A Multi-Neurodivergent Therapist’s Take: Late Diagnosis, Masking, and the Search for Neuro affirming Care

When I was younger, I always knew I was different.

As a kid, I changed schools every couple of years. Some schools were harder socially than others, but I never quite felt like I fit in. I usually had at least one friend and was generally friendly, but I could never shake the feeling that I was somehow “other.” Sometimes I figured it was because of my interests (Neopets in the 5th grade, anyone?), and other times, I still don’t know why. I wasn’t mean—except for one time I threw sand in a girl’s face in first grade after she called me names. She was cruel, but I regretted it immediately.

I always chalked my differences up to being a bit of a nerd, having trauma, a weird family, or just moving around too much. It wasn’t until years into my work as a therapist that the puzzle pieces began to click.

Technically, I wasn’t late-diagnosed neurodivergent. I was diagnosed with OCD in second grade. The school told my dad I needed to see a doctor after they noticed me spacing out and making repetitive sounds—behaviors I couldn’t mask, no matter how hard I tried. I remember telling the psychiatrist about a “blue angel” that gave me intrusive commands, and if I didn’t follow them, I’d feel an overwhelming dread. The doctor responded with, “How do you feel about pills?” I replied, “I can’t swallow pills,” and that was that. No explanations. No support. Just shame and silence.

I hid my OCD for years. When I did tell people, the response was often, “Everyone’s a little OCD.” I didn’t try medication until I was 30 (which, spoiler: was a great decision—but that’s a story for another time). Back then, I didn’t know the word “neurodivergent,” and even if I had, I doubt I would’ve embraced it. But everything started shifting as I approached closer to 30.

As I was approaching 30, life looked pretty good on paper. I had meaningful work, I was building deeper relationships, I had a lot of people in my life who I’d call friends, and I finally felt like I was getting the hang of being a therapist. I knew I was quirky, but I was more confident than ever—and I cared less about what others thought of me.

Still, something felt... off.
I was great at connecting with people but struggled to maintain those connections. I started noticing how drained I felt after social interactions—especially ones that didn’t seem like they should be draining. That’s when I first heard the term masking. And suddenly, things started making sense.

To be fair, it wasn’t just one “aha” moment—it was a collection of small ones. One of the earliest and most memorable was during supervision as an associate. My supervisor had this little ONO fidget roller (which I now sponsor—full circle moment!). My colleague and I got our own, and we’d all use them during supervision and sessions. For the first time, I felt like I was in a neurodivergent-affirming environment and even more lucky it was at my job! No one questioned the fidgets.

That same colleague was my one of best friends who we did our traineeship together, and our conversations often drifted into neurodivergence—both in ourselves and in our clients. Looking back, I’m so grateful to have had that space. I didn’t have to go through this discovery process alone.

As I learned more, I realized that the clients I felt most connected to—the ones who stayed, grew, and thrived in therapy—were often autistic, ADHD, or living with OCD. It felt like we were on parallel paths. I dove headfirst into learning more about autism and ADHD in adults—not just from textbooks, but from the lived experiences of others.

Professionally, I had formal diagnoses for OCD and ADHD, and I scored high on self-assessments for autism. One clinician even encouraged me to explore autism further. I likely learned to mask so well that it became a survival strategy—one that made it harder to see my own traits clearly.

But getting accurate, useful, and affirming training so I could better support my neurodivergent clients? That was an uphill battle.

Much of the clinical research I encountered was based on young, white, cisgender boys. It’s no surprise that so many women, people of color, and folks of other genders get overlooked or misdiagnosed. I began to see how the system itself was part of the problem.

One training sticks with me which was a couple months ago. It was titled something like “How to Diagnose and Work With Adults with Autism.” I went in with cautious hope—and left with a pit in my stomach.

The examples? Almost entirely about children.
The one adult case they presented involved someone who was nonverbal and described as violent—spoken about as if they were a child.
The only treatment mentioned? ABA therapy.

(I was a ABA technician once upon a time before my Masters. Quit when I noticed it was unethical. Thats another story for another time…)

The one redeeming part of the presentation was a venn diagram by Dr. Neff comparing ADHD and Autism (which I also happen to use frequently). But when the lecture ended, people around me were buzzing—“Wow, that was amazing!”—and I couldn’t keep quiet.

I gently voiced my concerns to a handful of attendees. “Please don’t take this back to your clients as the gold standard,” I wanted to say. I was genuinely worried about the harm that could result from clinicians applying this outdated, narrow view to their adult clients. More than ever, I felt motivated to be a voice for change—to share a different narrative about autism in adulthood.

The good news is—it is getting better. Slowly.

Thanks to more neurodivergent folks speaking out and sharing their stories, there’s a growing awareness around what ADHD and Autism actually look like—especially in adults. Social media, for all its flaws, has opened up access to experiences and insights that were once buried under clinical jargon and gatekeeping. More of us are finding each other. More of us are realizing: We’re not alone.

At the time of writing this, I’m in an advanced AuDHD coaching program—and believe it or not, it’s the only one of its kind in the world. It’s a program based in the UK by Leanne Maskell (im the only American in it). Being that it is the only one in the world right now- That alone speaks volumes. The mental health field has largely failed neurodivergent people when it comes to accurate training, affirming care, and cultural competency.

What’s helped me most? Learning from other neurodivergent people. Listening to other neurodivergent folks. Having conversations with neurodivergent health care workers.
This program has taught me more than most traditional autism trainings I’ve taken as a therapist—though there are a few exceptions, like Jamie Roberts, LMFT and Katie Keech, LMFT, who are doing incredible work as clinicians.

When a client of mine receives a diagnosis of autism or ADHD—or both—it’s often met with relief, but also something that resembles a midlife crisis. There’s joy, grief, confusion, and sometimes an identity unraveling.

They ask themselves:
“Who was I all those years?”
“Who am I now?”
“What does this mean for my future?”

And honestly? I’ve been there too.
Even now, I still sit with grief, anger, and disappointment—especially when I think about the people who dismissed me (and honestly some still do! Even though im an “expert”!) , the opportunities that might’ve been different, or the years I spent hiding parts of myself.

But here’s the truth: I’m still me. I always have been.

I had these neurotypes long before I had names for them. My interests, my way of thinking, my sensitivities—they’ve always been there. Getting a diagnosis didn’t change who I was—it just gave me a more accurate reflection of who I’d always been.

One thing I often explore with clients—and with myself—is masking.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of seeing masking as inauthentic, or even self-betrayal. But I don’t see it that way anymore. Masking isn’t about being a fraud. It’s not weakness. It’s survival. It’s what many of us had to do to stay safe, to be accepted, to simply get by.

Even now, knowing my neurotype, I still find myself masking sometimes. Because the world isn’t always a safe place for people like us. At the time of writing, our government wants to “get rid” of Autism. So you I get it can be emotionally dangerous place right now. It can be draining. It can be unwelcoming in subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways.

But there’s power in knowing why we mask.
There’s freedom in identifying what we need.
There’s healing in giving ourselves permission to be seen—not just by others, but by ourselves.

If you’re newly diagnosed or exploring the possibility that you might be neurodivergent, get curious. And just know: It’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to feel confused or angry or relieved or all of it at once. You are not broken. You’ve always been whole. Your brain is just wired in a particular way, and many brains out there are not all the same! In another blog post, I mention there are evoluatanry advantages to ADHD and Autistic brains.

We are not here to be cured.
We are here to thrive as we are!

P.S. Maybe i’ll write a book one day. There are so many thoughts and experiences about all this that I cannot fit in a blog post.