I was diagnosed autistic at 35. For three decades, I knew I was different but couldn't explain why. Social situations were exhausting. Sensory input overwhelmed me. I had intense interests others found excessive. I missed social cues everyone else seemed to catch naturally.

I assumed I was broken, weird, failing at being human. I tried harder, masked more intensively, pushed through exhaustion. It never occurred to me I was autistic—autism meant non-verbal children who rocked in corners, not verbal adults with college degrees and jobs.

Then a friend suggested assessment. I researched. The descriptions fit eerily well. I pursued diagnosis. And everything changed.

Validation and Grief

Diagnosis brought overwhelming validation. I wasn't broken or failing. I was autistic—a different neurological configuration with distinct strengths and challenges. My struggles weren't moral failures; they were predictable results of autistic neurology in neurotypical-designed environments.

The relief was immense. Decades of self-blame evaporated. I wasn't weak for finding social situations draining—I was autistic. I wasn't weird for having intense interests—I was autistic. I wasn't incompetent for struggling with executive function—I was autistic.

But diagnosis also brought grief. I mourned the decades spent masking, the energy wasted trying to be neurotypical, the self-condemnation for not measuring up to standards that weren't designed for my neurology. I grieved the relationships damaged because I didn't understand my needs, the opportunities missed because I pushed past capacity, the burnout from decades of unsustainable coping.

Reframing the Past

Diagnosis recontextualized my entire life history. Childhood experiences that seemed like personal failures now made sense as autistic traits misunderstood. My difficulty making friends wasn't social incompetence; it was autistic social differences. My meltdowns weren't moral weakness; they were nervous system overwhelm. My "obsessive" interests weren't character flaws; they were autistic hyperfocus.

This reframing was therapeutic. I could forgive younger self for struggling with things neurotypical people found easy. It wasn't his fault. He was autistic, undiagnosed, in environments designed for different neurology.

I also recognized strengths I'd dismissed. My ability to focus intensely on technical topics? Autistic cognitive style. My attention to detail? Autistic perception. My systematic thinking? Autistic processing. These weren't accidents or compensation; they were intrinsic to how my brain works.

Identity Shifts

The biggest challenge was integrating autism into identity. Was I "Adam who happens to be autistic" or "autistic Adam"? Is autism something I have, like diabetes, or something I am, like being left-handed?

I've concluded it's the latter. Autism isn't a disease I contracted or a disorder separate from self. It's how my brain is structured, affecting everything from perception to cognition to social interaction. It's not peripheral to identity; it's fundamental.

This means accepting autism, not just accommodating it. I'm not a neurotypical person with an autism disorder to be managed. I'm an autistic person whose neurology is valid and valuable, requiring environments and practices that work for how I'm actually made.

Christian Perspective

As a Christian, diagnosis raised theological questions. Did God make a mistake? Is autism result of the Fall? Should I pray for healing?

I've concluded autism is part of how God made me. Not every difference from typical is pathology or brokenness. Some differences are just diversity—different ways of being human, each reflecting aspects of imago Dei.

God didn't accidentally make me autistic. He specifically created this particular mind for His purposes. My autistic traits—systematic thinking, attention to detail, pattern recognition, sustained focus—are gifts, even when they come with challenges.

This doesn't mean autism is perfect or that I experience no difficulty. We live in fallen world where even good things are affected by sin and brokenness. But autism itself isn't curse or mistake. It's part of God's diverse creation of human minds.

Practical Changes

Diagnosis enabled practical changes. I stopped forcing myself into neurotypical patterns that depleted me. I started honoring my need for solitude, routine, and sensory regulation. I accommodated my executive function challenges instead of condemning myself for them.

I also started communicating needs explicitly. "I need this meeting agenda in advance to process the information." "I can't do this phone call right now—I'm overstimulated and need recovery time." "I work better with written instructions than verbal only."

These aren't demands or excuses. They're accurate statements about how my neurology works, enabling me to function optimally rather than struggling unnecessarily.

Community Response

Responses varied. Some people were immediately supportive, adjusting expectations and offering appropriate accommodations. Others dismissed it: "Everyone's a little autistic" or "Don't let it define you." Still others pitied me, treating autism as tragedy.

The church response was mixed. Some fellow Christians embraced neurodiversity, recognizing autism as part of creation's variety. Others saw it as something to be healed, praying for cure rather than acceptance.

I've learned to educate when possible, set boundaries when necessary, and find community among those who understand. Not everyone will get it. That's okay. I don't need universal validation—just enough support to function well.

Late Diagnosis Specifics

Late diagnosis has unique challenges. I spent decades developing coping mechanisms that worked but were exhausting. Some of these are hard to unlearn. I also missed childhood interventions and supports that might have helped.

But late diagnosis has advantages. I know myself well enough to recognize what helps and what doesn't. I have agency to make changes. I don't carry childhood trauma of intensive behavioral interventions. My sense of self was formed before diagnosis shaped it.

I also see autism as gift, not just challenge, because I've experienced its strengths. My career in technology was possible partly because of autistic traits. My ability to deep-dive into theology and apologetics reflects autistic focus. I can recognize what autism gave me, not just what it cost.

Ongoing Process

Integration of autism into identity isn't finished. I'm still discovering what it means to be autistic Christian, autistic adult, autistic worker. I'm still learning where to accommodate and where to challenge myself appropriately.

But diagnosis was watershed. It gave language for my experience, framework for understanding my differences, and permission to be autistic without shame.

I'm not broken neurotypical. I'm autistic. That's not tragedy or limitation. It's identity, difference, and gift. God made me this way for His purposes, and I'm learning to inhabit that reality with gratitude rather than shame.

For anyone considering late diagnosis: it's worth it. The validation, the reframing, the self-understanding—these are precious. Yes, there's grief. Yes, it's disorienting. But knowing who you are, including neurologically, is better than spending life confused about why you're different.

I'm Adam. I'm Christian. I'm autistic. These aren't separate identities but integrated whole. And 32 years after birth, I finally have language for all of it.