Current research on autism in young girls is notably scarce. The division of diagnostics and research by gender is an emerging field, suggesting that the prevailing estimate of autism affecting boys at a rate of 4:1 compared to girls might be significantly outdated. After my son’s diagnosis, I embarked on a relentless quest for knowledge, which ultimately led me to discover that I, too, am autistic.
Last summer, my son received an autism diagnosis. From the moment he entered the world, I sensed he was unique. Whenever I noticed one of his “quirky” behaviors, I reassured myself and others, “Oh, that’s just like me. It’s perfectly normal.”
He was an ideal baby—sleeping soundly, preferring solitary play, seldom crying, and even communicating his needs non-verbally before he could walk. He was so diligent that by 12 months, we could trust him with glass items. By 11 months, he was spontaneously reciting letters, numbers, and musical notes (think Tchaikovsky instead of nursery rhymes). Despite excelling in certain developmental milestones, he lagged behind or merely met the average benchmarks, particularly in expressive speech and social interaction.
As his fourth birthday approached without a single spontaneous, coherent sentence from him, I realized my self-reassurances were misguided. We met with the local school district’s special education director for an evaluation, initially just to fill out paperwork and request testing. However, after only ten minutes with her, she recommended an emergency placement into a preschool program designed for special needs children, preparing them for kindergarten.
In a state of disbelief and shock, I found myself signing consent forms while barely processing her words. After putting my children down for a nap, I spent the entire afternoon sifting through the resources and paperwork she provided. It became glaringly clear that my son exhibited signs of Sensory Processing Disorder. The drastic changes in his behavior following the birth of his brother were shocking. What had happened to my calm, perfect child?
He seemed perpetually angry and agitated. Before the arrival of his sibling, he was introspective, independent, and enjoyed assisting me with everything from baking to gardening, provided his safety-net stroller was nearby. Suddenly, new behaviors emerged: crawling on furniture, an obsession with spinning wheels, taking captivating photos and videos of his toys with my phone, and pouring anything that would fit into another container. He walked on his toes, avoided anything sticky or slimy, and detested loud noises, unless he was the one making them.
As I continued my research, I encountered numerous traits that didn’t apply to him, while others were strikingly evident. Perhaps he merely had SPD and a speech delay, I thought.
On test day, specialists, psychologists, and therapists buzzed around him, attempting to engage him in play-based assessments. He thrived on the attention from adults while showing little interest in his brother. “He’s just like me,” I mused. As they evaluated him, I answered extensive questions about his daily routines, social interactions, and our relationship. With every inquiry, an unsettling feeling brewed within me.
After nearly two hours, they described him as “a conundrum.” They suggested observing him in a classroom setting with peers and teachers. During those weeks of observation, I remained in denial, knowing little about autism beyond its stigma. It was a word that some parents would go to great lengths to avoid, including refusing vaccinations for their children—a myth that has since been debunked.
When I received the call with the diagnosis, I fought to mask my devastation. I regrettably spent the day in tears, feeling as though I had somehow “broken” my beloved child. I worried that his challenging behaviors and increasing withdrawal would prevent him from leading a happy life. I recognized how unfair it was to harbor stigma toward a label he hadn’t asked for.
The next morning, I dove into every credible resource I could find about autism. I was desperate to understand its causes and how to support him effectively. The only correlation I could find was genetic. “But no one in my family is autistic!” I thought, as I continued my research.
As I delved deeper, certain traits began to resonate: inappropriate social responses, difficulties in knowing when to stop or start a conversation, and extreme challenges in processing external stimuli. Recognizing these traits in myself and other family members, it became clear to me that autism was indeed genetic. Reflecting on these characteristics, I realized that my son’s autism is deeply intertwined with his personality. It’s inseparable from who he is, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
I love how he meticulously arranges cars and trucks throughout the house—just like I used to do with Barbies! His intense focus and remarkable memory remind me of my own childhood; I had memorized every book in the library by his age. His fascination with how things work and his keen interest in letters, numbers, and puzzles are traits I recognize as my own.
As I began to identify his “autistic” characteristics—both his strengths and challenges—I found a clearer path forward. The question now was how to prepare him for the rigid expectations of public school and future workplaces.
My education accelerated as I sought out autism parenting groups online. Unfortunately, many were disheartening, filled with parents lamenting how autism had “ruined” their children. I quickly left all but one group, called Embracing Autism, founded by a fellow mom blogger at Autistic Mama who was dismayed by the negativity surrounding ASD. This small, supportive community includes autistic adults and parents of autistic children, and it has been enlightening to connect with others who share similar experiences.
I began to notice that many of the “different” and “weird” things I did as a child mirrored the stories of others in the group. When I expressed my concerns to friends and family, they often laughed, saying, “You’re too normal to be autistic.”
Yes, I can read people’s emotions and body language well—skills I honed during my college studies in psychology and criminology. But knowing how to respond appropriately in social situations? That’s a different story. I’ve struggled with crippling anxiety about social interactions, second-guessing my words, and obsessing over past conversations to ensure I followed the “script.”
At nearly 30 years old, I still find myself wishing I hadn’t said certain things when I see someone’s discomfort. My husband often recognizes my “wheels turning” expression and asks if I want to talk about what I’m feeling; it often takes me days to process my emotions.
Throughout my school years, disruptive classmates would trigger intense anxiety and physical symptoms like stomachaches and nausea. I learned that plugging my ears provided some relief, but my tendencies to be a “tattle-tale,” “teacher’s pet,” and “bookworm” earned me various labels from peers and teachers. Yet, autism was never mentioned.
My mother once took me to a school counselor for help, and I felt déjà vu when I found myself seeking similar support for my son years later. While I did receive a pass for noisy situations, I was often sent back to class without assistance. “She just worries too much,” they said.
In college, I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder. I found relief through movement, crafting, gardening, and baking—activities that kept my hands busy (can you say homesteading blog?).
Navigating life felt lonely; I often felt like an alien. I had a few close friends but referred to most people as mere acquaintances. Once I let someone into my inner circle, I’d often hear them say, “You’re really different than I thought.” My resting “thinking” face frequently led others to believe I disliked them, prompting me to explain that I was merely lost in thought.
Over time, I trained myself to maintain a pleasant smile, even when I was deep in thought. My difficulty making eye contact still makes others uneasy, and I can sense their discomfort. I often force myself to maintain eye contact longer than feels comfortable, letting others lead the conversation to avoid losing my train of thought.
As I look back, I realize that being labeled as “gifted and talented” allowed my quirks to go unnoticed and unaddressed. I grew up bottled up, battling anxiety and rage, and grappling with the complexities of my identity as a female. I often felt torn between wanting to embrace both femininity and masculinity, dressing in a mix of frilly dresses one day and oversized camouflage the next.
I immersed myself in books about outer space, historical fiction, and science fiction, finding solace in characters who felt more like friends than anyone in real life. My single-mindedness led me to pursue space camp, and my passion earned me “The Right Stuff” award among almost 100 kids, making me one of only two girls to achieve this.
Through this journey of discovery, I’ve learned to embrace the unique traits that define both my son and me. As we navigate the world together, I’m committed to supporting him in thriving within it. For those on similar journeys, consider checking out resources on intra-cervical insemination for further insights, and be sure to explore expert advice on pregnancy and home insemination here.
In conclusion, my son’s autism diagnosis became a catalyst for my own self-discovery, leading me to embrace my identity and find strength in our shared experiences.