Neurodivergent, Not Broken: My Journey as an Autistic/ADHD Adult Supporting Neurodivergent Kids

By Katie Black

I used to think autism was something to “raise awareness” for.

Every April, my feed would fill with blue puzzle pieces and calls to light it up blue. I shared the posts. I supported the cause. I thought I was doing the right thing.

What I didn’t realize back then was that some of those messages, while well-intentioned, weren’t actually coming from autistic people. And a lot of them weren’t made for us either.

I didn’t understand that autism isn’t a disease to cure. It’s a way of being. A way of thinking, feeling, sensing, and moving through the world. I didn’t know that yet, because, like a lot of us, I was still figuring it out for myself.

And maybe awareness does still matter. At least the kind that’s grounded in truth. Because for a long time, I didn’t know what autism actually was. The only version I ever saw was in movies or news stories. Usually about boys. Usually white. Usually with some kind of genius or tragedy attached. It was framed as something distant. Something clinical. Not something I could be. Not something I was.

If I had seen a broader, more accurate picture... if I had seen autistic girls, autistic adults, autistic people who felt things deeply and got lost in their thoughts and loved music and hated fluorescent lights... maybe I would’ve known sooner.

So yes, maybe we still need awareness. But not the kind that centers fear or pity or blue lights. We need awareness that leads to understanding. And understanding that leads to acceptance.

I always knew I was different. I just didn’t have the words.

Even at family gatherings, I’d avoid relatives I didn’t know well. I couldn’t understand why I was expected to be comfortable with people just because we were related. I felt like everyone else had a social rulebook I’d never been given. All I knew was that there was something I was missing. Something I must not understand.

It’s hard to say when I realized I was autistic. I didn’t grow up with that word, or with any understanding of what it really meant. But I always knew I experienced the world differently.

Some things that seemed easy for other people felt impossibly hard for me. Like cleaning my room. Keeping track of time. Making a phone call. Talking to a stranger. And some things that were supposed to be hard felt strangely easy. In fifth grade, I got lost reading about chaos theory. By eighth grade, I was trying to understand Tibetan Buddhism. My brain loved big, abstract ideas but couldn’t always handle the day-to-day stuff.

I kept waiting for the day I’d feel normal. That I’d feel less stressed in new places, less overwhelmed by certain textures or noises, less drained after being around people. I kept waiting for the fake-it-till-you-make-it to finally kick in.

The signs were always there. Meltdowns, blamed on low blood sugar. Fainting on the first day of kindergarten. Generalized anxiety disorder. Wanting to stay home sick from school because everything felt like too much. Going quiet in social situations. Feeling physically repelled by certain textures.

I related deeply to characters like Data from Star Trek, Milhouse from The Simpsons, and Daria. They felt familiar to me in a way I didn’t know how to name. And while I didn’t obsess over them, I definitely had obsessions,Superman, The Beatles, Gavin Rossdale from Bush, Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, and those early rabbit holes like chaos theory and religion.

And then I got older.

I kept trying to do everything right. Follow the rules. Be honest. Work hard. Be helpful. Be good.

But what I didn’t understand was that the rules I was taught weren’t always real. Or at least not always rewarded. Honesty wasn’t always the best policy. The hardest worker didn’t always get the recognition. Sometimes the loudest voice did. Or the most charming. Or the most socially fluent.

There was something else you were supposed to have. A kind of ease, a flexibility, a way of navigating people and expectations that I just didn’t have. And no one could quite explain it.

It left me constantly wondering, “what am I missing?'“
”Why does everyone else seem to have the manual?”

I couldn’t name it then, but I was learning how to mask. I was learning to suppress the parts of me that didn’t fit. The overwhelm, the intensity, the weirdness. I worked twice as hard to come across as “normal,” hoping one day it would just click.

It didn’t.

What finally clicked wasn’t fitting in. It was understanding that I was never supposed to. Because I’m autistic/ADHD. And the systems I was trying to fit into weren’t built with people like me in mind.

The turning point.

It wasn’t until my daughter was diagnosed with dyslexia that I started learning more about neurodivergence. The more I read, the more things started to make sense. The more I worked with autistic and ADHD kids, the more I saw parts of myself in their experiences. Autism TikToks started showing up on my feed and I found myself thinking, "Wait, this is me."

Eventually, I went through an evaluation and got diagnosed as autistic/ADHD, what’s sometimes called AuDHD, at 41.

Since then, everything has shifted. I’ve learned how to work with my brain instead of against it. I’ve started to accept my challenges instead of trying to hide them. And I’ve learned to celebrate the parts of me that once made me feel separate or strange.

I’ve stopped trying to be a horse. I’ve given myself permission to be a zebra.

Why I’m sharing this

While I wasn’t aware I was autistic, it often felt like everyone else was. I didn’t have the language, but I knew I was different—and so did the people around me. Awareness was never really the problem. Acceptance was.

I’m sharing this now, during Autism Acceptance Month, not because I have all the answers. But because I know what it feels like to go through most of your life not understanding yourself. To feel like you’re missing something. To think you’re too much or not enough, depending on the day…or even the moment.

And I know what it feels like to finally find language, find community, and find the kind of support that doesn’t try to fix you. The kind that sees you.

That’s what I try to offer every day at Summit Ranch. Not just therapy. Not just tools. A space where kids and families can feel understood. Where difference is welcomed, supported, and honored.

Acceptance isn’t a finish line. It’s a way of moving through the world. A way of showing up. For ourselves. For our kids. For each other.

About the author: Katie Black is a teacher, executive function coach and an autistic/ADHD adult. She is passionate about helping neurodivergent kids and families feel understood, supported, and celebrated—exactly as they are.