A Quietly Intense Beginning
Childhood, for me, was never loud. As an only child, the rhythms of home were quiet and contained. Outside those walls, the world felt bigger, louder, and more unpredictable.
I loved being at home. There was always something to do—TV to watch, songs to listen to, books to read, and crafts to create. Looking back, those were carefree, happy times. I thought the sameness came from not having much, but I was content.
Yet, two struggles quietly followed me through childhood. The first was with food—I was picky and reluctant to eat. All my life, I’ve avoided all seafood except fish, and I only eat pork and chicken. I’ve come to accept this as part of who I am. A part of me remembers being a stubborn child, insisting on my preferences. Another part laughs at the thought—imagine all the money I saved!
The second struggle was with tears. I cried before school, I cried over things said or left unsaid, done or left undone. Often, I didn’t understand why I cried.
Some mornings, I sat at the dining table in my uniform, head bowed, dreading the day ahead. It wasn’t schoolwork I feared—I enjoyed learning and liked my teachers well enough. But stepping out the door felt like a small tearing, a crossing into a place where I had to be “on.” My mother’s gentle encouragement, a touch on my shoulder, was the quiet anchor before I left.
I would board the school bus and will myself not to cry, but the tears came anyway. I would think, Here they come again. And I’d ask myself, Why? Cognitively, I knew I shouldn’t cry, but emotionally, I couldn’t help it—and I couldn’t explain it.
In the classroom, I thrived. I read quickly, wrote easily, and solved problems with ease. Praise arrived like small lights in the day—both encouragement and a reminder to keep up the effort. Beneath those calm moments, I was deeply feeling: the shift in the room when someone was upset, the weight of wanting to do things right. I was proud to make my parents proud, and I knew my good grades brought them joy.
If I think back hard enough, I recall moments when I was completely immersed in whatever I was doing. I remember being called repeatedly for meals and yelling back mindlessly, I’m coming!
I also remember never liking to be out and about. Shopping days felt long and dreary; the adults took forever, and I wasn’t interested. At the time, I thought I was just uninterested, but now I wonder if it was partly sensory—too much noise, light, and movement.
The Shifting Ground
By secondary school, the ground beneath me began to shift. I was in one of the country’s top schools. The lessons grew heavier, and so did my thoughts. Focus no longer came easily. After school, I’d sit at my desk, books open, eyes fixed on the same page as the sun set.
Sometimes, I put off assignments until late at night, writing under the soft glow of my lamp. I wanted to do well, but it was hard. Was I lazy? Was I not smart enough? My pen moved in bursts, driven by a mix of resolve and quiet panic. The ease I once knew had vanished, replaced by stubborn persistence. I learned to push on, even when exhaustion and doubt threatened to overwhelm me.
My body began to protest—gastric pains, irritable bowels, and persistent shoulder aches became constant companions.
Turning Inward
During those years, I slowly retreated from the social swirl around me. It wasn’t sudden, but a gentle pulling toward the edges—recess spent quietly in the classroom, eating my packed lunch, avoiding the noisy canteen. I wished I could blend into the walls.
Small talk felt like a performance. My mind sought deeper questions—ones no one voiced aloud: Why are we here? How do people heal after loss? What gives life meaning?
Before graduation, friends passed around notebooks to write messages. I recently found mine again—page after page filled with words about my kindness and understanding, encouragement to be happier, and advice to look beyond grades. It was an open secret that I struggled academically and felt unhappy. Yet, people saw me as a good friend—someone who listened and understood their fears.
I had forgotten all that. I forgot I had friends and all those moments. What stayed with me were the difficulties—the feeling that school was a hard climb.
If I had to describe my secondary school life, everything felt intense and difficult. The constant theme was feeling “less than.” I believed I had to work harder than others to reach the same goals. I got through my O and A levels, telling myself it was hard work and sheer luck. Outwardly, life looked good—I was in top schools and had better-than-average grades—but underneath, I knew everything was harder for me. I sensed a gap I had to fill but didn’t understand why.
Karaoke was a trendy pastime back then. I probably went to three or four outings but never enjoyed them. I didn’t understand what others got from it and stopped joining in, thinking I’d spare them my terrible singing. Hanging out at the McDonald’s near school was another common activity. I joined a few times but felt it was a waste of money on unhealthy food and pointless chats, so I decided it was better to get home to study.
Stepping into Adulthood
Leaving school felt like stepping from a small room into a wide open plain. I carried my familiar traits—sensitivity, determination, a need for quiet—but now I had to navigate without the clear structure of bells and timetables.
University overseas was a mix of freedom and pressure. I studied occupational therapy, a field centered on understanding and helping people. It suited me—the listening, the quiet observation, the problem-solving. I connected with patients even when self-doubt whispered. Yet, my old patterns remained: bursts of deep focus followed by procrastination and late nights catching up.
The Work of Caring
My early career took me into oncology and palliative care—places where life’s fragility is ever present. Here, sensitivity was both gift and burden. I learned to sit with grief, to hold silence without rushing to fill it. I noticed the small things—the tremble of a hand, the tone of a voice when someone spoke of home.
In time, I understood something profound: life often holds no clear answers. I learned that it’s okay not to always know what to say. Sometimes, silence carries more meaning than words. Letting go of the need to solve everything was part of why I was drawn to palliative care—a place where presence mattered more than solutions.
But acceptance came with costs. At times, I swept difficult feelings under the rug. The unanswered questions—the why me and what now—sometimes felt too heavy. Life is messy, uncertain, and rarely neat. I carried this quiet tension: accepting life’s limits while sensing unfinished stories. The struggles I saw others carry — so much larger than my own — reminded me to straighten my shoulders and continue on.
Shifting Roles
Marriage and motherhood turned the page again. The birth of my two sons reshaped my days. The quiet intensity of childhood met the relentless motion of parenting. The mental load was constant—especially after living overseas for two years and homeschooling—and I felt my energy drain, my body strain under stress-related symptoms.
Motherhood also brought its own solitude. Small talk at playgrounds and school gates felt harder than ever. My mind was caught in feeding schedules, sleep patterns, and quiet worries no one spoke aloud. Slowly, my social world shrank to a handful of fragile friendships and the four walls of home.
The sorrow I carried grew heavier. Burnout crept in, layer by layer. Detachment followed as a shield but dulled parts of me that once felt alive.
The Underlying Questions
Through all these changes, some themes persisted. I have always sought meaning—in a patient’s story, a child’s milestone, or the quiet moments in between. My sensitivity remains both anchor and challenge—deepening connection while amplifying overwhelm.
If I look back, I see I avoided many things: food, crowds, going out, even though I worked closely with people. I never really felt I belonged in those spaces.
I was never an outcast and had friends throughout my life. Autism was never on my radar. My sense of being different was mostly that I disliked parties and never went to clubs or concerts. I thought I was just cheap—those things cost money. But now I think maybe it was that I never wanted to pay to be in crowded places with bright lights, loud noises, and overwhelming smells.
A Life Woven from the Same Threads
Looking back, I see my life not as separate chapters but as a continuous thread, weaving through every stage. The qualities that shaped me as a child—sensitivity, persistence, the need for quiet, the search for meaning—are still with me. Sometimes strengths, sometimes burdens, always present.
These traits were quiet companions I didn’t name as a child. As an adult, they are both compass and weight—guiding me toward meaningful work but pulling me toward burnout when I ignore my limits. They deepen my connections but narrow the places where I feel I belong.
In learning to understand these threads, I am learning to understand myself—not as contradictions but as a whole. The child who cried before school and the mother now standing at a new threshold are one person, seeing the world through the same lens. Perhaps the work ahead is not to change that lens but to see clearly through it—and to live in a way that honors what it reveals.
Now, all those feelings I once swept away have risen to the surface. Here I am, trying to make sense of it all. I can no longer ignore the weight pressing on my body and spirit. It’s time to unpack these emotions—to face them before my body and spirit gives up on me.
Years later, those threads finally got a name. If you want to read what the diagnosis felt like, Is It All in My Head? — What It Feels Like to Suspect You Are Autistic as an Adult Woman is where that journey begins.
Grow with their Flow 
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