I cried for my client yesterday.

As a trauma therapist, I am used to hearing some pretty devastating stories about the things clients have experienced, leading them to my office. Pretty much anything you can imagine, I have heard. But childhood trauma is not why I cried yesterday.

I cried because my client learned that she has been displaying symptoms of autism all her life, and nobody noticed it until yesterday. She has participated in therapy for almost 10 years, starting with struggles in childhood that were chalked up to being “high-strung.”

I cried because when she described feeling overwhelmed, exhausted, confused, frustrated, and just there without knowing where “there” was, why she was “there,” or what she was supposed to do about being “there,” I understood what she meant.

She isn’t high-strung. She functions differently.

When “different” goes against the flow, it leads to labeling, even among family members. While sometimes accurate in their description, labels are harmful because they rarely create opportunities for education and understanding. They can lead to isolation, depression, anxiety, and self-harm. Self-harm takes on many forms besides physical injury, which is a post for another day.

I cried for my client because after SO many years of feeling misunderstood, the world finally makes sense. She is relieved that there is an opportunity for her to learn exactly what that means for her.

And then I cried for myself because I saw in her face what I experienced after being diagnosed with autism at the age of 55. Until that moment, I had no words to describe what the diagnosis meant, if anything, to how I have and will continue to move through life.

Raising a son who was diagnosed with autism at the age of 6 gave me insight into behaviors and symptoms that made it easy to discuss my suspicions of undiagnosed autism in some of my male clients.

But autism presents differently in females, especially females of color, because of cultural norms. I had some suspicions about myself that led to deep discussions with those closest to me. My Dad shared many stories about me being a “handful,” and it finally makes sense. I assumed he meant too much to deal with at times. In actuality, he meant my truth was “so blunt you could smoke it and see clearly.”

It’s been 3 weeks since my official diagnosis, and I am still processing and learning. But there is a lot less pressure to compensate, mask, or assimilate as I was conditioned to do all my life. While nobody missed a diagnosis for me, many amazing minority women and girls are struggling because it’s easier for the world to force them to change than take the time to appreciate and understand their uniqueness.

Nothing changed for my client yesterday except the questions she was asked by someone willing to listen and allow her to be authentic in her responses.

When we dare to be curious, we can change the world. Stay curious!

Signed,

The Angry Blk Wmn