For most of my life, I struggled with the lack of a sense of belonging and didn’t know how to make sense of the void I felt. There was always this nagging feeling that something was “off,” but I couldn’t quite name it. I was just different—and for the longest time, that difference felt like a burden I had to hide.
I’m Courtney—a Black woman on the spectrum who didn’t get an accurate diagnosis until late in adulthood. So, let’s talk about it.
This blog exists because too many autistic women—especially women of color—are overlooked, misdiagnosed, or misunderstood. You could go your entire life not having the awareness of your condition, which means you also don’t have the right arsenal of tools to navigate a neurotypical world. That was my reality for decades.
Misdiagnosed and Misunderstood
At 12 years old, I was diagnosed with manic depression—what we now call bipolar disorder. A year later, I was diagnosed with ADHD. Being diagnosed with a mood disorder was jarring, even as a child. My monotone voice, lack of facial expressions, and seemingly apathetic outlook made people assume I was depressed. My emotional outbursts—really just stress responses to sensory overload or being misunderstood—were seen as manic episodes.
But I didn’t feel depressed or disruptive… or did I?
The real depression came from feeling like no one got me. The idea of trying to articulate myself and still being misunderstood was infuriating. I wanted to scream, act out—do something—because it felt like I was shouting into a void and no one was listening. It wasn’t just a personal issue, either. It was systemic. The mental healthcare disparity for people who look like me—Black, lower-income, and neurodivergent—is real.
Being raised in a single-parent household, my mom didn’t have the financial means to pick a specialist outside of our insurance network. Our options were limited. Add to that a family with a long history of unchecked mental illness, and you get an environment where psychiatrists were often villainized—seen as people who either pumped you full of pills or institutionalized you. That stigma filled me with fear and made it hard to trust the very people who were supposed to help.
It’s not uncommon for girls to be misdiagnosed or go undiagnosed altogether without serious advocacy. There’s actually a name for this: the Female Autism Phenotype Theory. It suggests that autistic women often present differently from autistic men and are therefore more likely to be overlooked. The research dates back to 1992—a year after I was born—but it didn’t gain traction until recently.
The Early Signs Were There
Looking back, a lot of my struggles were rooted in sensory issues. As a kid, even the seam of my socks not aligning perfectly on my toes would ruin my entire morning. My mother, already under stress, didn’t know how to handle that—so our mornings often started in frustration. These were more than quirks. They were signs. But no one knew what to look for.
I was labeled “difficult” or “dramatic.” I was a picky eater, but it was so much deeper than that. Certain textures made me gag. Some colors or consistencies of food made me anxious. I hated when different foods touched on my plate. These were intense sensory experiences, not preferences.
And as I got older, the disconnect only deepened. The world expected me to “grow out of it”—the sensitivities, the routines, the meltdowns. But autism doesn’t fade with age; we just get better at hiding it. Or rather, we get better at hiding how much it hurts.
I started developing coping mechanisms that looked “functional” on the outside, but they were really just acts of survival. I’d isolate after social events to recover, script conversations ahead of time, and constantly monitor my tone, body language, and eye contact. I became so focused on not being “too much” that I ended up becoming barely there at all.
People thought I was maturing, but I was just building an invisible cage to make myself more palatable. And inside that cage, I was suffocating.
“What you’re trying to say is that it’s easier for you to hide in your own darkness, than emerge cloaked in your own vulnerability. Not better, but easier. However, the longer you hold it in, the more likely you are to suffocate. At some point, you must breathe.”
Caleb Azumah Nelson, Open Water
The Irony of My Interests
The irony is, as a child, I was considered very advanced for my age. While other kids were learning to spell their names, I was reading Sunday newspaper articles because the books we were assigned in school weren’t challenging enough. I took apart computers to see how they worked and reassembled them just for fun. I was fascinated by how things functioned—curious in a very practical, hands-on way.
I wasn’t the typical girly girl, either. Sure, I had a Barbie Dreamhouse, the convertible, dozens of dolls—you name it. But they were untouched. I was more interested in microscopes to study bugs or an Easy-Bake Oven so I could cook what I actually wanted to eat, rather than whatever was served.
Now, as an adult, my interests are often deemed “juvenile.” I’m into fan fiction, anime, K-dramas, K-pop, building blocks, and Legos. These things bring me peace, joy, and decompression. But society constantly tries to shame Black women like me out of our passions—tells us to “grow up” or act more “urban” or “adult.”
But these interests are meaningful. They reflect who I am. They’ve even helped me form deep connections with others who share those same passions. We deserve to be seen in the full scope of our identities—yes, even if it includes a Demon Slayer collection or a Lego castle on our nightstand.
Masking, Burnout, and Breakthroughs
Masking felt like a survival response—an absolute necessity just to make it through a school day. I would study the girls around me: how they talked, laughed, reacted. I’d mirror their expressions, inflections, and interests so I wouldn’t stick out. I became an actress in my own life.
But masking is exhausting. Not just mentally, but physically. After socializing, I often felt completely depleted and overstimulated.
After my late diagnosis, I had a revelation. I no longer wanted to make excuses for myself. I had to learn to parent myself. There was a duality: I had to give the little girl in me the grace she never received, while also being the adult who holds herself accountable and doesn’t enable self-sabotage.
I’d already started making small changes in my 20s but would always plateau—get comfortable, complacent. My mom was supportive but didn’t push me. Maybe she was afraid to. So I had to start pushing myself.
I earned my GED after dropping out of high school because it became too overwhelming. I went to college and trade school, exploring culinary arts and IT before settling into accounting, where I found comfort in structure and predictability.
I don’t have it all figured out. Not even close. Some might say I’m still behind compared to others my age. But here’s what I have done:
- I’m financially independent.
- I manage my own budget, have a 401k and pension.
- I negotiated and purchased my own car after saving for a driving instructor who was patient enough for my learning style.
- I interviewed for and landed a job that accommodates my autism instead of working against it.
- I still live with my mom—but we coexist now as landlord and tenant, not as parent and child.
- I’m saving for a down payment on a home.
These things might seem like standard adult milestones. But for me? They’re monumental. As the youngest of four, I’m the only one who’s accomplished most of them.
The Silent Struggle: Hygiene and Self-Care
One of the biggest hurdles I’ve faced was around hygiene and self-care.
My mother did her best, but once I hit puberty, I was ill-equipped to manage the changes. I didn’t know what to do, and I was too embarrassed to ask. When I had body odor, I hid. I withdrew. I internalized shame and thought I was just “gross” or “lazy.”
It took years for me to understand that it wasn’t neglect—it was a response to discomfort. My sensory issues made showers feel like torture, clothes feel abrasive, deodorants too perfumed, and grooming painful.
Then I swung in the other direction. I thought if I could just look put together, no one would notice how out of place I felt. I became obsessed with presentation. I agonized over it. But that wasn’t real self-care—it was self-protection. Control.
It took my autism diagnosis to realize: self-care means listening to my body, not society’s expectations. It means finding hygiene routines that work for me, that respect my sensitivities and needs. I wasn’t dirty or lazy—I just needed something different. And that’s okay.
I want to normalize that. I want people to experiment without shame until they find a routine that honors their needs. Self-care doesn’t have to be trendy or polished—it just has to be yours.
Reclaiming Softness, Finding My Voice
Women are taught to toughen up. To “build a bridge and get over it.” I was raised to be strong, which really meant suffering in silence. That was mistaken for resilience.
But real strength? It’s in speaking up.
I used to believe no one cared about my struggles because they were consumed by their own. So I stopped talking. I minimized my needs. But here’s the thing: if I don’t care enough to speak up for myself, how can I expect others to care?
People treat you how you allow them to.
That’s why I started this blog. The Soft Loud is about community. It’s about celebrating our wins—no matter how “small” the world says they are. It’s about being soft in a world that tells us to be hard. Loud in a world that demands our silence.
So if you’re still searching for answers, still figuring it out—this space is for you. You’re not behind. You’re not too much. You’re not broken. You’re just beautifully, uniquely you.
Join the Community
I’ll be diving deeper into everything I’ve touched on here—diagnosis stories, masking, career pivots, self-care, special interests, and more. I’ll talk about what’s worked for me, what hasn’t, and how I’m still learning every day.
So, if any of this resonated with you—stay. Become part of The Soft Loud community. Subscribe, comment, share your story. Let’s celebrate each other’s milestones, create safe spaces, and remind ourselves that we’re not alone.
Because there’s power in our voices—especially when they’ve been quiet for too long.