The butterfly. It's a symbol of grace and transformation, a fragile thing of beauty. But for a long time, I felt like a butterfly that, instead of floating quietly, wanted to scream to be heard. On the outside, I was quiet, composed, and seemingly serene. I had built a careful facade, a mask to move through a world that felt chaotic and loud. Beneath that still exterior, though, a constant tempest raged. My mind was a cacophony of sensory overload, social anxiety, and a gnawing dread I couldn't name. It was a silent scream, muffled by years of practiced pretense.

Then, at 52, the diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome came. In a single moment, the source of that scream was finally revealed. It didn't change the beauty of the butterfly, but it explained the constant terror that it evoked. The world I thought was a benign garden suddenly became a jungle. What I had perceived as a normal existence was actually a hostile environment, full of people who either misunderstood or took advantage of my quiet nature. My internal scream, a lifetime of pent-up confusion, finally found a voice. This newfound understanding shed a different light on my past.

This has been my "Lost in Translation" odyssey. For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like I was watching a movie without subtitles, perpetually lost and bewildered. The unwritten rules of social life, the subtle cues, the way people effortlessly connect—it's all felt like a foreign language I was never taught to speak.

To survive, I became a master of masking. I learned to mimic emotions, suppress my natural reactions, and contort myself into a shape that was socially acceptable. The cost of this performance was immeasurable. Now, with the mask gone, I feel exposed and vulnerable, like a chameleon that has lost its ability to blend in. The decades I spent pretending have left me with a profound sense of loss and missed opportunities. Yet, these experiences laid the groundwork for the next chapter of navigating two worlds.

My earliest memories are bathed in isolation. While other children found joy in the playground, I found solace in the predictable, concrete world of numbers and books. The classroom was a battleground for my senses; a hum of fluorescent lights, the clatter of shoes, the amplified voices—it was all a constant assault. I was a silent observer, an alien trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces.

As I grew, my mask became my second skin. Adulthood brought new challenges in the workplace, where I excelled at logic and data but struggled with small talk and office politics. My relationships were a source of constant confusion. I yearned for connection but often felt like an outsider, haunted by a deep loneliness.

Then, the diagnosis. It was a bolt of lightning, and the fog began to lift. The pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. My lifelong struggles finally had a name, a framework for understanding. It was a bittersweet moment; a sense of validation mixed with the sadness of knowing what could have been.

With that knowledge came a determination to unmask. It was terrifying but also exhilarating. I began to shed the layers of pretense, rediscovering who I truly was. I embraced my passion for logic and art, finding a voice that had always been stifled. The sensory world, once overwhelming, became a rich tapestry—like a painting that had always been blurred, now coming into focus. I learned to find beauty in the mundane and joy in the simple things.

My journey led me to the neurodiversity movement, a community where I finally felt a profound sense of belonging. I discovered that my struggles were not a flaw but a different way of being. My mind's unique way of thinking—my ability to see patterns and connections others miss—is not a deficit but a genuine strength. I've come to realise that the world needs diverse minds to solve its most complex problems.

The world is designed for neurotypical brains, and that reality means a constant fight. I've had to become my own advocate, to break down barriers in education and work that were never built for me. There is still so much work to be done. However, my goal now is to share my story, challenge stereotypes, and foster a more inclusive society.

Living with Asperger's is a journey of resilience and growth. It's a path filled with challenges, but also a profound sense of purpose. I’ve learned to find joy in life's complexities and to appreciate my unique perspective. Hope is what sustains me—the belief in a better future, a future where my differences are not just accepted, but celebrated.

So, here I am. This has been my labyrinthine journey—a journey full of twists, confusion, and discovery. Asperger’s isn’t a prison sentence; it’s a special admission to an ever-changing cosmic circus, where wonder and challenge reshape routine. We might not always fit in, but we have our own space, packed with puzzles to solve and mysteries—like black holes—that spark curiosity. Neurodiversity isn't a defect; it's a superpower in disguise. We are the original thinkers, the problem-solvers, the artists of logic. We bring a unique, necessary flavour to the human experience.

Let's celebrate who we are, without apology or compromise. Let's create a world where neurodiversity is embraced, not feared. And who knows? Maybe one day, you will envy our ability to find joy in the simplest things, to see the world with fresh eyes, and to truly be ourselves. Until then, we'll continue to explore, discover, and thrive in this neurodivergent adventure. After all, joy and wonder are often found in that which is spectacularly different.

wk August 2025