Finding My Box: What I Wish I'd Known About Late Autism & ADHD Diagnosis
This blog accompanies my recent podcast episode where I share my late autism and adhd diagnosis journey in detail. You can listen to the full episode here.
I've Always Been in a Box
"I've always been in a box. I've always been the quirky girl, the weirdo, the freak, the loner. I've always been in a box. The difference is, I didn't know what box I was in."
These words tumbled out of me during my podcast recording. They capture the essence of my journey toward diagnosis at age 30. For three decades, I lived as a square peg desperately trying to fit into a round hole. I never understood why the edges kept catching.
I'm Rhiannon, founder of Not So Typical Fitness, and at 30 years old, I was diagnosed with autism and ADHD. This wasn't a "trendy" label I sought out—it was the answer to a lifetime of confusion. Also burnout, and feeling fundamentally different without knowing why.
Today, I want to share what I wish I'd known about late diagnosis. Not just my emotional journey, but the practical roadmap that might help others who see themselves in my story.
The Signs That Were Always There
Looking back, the clues were scattered throughout my childhood like breadcrumbs. I just didn't know I was supposed to be following them.
The Horse Girl
At school, I was the horse-mad girl who would literally canter around the playground. I was the girl in the riding hat jumping over drains, neighing like a horse. It wasn't just an interest, it was an all-consuming focus. What I now know to be something the autism community would call a "special interest."
The Career Carousel
By the time I was in my early thirties, I had worked 19 different jobs. These were across 15 different industries in about 12 years. The pattern was painfully predictable:
Get excited about a new job
Master it quickly
Get bored or frustrated
Feel like I don't fit in
Leave after about six months
Repeat
Each time, I would work incredibly hard to succeed, wanting to make a difference, then find myself unable to flourish. At the time, I chalked it up to "not finding my passion" or being a "free spirit." In reality, this is a classic ADHD career trajectory. The constant search for stimulation, the quick mastery followed by boredom, the social difficulties that made workplace relationships challenging.
The Social Chameleon
I learned to mimic others from an early age. My mother mentioned in her letter to support my autism assessment that she would have to explain emotions to me. Why someone acted a certain way, why they were upset or angry. I didn't remember these conversations. I suppose they were just part of my constant effort to understand the unwritten social rules. Rules that everyone else seemed to instinctively grasp.
By adulthood, I had created a collection of "acceptable personalities" I could slip into depending on the situation. Work-Rhiannon, Friend-Rhiannon, Family-Rhiannon—all slightly different, all exhausting to maintain, all constructed through careful observation rather than authentic expression.
I didn't know I was masking. I thought everyone put in this much effort to exist in society.
The Breaking Point
For many late-diagnosed adults, there comes a moment when the carefully constructed scaffolding collapses. For me, it was a work Christmas party in London.
I'd recently started a new job selling insurance by phone. A position where, interestingly, I excelled. Turns out, I can simultaneously play Sudoku while successfully making sales. My brain needed that dual processing to stay engaged. But then came the dreaded team office day in London.
The Shutdown That Changed Everything
I don't like London. I don't like crowded spaces. I don't like unpredictable social situations. I don't like loud music, flashing lights, or drunk people. But I didn't know why I found these things so unbearable. I just knew they made me uncomfortable.
The office had been transformed for the 'awards' night party: shiny decorations, coloured lights, loud music. Colleagues dressed up, drinking, banging on tables during announcements, whooping loudly. About halfway through the event, something happened that I had no language for at the time:
I shut down.
My body remained physically present, but mentally, I disappeared. I couldn't speak. I couldn't process what was happening around me. My heart pounded despite sitting still. I sat there willing time to pass, feeling completely disconnected from myself and everyone around me.
Nobody noticed. Or if they did, they didn't know what to do about the strange, quiet girl in the corner. When someone finally gave me "permission" to leave, I fled back to my hotel and called my wife. Unable to explain what had happened but knowing something significant had occurred.
The Google Spiral That Led to Answers
Back home, I needed to understand what had happened to me. Why had my body and mind shut down in that environment? Why couldn't I communicate? Why did my heart race when I wasn't doing anything physically demanding?
As I researched, I stumbled upon information about autism, autistic burnout, and dissociation. And then, like so many late-diagnosed people, I fell down the rabbit hole.
I read about sensory processing issues. That's me.
I read about social exhaustion. That's me.
I read about shutdown experiences. That's exactly what happened to me.
I read about special interests, about masking, about executive functioning challenges, about difficulty with change. That's me. That's me. That's ALL me.
Suddenly, a lifetime of disconnected experiences formed a coherent pattern. The picture that emerged wasn't of someone broken or defective. It was of someone whose brain simply worked differently than most people's. Someone autistic.
The Diagnosis Journey: A Practical Guide
While self-diagnosis is valid (and for many, the only option available), I knew I needed formal recognition to access workplace accommodations and protections. I wanted the security of knowing I wasn't making this up, wasn't exaggerating my experiences, wasn't just "being difficult."
Here's what my path to diagnosis looked like, along with advice I wish I'd had at the start:
Step 1: Approaching My GP
In 2022, I gathered my courage and went to my doctor. "I think I might be autistic," I told him. His response was both validating and frustrating. He believed it was worth investigating, but had nowhere to refer me for an adult autism assessment in our area.
Instead, he suggested exploring ADHD, explaining the high co-occurrence rate between autism and ADHD. This hadn't even been on my radar. I didn't bounce off walls or interrupt people constantly, which was my stereotyped understanding of ADHD.
Advice: Prepare for your GP appointment by:
Bringing specific examples of how autism/ADHD traits affect your daily life
Researching referral options in your area beforehand
Being open to related conditions you hadn't considered
Requesting questionnaires if they don't offer them
Step 2: The Questionnaire Hurdles
My doctor gave me two questionnaires; one for autism, one for ADHD. This presented an immediate executive functioning challenge: as someone with undiagnosed neurodivergence, completing complex forms felt nearly impossible.
I stared at those questionnaires for weeks. The irony wasn't lost on me... I couldn't complete the ADHD assessment forms because of what was likely ADHD.
Advice: If you're struggling with assessment paperwork:
Ask a trusted person to sit with you and help you work through it
Break it into smaller sections to complete over several days
Record voice notes of your answers if writing is overwhelming
Explain to your healthcare provider if you're struggling—it's actually evidence of the conditions
Step 3: Navigating the Referral System
While my autism assessment options were nonexistent through the NHS at that time, I was referred for ADHD assessment. This was through "Right to Choose," which allows patients some flexibility in provider selection.
After approximately nine months of waiting (which is actually quite short compared to current wait times), I had a video assessment with a psychiatrist through Psychiatry UK.
Advice for those seeking assessment:
Research funding options: NHS, Right to Choose, private insurance, sliding scale providers
Get on waiting lists even if they're long; time passes either way
Join support groups while waiting for formal assessment
Continue self-education about your suspected condition
Step 4: The Assessment Experience
My ADHD assessment involved a detailed interview about my current symptoms, childhood behaviours, and how these challenges affected different areas of my life. The psychiatrist asked specific questions about focus, organisation, task completion, and emotional regulation.
To my surprise, I received an ADHD diagnosis. Even after all my research, I experienced impostor syndrome. Surely I wasn't "ADHD enough"?
What to expect in assessments:
ADHD assessments typically focus on attention, hyperactivity (including internal restlessness), impulsivity, and executive functioning
Autism assessments often cover social communication, restricted/repetitive behaviours, sensory sensitivities, and developmental history
Be honest about your struggles; this isn't the time to mask or downplay difficulties
Bring examples from different contexts (work, home, social settings).
Step 5: Seeking Autism Assessment
Despite my ADHD diagnosis and medication, I still felt strongly that autism was part of my neurodivergent profile. In fact, treating my ADHD seemed to make my autistic traits more noticeable. It was as if they'd been obscured by the chaos of my unmanaged ADHD.
I faced a difficult reality: NHS pathways weren't available, so private assessment was my only option. Through inherited money (a privilege I acknowledge not everyone has), I paid approximately £2,500 for a private autism assessment.
Private assessment considerations:
Research providers thoroughly—look for those specialising in adult and particularly female presentation
Check reviews from others
Prepare to discuss childhood (bring school reports if available)
Consider asking family members to provide observations
The assessment process involved questionnaires, interviews about my developmental history, and observations of my communication style. It also required letters from my parents describing my childhood behaviours. This revealed something surprising: a teacher had suggested I might be autistic when I was in primary school. But, my parents didn't want to "label" me.
The irony is stark: I spent 30 years with unofficial, harmful labels. Things like "weird," "difficult," "too sensitive," and "antisocial" rather than the one label that would have explained everything.
After Diagnosis: The Emotional Rollercoaster
Receiving my autism diagnosis alongside my earlier ADHD diagnosis was both validating and devastating. Nothing could have prepared me for the complex emotions that followed.
Want to chat about your own late diagnosis journey for autism and/or ADHD? Reach out - I'm. more than happy to help where I can! Get my details here.
