it.

Understanding that I am highly autistic didn’t change who I am—it confirmed that my way of navigating the world wasn’t random, but intentional, built through experience, adaptation, and an intrinsic ability to see beyond the surface. It reframed my experiences, revealing that my ability to absorb, analyze, and intuit the world wasn’t an accident, but a defining part of how my brain was built. My ability to absorb everything at once, to see through words to intent, to understand dynamics most people can’t even name, is a skill developed through years of experience and observation. It’s how my mind works. My brain organizes information holistically, instinctively cataloging connections that others don’t even notice. And because I’ve lived so many different versions of myself, I can move between worlds, translating what others can’t quite articulate, bridging gaps they don’t even see.

Seeing and feeling aren’t two different things for me—they’re the same. One doesn’t happen without the other. My intuition isn’t just strong; it’s a force that has guided me through life in ways I didn’t fully understand until now. It’s why I can anticipate situations before they unfold, sense when someone isn’t saying what they truly mean, and feel the energy of a room before a single word is spoken. It’s not magic. It’s not luck. It’s the culmination of a lifetime of absorbing, analyzing, and refining my ability to understand what isn’t said aloud.

But let’s be real—this level of perception comes at a cost. It’s exhausting. It’s like having a built-in detective mode that never turns off, even when I’d rather just enjoy my coffee without contemplating the existential crisis in a stranger’s sigh. The weight of constantly translating the world, filtering the noise, and deciphering the truth behind the surface—it takes energy. And for years, I carried that weight alone, not realizing that what felt normal to me was, in fact, something most people would never experience.

Throughout my life, I have often felt unseen, as if I existed in the background of my own story. It wasn’t that certain aspects of me were acknowledged—it felt like none of me was. Like I was shouting into a void that never answered back. That kind of loneliness isn’t loud; it’s quiet, heavy, and constant, like carrying a shadow that doesn’t belong to you. I moved through the world feeling invisible, not because I wanted to be, but because it seemed like no one knew how to see me. But now, I move through life as I am—without the weight of needing to be understood by anyone else. There’s no script, no performance—just me, standing in the rawness of my own existence. The layers of my story are still unfolding, but this time, I’m not just surviving them—I’m shaping them, with the clarity of someone who finally sees herself.

And that? To me, that’s freeing.

Autism doesn’t just shape how I see the world. It shapes how I feel it. Every sound, every movement, every shift in energy registers with an intensity most people can’t fathom. I don’t just notice patterns; I experience them. I don’t just hear the words someone says; I hear the intention behind them, the conflict between what they mean and what they’re willing to admit. My mind doesn’t operate in a straight line. It weaves, it spirals, it constructs entire blueprints of understanding before most people even recognize there’s something to decipher.

I spent years shifting, adjusting, blending into spaces where I felt unseen, but not anymore. Now, I’m creating a world where I am fully seen. A world where my intuition isn’t dismissed, where my insights are recognized, where my ability to see beyond what is visible is no longer something I have to justify.

I’ve always been connected—to people, to patterns, to energy, to truths unspoken. And now, with the knowledge of my autism, I understand why. This isn’t a limitation. It’s my greatest strength—a lens that sharpens, not distorts. My autism isn’t something I’ve had to overcome; it’s the very thing that’s allowed me to thrive. While the world often defines autism by what it assumes is missing, I see it as the foundation of everything I’ve gained: depth, clarity, connection, and an unshakable sense of self. It’s not just part of me—it’s the reason I move through the world the way I do, with precision, purpose, and a perspective that can’t be replicated. Once I understood how my brain works, I was able to work with it, not against it. I stopped fighting to fit into society’s mold and started creating space where my mind could thrive. That shift didn’t just change how I navigated the world—it changed how I experienced it, fully, unapologetically, and on my own terms.