My Neurodivergent Life

My Neurodivergent Life (A Personal Timeline)

This is my story, told in milestones. Not because I've got it all figured out—I absolutely haven't—but because I spent decades thinking I was the only one. If you're on a similar journey, maybe this helps you feel less alone. If you're early in your discovery, maybe this shows you that late identification is common, valid, and nothing to be ashamed of.

This timeline will grow as I do. For now, these are the moments that shaped me.

— Jennie

1973 — Born

I arrived in this world, and I'm fairly sure I came out already worrying about whether I'd made a good first impression on the midwife. The anxiety was there from the start. I just didn't have the words for it yet.

1978–1985 — "Sensitive"

Infant & Junior school. I was the child who cried easily, worried about things other kids didn't notice, and lay awake at night thinking about death. The adults called me "sensitive." They meant it kindly. What they didn't know—what I wouldn't learn for another forty years—was that my nervous system was already in overdrive. This wasn't a personality quirk. This was anxiety.

1985–1990 — "Highly Strung"

Secondary school. The word shifted. I wasn't "sensitive" anymore; I was "highly strung." I bunked off constantly. Not because I was naughty, but because the sensory onslaught of school—the noise, the lights, the constant demands—was unbearable. I didn't know what sensory overload was. I just knew I couldn't cope.

I was called "bright but doesn't apply herself." I couldn't focus on things I found boring. I lost things constantly. I daydreamed through entire lessons. Looking back now, through the lens of probable ADHD and autism, it all makes sense. Back then, it just felt like failure.

1990s-2005— Early Adulthood, Early Chaos

Two marriages. Both failed. Three beautiful children: Leah, Ashley, Euan. I loved them fiercely, but I was struggling. The performance of being a wife, a mother, a functional adult was exhausting. I was constantly overwhelmed, constantly anxious, constantly wondering why everyone else seemed to manage what I found impossible.

I didn't know about executive dysfunction. I didn't know about masking. I didn't know about the mental load of performing "normal" when your brain is wired differently. I just thought I was bad at life.

2000s–2010s — The Burnout Years

Multiple jobs. Multiple fields. Office work. Retail. Working from home for other people. Every single time, the same pattern: push through, crash, leave, recover, try again. I thought I was lazy. I thought I wasn't trying hard enough. I didn't know that my brain wasn't built for traditional employment. I didn't know that burnout was a predictable outcome of undiagnosed neurodivergence in a neurotypical world.

2018 — The A&E Wake-Up Call

A panic attack so severe I ended up in A&E, convinced I was having a heart attack. ECG. Blood tests. A cannula in my arm—needle phobia, absolute nightmare. And after several hours, a very patient doctor told me my heart was fine. "Absolutely fine, actually." It was "just" anxiety.

That night changed something. I started asking real questions. Not "how do I make this stop?" but "what is actually happening in my body?" I learned about the sympathetic nervous system, fight-or-flight, cortisol and adrenaline. For the first time, I felt a flicker of compassion for myself. Not blame. Compassion.

2023 — Archie

My grandson Archie was diagnosed as autistic. He was two. I started reading—not about me, but about him. I wanted to understand his world. I wanted to show up for him properly. And somewhere in those pages, I found myself.

The sensory overwhelm. The need for routine. The social exhaustion. The feeling of being slightly alien, like everyone else got a manual for being human and I was absent that day. It was all there. Described. Named. Recognised. I wasn't looking for myself. I was looking for him. And in learning about his brain, I accidentally found my own.

2025 — The Waiting List

I went to my GP. I said, "I think I might be autistic. I think I might have ADHD." They listened. They referred me. And now I wait. The NHS being what it is, I have no idea when I'll be seen. Could be months. Could be years.

In the meantime, I've started giving myself permission. Permission to accommodate my brain instead of fighting it. Permission to wear earplugs. Permission to rest. Permission to stop pretending I'm fine when I'm not. You don't need a diagnosis to start treating yourself with kindness.

2025 — Anxiously Ever After Begins

I built a website. I started writing. I created resources I wish someone had handed me during a panic attack. I connected with a community of people who get it. For the first time in my life, I wasn't just struggling—I was building something. Something that might help other people feel less alone.

2026 — The YouTube Channel (Coming Soon)

I'm trying my best to source the equipment. I've written the scripts. I'm ready to launch. The channel will be honest, sweary, and deeply personal—just like the website. No toxic positivity. No "have you tried yoga?" Just real talk from someone who's in it too.

The Future — Anxiously Ever After

I don't know what's coming. I don't know when my assessment will happen. I don't know if I'll ever get the official stamp. But I do know this: I've spent 52 years thinking I was broken. I'm done with that story. The new story is: I'm different. And different is okay.

This timeline isn't finished. It won't be until I am. For now, I'm here. In my rented room. Door locked. Cup of cold tea on the desk. Figuring it out in real time. With you.

— Jennie