Part 2: Realising I Might Be on the Spectrum.

Earlier this week, I consulted with a professional regarding the possibility of an autism assessment. The response was thoughtful and informative, setting clear expectations about the long waiting times associated with the process. While a private assessment is an option, it comes with a significant cost, and there is no guarantee it will be accepted by all institutions. The professional also took care to inform me of the potential delays so I could make an informed decision.

Reading this, I felt a sense of relief. The pressure seemed to ease, and I realized I might not need to go any further down this road. I’ve spent my life functioning well, adapting to the world around me, and discovering my unique self along the way. I’m not sure if a diagnosis would change anything at this point. I’m happy with who I am.

I’ve been thinking about canceling my upcoming appointment for the assessment. It feels like I’ve been living in this space of self-discovery for so long, and I’m not sure that pursuing an official diagnosis would add much value to my journey. After all, I’ve survived, adapted, and thrived without one. I’m not eager for a label; I’m content with the person I’ve become. I was genuinely touched by her transparency and the care with which she responded.

But something surprising happened as I read her words—I felt relief. Deep, calming, grounding relief. For all the emotional spirals that led me to question whether I might be on the spectrum, suddenly the urgency seemed to dissolve. And I realised: maybe I don’t want or need to go any further down this road. Maybe the real gift in all of this isn’t a label, but the insight I’ve gained through even asking the question.

I’ve been sitting with this. Letting it unfold. And today, I can say with honesty: I like the way I am. In fact, I love who I am. I love my mind, the way it wanders and returns, the way it constructs beauty out of chaos, and how it feels its way through pain and connection and wonder. I love how intuitive I am, how earnestly I read the room, even when I get it wrong. I love my creativity, my resilience, and yes—even the parts of me that confuse people. The ones I’ve spent so long trying to explain, justify, or hide.

It’s true that I couldn’t talk until after I was two years old. My parents prayed—believed fiercely—and my father declared that I would not only speak, but sing. He was right. I talk—too much sometimes—and I sing. With lungs that hold more air than most, apparently. I carry this story like a birthright: evidence that delay is not denial, and that identity is something that unfolds in its own time.

So when I think about diagnosis now, I no longer feel like it’s something I need. I’ve lived this long without it. I’ve built a full, expressive life. I’ve survived illness, heartbreak, loss, reinvention. I’ve stood on stages, whispered in hospital rooms, and held people with my words. Whether I’m autistic or not, nothing about my worth changes. Nothing about my journey becomes more or less valid.

This moment of self-recognition—this pause before moving forward—is enough. I don’t say that lightly. I say it with the kind of peace that comes when you stop running toward a finish line that may not even matter.

For now, I’ve chosen to wait. I’ll keep my GP appointment, and I’ll listen to what they say. But there is no rush in my bones. There is only presence, and a deepening trust in my own experience. The desire to understand myself brought me here. And that’s more than enough.

Whether this turns out to be the beginning of a diagnostic journey, or simply a season of reflection, I will keep writing. Because it’s in the writing—in the naming of the in-between spaces—that I feel most whole.