Living as a Black Woman with Late Diagnosed Mild High-Functioning Autism

For most of my life, I moved through the world feeling misunderstood—not just occasionally, but persistently. I was called intense, moody, too direct, too sensitive, hard to read, hard to hold. And for a long time, I internalized that as a problem I needed to solve or proof that I’m an outsider. Some type of other. But I know now: I’m not an “Other”. I’m autistic.

Not the version of autism most people expect. I’m what they call “mild” or “high-functioning”—but those words are deceptive. What they really mean is: I’ve learned to mask. I’ve learned to survive.

I Wasn’t Seen Because I Was Too Good at Surviving

I mirror. I analyze. I read the room on a somatic level before most people even enter it. I watch how people use words that don’t match their energy. I track power dynamics that others pretend don’t exist. I pick up what’s not being said. I always have.

I’m emotionally detached. It just means I move in a world that rarely honors nuance or difference—and to survive, I became a master of translation.

I’ve Been Mis-Labeled

Before I realized I was autistic, I was misdiagnosed more than once. Doctors and therapists called it:

       •      Depression

       •      Anxiety

       •      Bipolar disorder

       •      Trauma-related mood instability

•    Cluster C personality disorder

No one assumed I was just different. No one asked if I was masking. I didn’t know of the term “masking.”  The way I thought of it was that I was doing what I needed to do to fit in. To not be rejected or considered weird. I wanted friends and a community. So, I did what I felt I needed to do to be seen as I was: a kind, friendly person.  

In a world that doesn’t recognize what it cannot label, I often tried to make myself invisible. Or was invisible when I wanted to be seen.

I Was Born for Depth

My gifts have always been tied to clarity. I don’t tolerate falseness. I struggle with shallow talk, empty rituals, or social performance. I crave authenticity. I feel energy. I spot deception fast. And when something isn’t in alignment, I feel it in my body before I can explain it in words.

That’s not a disorder. That’s discernment.

And yes, it’s overwhelming sometimes—especially in a society built on noise, consumption, and distraction. But my nervous system isn’t flawed. It’s calibrated for a different frequency. One that reads what others avoid.

What Masking Costs Us

Women like me, especially a Black Women like me, often go unseen because we’ve been trained to fit in. We learn to smile, nod, blend in—until we burn out. We overwork, over-care, over-achieve, over-apologize. Then we collapse. And even in our collapse, people say we’re too much or too mysterious to help. Or worse, “too strong.”

But masking isn’t sustainable. It’s a slow erasure of the soul.

This Is a Type of Genius

Autism in women is not a pathology—it’s a unique neurological rhythm. A sensitivity to truth. A drive for meaning. A refusal to perform when something feels off.

We are natural truth-tellers, spiritual initiates, boundary-breakers, visionaries. We don’t always say it how others expect to hear it. But when we speak, it’s real.

Now That I Know, I’m Free

When I finally realized I was autistic, it felt like a homecoming. I finally got the permission to just be without apology or explanation. Not because that solves everything—but because it explained my pain and suffering: always being misunderstood (and attacked) when I think I’m being clear as a bell. Or the abuse I received from my insecure/narcissistic parents and family of origin.

I’m not weird. I’m just wired differently.

I’m not cold. I just don’t express emotion the way people expect.

I’m not the Magical Negro. I’m just not reduced. I’m simply who I am.

To Any Black Woman Reading This Who Feels Unseen And Pushed Out

If you’ve been told your emotions are too loud, your tone too blunt, your needs too complex…

If you’ve been called brilliant but difficult, beautiful but “hard to get close to”…

If you’ve never quite fit the mold, and you’re tired of trying…

You’re not broken. You just might be on the spectrum too.

Not “almost normal.”

Just divine and different—in a way the world is still learning how to love.