15/10/2026
When I was little, I was bright and able, and therefore easily frustrated.
But I know my mum took me to the doctors several times. Still unsure why the wrong socks could lead to me being unable to walk anymore, crying and screaming on the pavement.
Why would my reactions be so extreme?
But this was the 1980s, and so “just very bright” was how it was brushed away.
I wouldn’t receive my diagnosis of autism until I was in my 40s.
In the 2000s, my daughter’s struggles were also seemingly brushed away. I felt fortunate to still have a family doctor who agreed to put her forward for an assessment for autism. The wait times were about a year then too, nothing like how long families wait now.
If only I’d known how little doors of understanding or curiosity this would, in reality, open.
How shocking I would find it when my work exploring these experiences would reach so, so many others also fighting for recognition of their children’s needs and difficulties.
Because they are not autistic enough. Too complex. You name it.
We go down and round inside these rabbit holes because our children are distressed, being impacted by their learning environments.
We are told, in the meantime, that it is our parenting. That we are not doing enough. That we could be better.
This week, my now adult daughter and I spoke about the divisive conversations in the media currently.
It wasn’t angry. It was a chat. It was balanced.
We spoke about how rubbish our education system is, how othering it can be.
We also talked about how our diagnosis isn’t all of us.
It isn’t our books, our films, our silliness.
But it is information about why we have these differences, why we sometimes struggle.
And we spoke about how important it is, as women, especially to know this.
To not allow men with the current other news stuff also coming into the conversation, to have any more collateral to damage us, because we know how many autistic women are abused by men.
We know the patterns.
We learn, very early, that we are difficult, so we become eager to please.
And a loss of sense of self, through masking and people-pleasing, leaves us ripe for those who will benefit from our confusion and our “mistakes”.
And this, we decided, is why diagnosis is important for us.
To learn that our differences are not things to be ashamed of or swept under the carpet.
We should never use those self-harming narratives of, “Well, others seem to manage.”
We need self-compassion for ourselves.
And this information gives us that.
It gives us insight when we talk to others and connect with like-minded people. Together, we can shine a light on this stuff and, in turn, wash away years of shame.
Look, it would be wonderful to live in a world without abusive systems and abusive men. People and places eradicated who harm women and children.
But this is a utopia that doesn’t exist.
And most of us are not rich enough to stay at home with our autistic children and protect them from these systems.
After all, we all need to work.
And the truth is, right now, this diagnosis is what we need to know more about ourselves and our children.
It’s no easy ride, no ticket to an easier life. We still spend every day advocating for ourselves and for them.
And there are still old attitudes that want to pitch us against each other and say, in some gross “us or them”:
“Who’s got it worse, huh?”
We know though that those of us raising our children want to heal, protect and show them that there is a brighter future.
So we tell them you’ve got to find those who see you.
Those who don’t shame you.
And what we need is communities to heal us.
Who get all this stuff, with little explanation.
And what we really need is kindness.
Which believe it or not, in the year 2026, I cannot tell you how many times I’m still reminded how many people seem to forget this.
