The Light Through the Window: Living Between Worlds After a Neurodivergent Diagnosis

 
For most of my life, I carried this quiet, unshakable feeling that something about me was… different. I didn’t have the words for it back then, just this sense of being slightly out of step with the world around me. Like I’d been handed a script everyone else knew by heart — and I was still desperately flipping through the pages, trying to find my place.

I spent years watching how other people acted, mimicking their rhythms and reactions like an understudy hoping to blend into the ensemble. Before leaving the house, I’d rehearse conversations in my head, running through possible scenarios and responses. It was my way of surviving social situations, hoping if I practiced enough, it might one day feel natural. 

But even the simple stuff — the small, everyday things most people don’t even think about — would trip me up. Remembering to put the milk back in the fridge. Keeping to a routine. Starting one task without getting lost in five others. 

Things that seemed effortless for everyone else felt like I was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. And yet, drop me into chaos or hand me a creative challenge? I’d thrive. I could forget to take out the trash, but memorize pages of lines for a play, fully inhabit a character, or whip up a story on the spot. Creativity felt like home — a place where my brain made sense.

When I finally received my neurodivergence diagnosis, it felt like opening a window in a long-sealed room. Light rushed in, and for the first time, I could really see myself. It explained so much. Why I struggled where others didn’t. Why I soared in places others feared. It was both a relief and a quiet grief for all the years I spent feeling lost without a map. 

But even now, with that window open, life can feel like the blinds are slowly creeping back down. I read about other people’s neurodivergent experiences, and sometimes, I don’t feel like I fully fit there either. I’m good at public speaking. I’ve worked quiet desk jobs in writing. I don’t always match the descriptions I see or hear. 

Was it years of masking? Am I somewhere in the in-between? Is this what it’s like to finally understand parts of yourself, but still not feel fully at home in either world? I don’t have the answers. 

But I do know this — that diagnosis gave me something I didn’t have before: clarity, compassion for myself, and a vocabulary for the person I’ve always been. And while some days feel like those blinds are sliding down again, there’s still more light in my life than there used to be. 

If you’re someone who’s also received a later-in-life neurodivergent diagnosis, maybe you know what I mean. Like being lost in the woods, catching little glimpses of a trail peeking out from the undergrowth now and then. Not quite out, not quite trapped. Somewhere in between. 

If you’ve felt that too, I’d love to hear your story. Because even if we’re wandering different paths, it helps to know we aren’t alone in the forest.