Why I Always Felt Different: My Late Diagnosis of Autism, ADHD & Dyslexia

My Questions That Wouldn't Go Away

This year became one of the most challenging periods of my life. While navigating a series of ongoing health challenges, I also decided to look beyond the physical side of my health and begin exploring the neurological side as well. After a healthcare professional suggested neuropsychological testing, I added it to my ever-growing list of things I wanted to better understand about myself.

In previous years, I had written openly about my learning differences and growing up with dyslexia. Although I was never formally tested as a child, I knew from an early age that I learned and processed information differently. Over the years, I shared pieces of that story through my writing, my business journey, and my experiences as a creative entrepreneur. Looking back, this assessment felt like the next step toward understanding myself.

Today, I finally have some answers after decades of wondering why I experience the world differently. My assessment confirmed that I am autistic, have ADHD, and am dyslexic. More importantly, it gave me something I had been searching for much of my adult life—understanding.

I now understand why life has often felt harder and more exhausting for me than it seemed to be for other people. I no longer feel guilty for needing quiet time or for enjoying long days alone in my studio designing jewelry, creating handbags, writing, organizing projects, or simply thinking. What some people see as isolation has always been restoration for me. It is where I feel most creative, most peaceful, and most like myself.

As I moved through adulthood, each new experience seemed to reveal another piece of the puzzle. I didn't believe that my health challenges, sensitivities, stress responses, and way of navigating the world could be explained entirely by chance or environment. Deep down, I felt there had to be an explanation.

Six Weeks of Waiting and Wondering

After the testing was complete, I had to wait approximately six weeks for the results. Honestly, I was anxious. I wanted answers, but once again, I had to be patient. As the appointment approached, I found myself researching what different outcomes could mean. I wanted to understand the possibilities ahead of time so I could focus on the discussion itself rather than becoming distracted by unfamiliar terminology. I wanted to do what I always do: be prepared. In many ways, I felt overprepared. I analyzed every possible scenario, wondered how I would react, and spent a great deal of time thinking about what the results might reveal. By the time the appointment arrived, I felt both nervous and relieved. As I walked into the office that Friday, I knew that regardless of the outcome, I was finally going to have answers—answers I had been searching for much of my adult life. And I did.

A Lifetime of Feeling Different

As I reflected on my life, I realized there were certain patterns that had followed me for decades. I have always felt different, though I couldn't always explain why. For much of my life, I assumed these were simply personality quirks. Over time, however, I began to wonder whether there were connections I didn't fully understand. Like many people who feel different, I spent much of my life trying to fit in. I learned to observe how other people interacted, adapted my behavior to meet expectations, and often kept my struggles to myself. I frequently questioned whether I was responding to situations the "right" way and found myself over-explaining things to avoid being misunderstood or appearing different. As I got older, constantly trying to fit in became increasingly exhausting.

I worried that if people saw how much effort everyday life required, they would think something was wrong with me. Rather than talking about it openly, I spent years trying to adapt, fit in, and convince myself that everyone else must be experiencing life the same way. From the outside, I often appeared capable, independent, and successful. Internally, however, I was constantly analyzing, adjusting, and working to manage things that seemed to come more naturally to other people. Much of that effort happened privately, and very few people knew how much energy it required.

I also realized how dependent I was on my environment. I focus best in clean, organized spaces with minimal visual distractions. For years, I thought I was simply particular, overly organized, or maybe just a little quirky. Looking back, I now understand that creating order around me was often a way to reduce overwhelm and help my brain focus.

Communication was another area I struggled to understand. I often knew exactly what I wanted to say, but finding the right words in the moment could be difficult. Finding the right words has been a challenge for as long as I can remember. There were many times when I understood a conversation, had an opinion, or wanted to contribute, but the words simply didn't come as quickly as I needed them to. Fast-paced conversations could be especially challenging. I often needed a little more time to process what was being said and organize my thoughts. By the time I was ready to respond, the conversation had sometimes already moved on. Sometimes I would rehearse conversations in advance so I wouldn't stumble over my words or lose my train of thought. Other times, I simply stayed quiet because it felt easier than struggling to find the right words while everyone else seemed to move effortlessly through the conversation. From the outside, people may have assumed I was shy, reserved, or even standoffish. The reality was often very different. I often had plenty to say, but I worried about saying it incorrectly. Being corrected throughout my life for grammar, word choice, pronunciation, or how I communicated an idea made me increasingly self-conscious. I worried about saying something incorrectly or being judged, so sometimes staying quiet felt easier than risking getting it wrong.

As I have gotten older, I have become much more protective of my mental energy, and phone conversations are one area where I have noticed that change. Unlike writing, conversations happen in real time. I am processing what the other person is saying, organizing my thoughts, searching for the right words, and trying to communicate clearly—all at the same time. That level of concentration requires an enormous amount of mental energy. My mind can easily make connections that take me in another direction, and before I realize it, the conversation has become much longer than I intended. Even after the call ends, I often find myself replaying parts of the conversation or continuing to think about something that was said. By the time it is over, I feel mentally exhausted. As a result, I find myself making far fewer phone calls than I used to.

Clothing is another area where I naturally created routines without even realizing it. In my studio, you will almost always find me wearing one of my tie-dye dresses, a white snap-button shirt, and my white lab coat. At art shows, I wear a black dress with a black snap-button shirt. I own multiple versions of these outfits because they are comfortable, familiar, and I know my skin won't react to the fabrics. I even choose snap-button shirts because they save me time and frustration. I can get dressed in seconds instead of struggling with small buttons. Rather than spending mental energy deciding what to wear or wondering whether something will be comfortable, I found what works and stayed with it. It keeps my life simpler and allows me to focus my energy on the things that matter most.

Why Solitude Feels Like Home

While I genuinely enjoy connecting with people and have built meaningful relationships with friends and customers over the years, social interaction often requires a significant amount of energy, so I have learned to pace myself. I have been fortunate to maintain a small circle of close friendships, some of which have lasted 30 to 50 years. After art shows, meetings, family gatherings, or social events, I usually need time alone afterward to recharge. Solitude has never felt lonely to me. Some of my happiest days are spent quietly in my studio creating, writing, organizing projects, and working through ideas without interruption or judgment.

For much of my life, I worried that my need for solitude would be misunderstood. The reality is that time alone has always been where I feel most grounded, creative, and at peace. One of the greatest gifts in my life has been having an understanding husband, stepchildren, family, and close friends who have always given me the space and quiet time I needed without making me feel guilty. I often chose not to participate in social or travel events because I understood my own limitations. They were always accepting and kind, which is something I will always be grateful for. Their understanding helped me cope throughout much of my adult life. Looking back, one of the greatest gifts they gave me was the freedom to simply be Lisa without judgment, even when I didn't fully understand myself.

I decided to share this deeply personal story because it helps explain parts of me that have often been difficult to put into words. For years, I searched for answers while quietly carrying shame I didn't know how to explain. If my story helps someone realize they are not alone, encourages someone to seek answers of their own, or helps a family member, friend, or loved one better understand a neurodivergent person in their life, then sharing something so personal has been worth it.