In the summer of 2022, I wrote my first blog about discovering my neurodivergence. It almost felt like a confession, sharing something intensely private with people I felt would be ready to judge me. It’s taken this long to pursue, wait for and finally receive diagnosis. I’m not the same person, professionally, academically or personally that I was when I wrote that blog, which is why I’m having another go at it (with the original linked in this introduction if you’d like to examine that first.)
“You meet the criteria to be diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.”
These words did not come as a surprise to me: indeed, I was desperate for them and I have been living mostly as if they’d already been said since about 2022. That’s when the research started in earnest, when I realised this collection of traits really did fit the map of my experiences and began to consider how I could use the experiences and advice of others to improve my day-to-day.
And yet, the moment the psychiatrist confirmed it, all the breath was swept from my lungs. Because at last, here was a well-qualified professional, having weighed up the evidence, telling me that it was not my imagination or a lack of resilience. I really did exist on a different plane to the neurological majority. And I always have done.
I was an autistic toddler, lining up my toys and talking like an old soul.
I was an autistic little girl who read way above her chronological age but couldn’t work out playground politics for long enough to stop being bullied; who thrived on routine but didn’t have words to explain why she wanted to cry when it changed (though she knew this wasn’t the right way to feel so she pushed it down as much as she could); who found joy in writing stories and playing in button boxes, joy so tangible that it made her hands refuse to stay still.
I was an autistic teenage who took “try your best” to mean always give all of yourself so her predicted grades and achieved grades were up in the clouds somewhere but all she really wanted was to stop the frantic pace of the world for a while. I jumped out of my skin at the school bell or the register notifications and tried to laugh it off, shredding my cardigan cuffs because having my hands out and still felt so wrong. I poured myself wholeheartedly into my interests and loved with my whole self. I bounced with joy that could not be contained and later the same day swore like a sailor, trying to express anger that felt so much bigger than I was.
I was an autistic student: at home in the library; safe on the end of the same lecture theatre row; at ease in tutors’ offices but lost in the hubbub of corridors, class discussions and questions left wide open and ambiguous. Eye contact was a mystery to me – presenting myself as normal, I forced it and felt drained for hours afterwards. With people I knew well, it was brief glances before I looked away again to give myself chance to think. I liked the train home more than the bus to the station: more predictable, easier to navigate, more anonymous. I could silently narrate the stations all the way home but could never grasp bus routes. There seemed no pattern to the bus numbers, but I knew the trains at thirty-two minutes past the hour were nicer than the more frequent ones.
I was an autistic teacher. More than anything, as I grew into my neurodivergent identity more and more, this felt unsafe. If I arrived at work a minute later than I wanted to, that was a black mark on the morning. Unexpected or overrunning assembly? Morning ruined, afternoon scattered – but I could never ever show this on the outside. Even the tiny badge on my lanyard was an act of rebellion. Diversity was celebrated above all else, but not this kind. What if the parents questioned my competence, my professionalism, the working practice of the school? Unthinkable. I took it all too personally because Caitlin the teacher was one and the same as Caitlin the person. She fell into silence at home every evening, every fibre spent and wrung out. I gave it my best but it still wasn’t enough.
I am an autistic adult. My routines are rigid but this gives me the security to be myself within it. I have food rules but I am still fed. I am particular about my clothes but this comfort gives me energy and makes me relatable to the children I now work with. I like jigsaw puzzles because everything has an order and a place, but watching new films or series can feel impossible because they’re so unknown. I process the world through fiction and you’ll have to prize my loves for the Underground, Casualty and the Moomins from my cold, dead hands.
I have always been autistic and I always will be. I am different, not less, and one day I will write the research that stops little autistic girls from growing up thinking they’re just doing it all wrong. We’re on an alternative operating system and sometimes I wish I could invite you inside to feel some of the joy, validation and sparkle.
One Quiet Teacher 