I was diagnosed with autism and ADHD at 52 – now I want to make the road easier for others like me

For most of my life, people described me as capable and collected. Inside, I felt anything but.
Even everyday situations that others seemed to move through without a second thought
could leave me depleted.

A single set of verbal instructions could throw me into confusion. A routine supermarket trip
often ended with me standing under the fluorescent lights, unable to cope with the noise and
busyness. A staff party might look cheerful from the outside, yet I would be fighting the urge
to escape. Even maintaining friendships felt like trying to decipher rules that everyone else
had learned in childhood while I somehow missed the lesson. I never understood why these
things were so difficult for me. I just assumed I needed to try harder.

Everything changed just before my 53rd birthday when I discovered I have autism and
ADHD. Reading about how these conditions often appear in women felt as though someone
had quietly observed my life and finally handed me the missing pieces.

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For decades I had believed my struggles were personal failings. My difficulty managing
everyday tasks, the exhaustion I carried after social situations, the way my attention swung
between intense focus and complete disarray, and the emotional storms I hid from everyone.
None of it was actually a flaw. It was a different kind of brain.

Growing up in the 1970s and 80s, my differences were easy to overlook. On the surface, I
appeared bright and capable. I could draw with surprising precision at the age of six and I
wrote a novel at nine. But at the same time, I often couldn’t follow what teachers were asking
unless a classmate quietly repeated the instructions in simpler form.

School became even harder when my dad died suddenly when I was nine. I didn’t know how
to express what I felt and no adult around me recognised that my silence was actually grief. I
copied the behaviour of other children and pretended I was coping.

As I grew older, I became skilled at hiding the gaps. I learned the school building by following
other pupils closely. If I lost sight of them, I hid in the toilets rather than risk turning up late
and embarrassed. End-of-term parties were unbearable. The music was too loud, the lights
too bright, and the unpredictability of it all left me nauseated. I sometimes made myself ill
just to avoid attending.

Adulthood didn’t bring clarity. I often misunderstood intentions in relationships and found
myself in situations I didn’t know how to navigate. Workplaces were complex, filled with rules
everyone else seemed to understand instinctively. I performed well and took on senior roles,
travelling between the UK and Europe, and even winning awards for innovation. On the
outside, I looked confident. Inside, I often felt like a child performing a part she’d memorised
only moments before.

Even the simplest routines carried hidden challenges. I wore the same clothes again and
again because new fabrics overwhelmed my senses. I ate the same meals for years
because unfamiliar tastes and textures felt too intense. Large supermarkets were almost
unbearable, and I would often leave with nothing, convinced I simply lacked the resilience
other adults seemed to have. Now I understand this was sensory overload, not a personal
failure.

Stillness was difficult for me. I kept myself constantly occupied, always in motion, as though
stopping might force me to feel things I had spent a lifetime pushing aside. The only time I
could truly settle was at Christmas, when I built thousand-piece jigsaws while old films
played in the background. I can still remember which part of each puzzle I completed during
specific scenes. Those were rare moments where my mind quietened and I felt at peace.
When my diagnosis finally came in late 2023, I cried both with relief and with grief. Relief,
because the pieces of my life finally formed a coherent picture. Grief, because I had blamed
myself for so long.

That knowledge didn’t just give me understanding, it gave me direction. I retrained as an
ADHD coach and founded At the Millpond, where I support neurodivergent adults, mostly
who have spent years wondering why life feels harder for them than for everyone else. Many
arrive feeling broken or ashamed. But once they understand their own minds, they begin to
rebuild on solid ground for the first time.

Alongside coaching, I work with organisations to improve recruitment practices, leadership
training and workplace culture so neurodivergent people can work without the pressure to
mask or burn out. Many companies talk about inclusion, yet the lived reality is often far from
inclusive.

I can’t rewrite the decades I spent feeling lost, but I can use them. If sharing my story helps
another woman recognise herself sooner, or helps a workplace create conditions where
neurodivergent people can thrive, then every difficult step becomes part of something
powerful.

Visit At the Millpond’s website for more information about Isobel’s work.

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