Shared Stories & Articles

For most of my life, I felt like I was living in a world that didn't quite make sense. I excelled academically and professionally, but social situations left me exhausted and confused. It wasn't until my early thirties that I finally understood why.

The journey to my autism diagnosis began when a colleague mentioned that some of my work habits reminded them of their autistic child. Initially, I dismissed the idea, but as I researched autism in adults, particularly in women and people assigned female at birth, pieces of my life began falling into place.

The diagnostic process was lengthy and expensive, but ultimately validating. Learning that I was both autistic and intellectually gifted explained so much: why I could solve complex technical problems but struggled with office small talk, why I had such intense interests, and why I felt simultaneously confident and insecure.

Since my diagnosis, I've been able to implement strategies that work with my brain rather than against it. I negotiate for quiet workspace accommodations, take regular sensory breaks, and have honest conversations with my manager about my communication style. Most importantly, I've stopped viewing my differences as deficits.

To others who suspect they might be twice-exceptional: trust your instincts. The path to understanding yourself is worth taking, no matter how long it takes to get there.

In my practice, I frequently encounter adults who have achieved remarkable success in their careers yet struggle with profound feelings of inadequacy and exhaustion. Many of these individuals are twice-exceptional—both autistic and intellectually gifted—though they often arrive at my office unaware of their neurodivergence.

The paradox of high achievement masking significant struggles is particularly pronounced in this population. Their intellectual gifts have often allowed them to develop sophisticated compensation strategies, making their autism less visible to others and sometimes even to themselves.

Consider Sarah, a successful attorney who came to therapy for what she described as 'imposter syndrome.' Despite her obvious competence, she felt constantly anxious about making mistakes and exhausted by daily interactions with colleagues. Through our work together, we discovered that her perfectionism and social anxiety were actually manifestations of autistic traits that she had been masking for decades.

The process of unmasking—learning to recognize and honor autistic needs—is often challenging but ultimately liberating. It requires grieving the years spent trying to be someone you're not, while simultaneously celebrating the discovery of your authentic self.

For clinicians working with high-achieving clients, it's crucial to look beyond surface-level functioning. Success in one area doesn't negate the possibility of significant struggles in others. Creating space for clients to explore their authentic selves, beyond societal expectations of achievement, is essential for genuine healing and growth.

For years, I believed that forming meaningful relationships required me to hide fundamental parts of who I am. As someone who is both autistic and gifted, I felt caught between two worlds: too intense for neurotypical friends, yet not 'autistic enough' for some autistic spaces.

My early attempts at friendship often felt like elaborate performances. I studied social scripts, memorized conversation topics, and carefully monitored my facial expressions. While this helped me maintain surface-level relationships, it left me feeling profoundly lonely and disconnected from others.

The turning point came when I met another twice-exceptional person at a conference. For the first time, I could discuss my research passions without seeing eyes glaze over, and I could stim freely without judgment. This friendship showed me what authentic connection could feel like.

Gradually, I began being more selective about my relationships, prioritizing quality over quantity. I started sharing my interests more openly, setting boundaries around my sensory needs, and communicating directly about my communication style. Some friendships didn't survive this transition, but the ones that did became deeper and more meaningful.

In romantic relationships, honesty about my neurodivergence has been crucial. My current partner appreciates my direct communication style and finds my intense interests endearing rather than overwhelming. We've developed strategies for navigating social events together and respecting each other's different sensory needs.

Building authentic relationships as a twice-exceptional adult requires courage, but the connections that result are worth the vulnerability required to create them.