If you’d met me at 16, you wouldn’t have pegged me as autistic. I was the quiet, studious kid who sat in the back of the classroom, doodling in the margins of my notebooks. Teachers called me “bright” and “reserved,” and I mastered the art of smiling just enough to pass as normal. But inside, I was unraveling.
A Day in the Life of 16-Year-Old Me
Here’s a snapshot: It’s 2006. I’m sitting in third-period biology, pretending to take notes while the fluorescent lights buzz overhead like a swarm of invisible insects. The classroom smells like dry-erase markers and the faint tang of the janitor’s disinfectant. My pen moves across the page in rhythmic loops—not writing anything, just stimming with ink.
I’m trying to focus on the teacher’s voice, but his words feel like static, blending into the hum of the lights and the scrape of chairs. I glance at the clock: 11:47 a.m. Three minutes until lunch. My stomach twists, not from hunger, but from dread.
Lunch is the hardest part of the day. The cafeteria is chaos—trays clattering, conversations overlapping, and the sour smell of overcooked spaghetti wafting through the air. I never know where to sit. I usually pick a corner table, eat as quickly as I can, and escape to the library, where the silence feels like salvation.
Why No One Saw It
I didn’t look autistic. I didn’t have meltdowns in public (I saved those for the privacy of my bedroom). I didn’t stim in obvious ways (or so I thought—turns out, doodling and tapping my feet were stims all along). I made eye contact when I remembered to, and I smiled when people smiled at me.
But what no one saw were the cracks beneath the surface. The hours I spent memorizing social scripts to get through a five-minute conversation. The sensory overload that left me drained and irritable. The gnawing feeling that something about me was fundamentally different, even if I couldn’t name it yet.
I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 27. By then, I’d spent over a decade hiding in plain sight, learning to mimic the neurotypical world so well that even I believed it sometimes.
The Moment I Knew
One night, at 26, I was doom-scrolling on my phone when I stumbled across an article titled “Signs of Autism in Women.” I clicked out of morbid curiosity and began to read:
- Struggles with sensory sensitivity? Check.
- Intense focus on niche interests? Oh, you mean my years-long obsession with Victorian teacups? Check.
- Difficulty maintaining friendships? Yeah, that too.
It was like someone had cracked open my brain and taken notes. For the first time, my life made sense—not as a series of failures to fit in, but as a different way of experiencing the world.
The Aftermath of Diagnosis
When I finally got my diagnosis, it felt like a double-edged sword. On one hand, I finally had an answer—a name for the static that had followed me my entire life. On the other hand, I was angry. Angry that no one noticed earlier. Angry at myself for not figuring it out sooner. Angry at a society that makes it so damn hard for autistic girls to be seen.
I spent weeks replaying my childhood in my head, seeing every awkward moment and misunderstood meltdown through this new lens. The time I cried at a sleepover because I couldn’t sleep on the floor. The time a teacher scolded me for being “disrespectful” when I didn’t understand his sarcasm. The time I skipped prom because the thought of loud music and forced small talk made me nauseous.
What I Wish People Knew
If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person. No two of us are alike. Some of us are loud; some of us are quiet. Some of us love hugs; some of us hate them. The stereotype of the socially awkward boy obsessed with trains is just that—a stereotype.
Autistic girls and women often go unnoticed because we learn to mask. We learn to laugh at jokes we don’t understand, to mimic facial expressions we don’t feel, to disappear into the background. But masking comes at a cost. By the time I reached my twenties, I was so burnt out from pretending to be “normal” that I didn’t know who I was anymore.
Visual Snapshot
As I write this, I’m sitting in my childhood bedroom. The walls are still painted the same soft lavender my mom picked out when I was 10. My old bookshelf is stuffed with worn copies of Harry Potter and The Babysitters Club, their spines cracked from years of rereading. There’s a faded poster of a Van Gogh painting above my desk, the corners curling with age.
This room is a time capsule, and being here feels like stepping into a memory. It’s comforting and disorienting all at once.
FAQ
Q: Can girls really be autistic without anyone noticing?
A: Absolutely. Autism often looks different in girls and women, which is why we’re underdiagnosed. Check out this article from Autism Research Institute for more details.
Q: What’s masking?
A: Masking is when autistic people mimic neurotypical behaviors to fit in. It’s like being an actor in a play, but the play never ends. (Learn more about masking from Healthline.)
Q: How can I tell if I or someone I know might be autistic?
A: If you relate to the experiences I’ve shared, consider looking into the Autism Spectrum Quotient Test. It’s not a diagnosis, but it can be a helpful starting point.
Final Thoughts
I’m 33 now, and I’m still learning to unmask, to embrace the parts of me I used to hide. It’s a messy, ongoing process, but it’s worth it. If you’re reading this and wondering if you might be autistic, know that you’re not alone. You’re not broken. You’re just you, and that’s enough.
And if you see a girl sitting alone at lunch, doodling in her notebook, don’t assume she’s shy or aloof. She might just be like me—living in a world that doesn’t quite understand her, but trying her best to navigate it anyway.
