Autism Unmasking at 35: Finding Myself After the Diagnosis
By Jordan Ellis
Published: December 18, 2025 • 11 min read
I was 35 years old when I learned I was autistic.
I was sitting in a psychologist’s office, having gone in for what I thought was severe burnout. I’d been falling apart for months—unable to work, sleeping 12 hours a day, having meltdowns over things like the grocery store being out of my specific brand of oat milk.
“I think I’m just burned out,” I told her. “I need better coping skills.”
She looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“Jordan, have you ever considered that you might be autistic?”
I laughed. I actually laughed.
“I’m not autistic,” I said. “I make eye contact. I have friends. I’m not—” I paused, realizing I was about to say something offensive. “I mean, I’m pretty normal.”
She nodded, like she’d heard this before.
“Would you be open to an assessment? I think it might explain a lot.”
What Masking Looks Like
If you’d met me before my diagnosis, you probably wouldn’t have suspected I was autistic. That was the point.
From a very young age, I learned to mask—to hide my autistic traits and perform neurotypical behavior. I didn’t know I was doing it; I just knew that being myself got me in trouble, and being “normal” made life easier.
What I masked:
- Stimming (I redirected it to socially acceptable things like pen-clicking or leg-bouncing)
- Eye contact discomfort (I learned to look at people’s foreheads instead)
- Sensory sensitivities (I white-knuckled through painful environments and collapsed at home)
- Special interests (I learned not to talk about my obsessions too much)
- Social confusion (I memorized scripts and rules for conversation)
- Emotional expression (I studied neurotypical faces and practiced in mirrors)
I became so good at masking that even I forgot I was doing it. The performance became automatic. But it came at a cost I didn’t understand until I burned out completely at 35.
The Signs I Missed (Or Explained Away)
Looking back, the signs were everywhere. I just didn’t have the framework to see them:
The “sensitivity”: I couldn’t handle tags in clothing. Certain sounds made me feel physically ill. I had to eat the same lunch every day or my whole day felt wrong. I thought I was just “picky.”
The “awkwardness”: I never understood why socializing exhausted me when it seemed to energize everyone else. Why I needed days to recover from parties. Why I always felt like I was translating a foreign language in real-time. I thought I was just “introverted.”
The “intensity”: When I got interested in something, I couldn’t stop. I’d spend 80 hours researching a topic, knowing everything about it, then suddenly drop it for a new obsession. I thought I was just “passionate.”
The “meltdowns”: Small changes to plans could send me spiraling. Unexpected visitors felt like emergencies. I thought I was just “anxious.”
The “burnout”: Every few years, I’d hit a wall. Complete exhaustion, depression, inability to function. I’d take time off, recover, and push through again. I thought I just had a “weak constitution.”
Why Women and AFAB People Get Missed
I was assigned female at birth, and I now identify as nonbinary. But growing up perceived as a girl had a significant impact on my autism going undetected.
Here’s what research shows:
- Girls are often better at masking from a young age (we’re socialized to observe and mimic)
- Autistic traits in girls are frequently misattributed to shyness, sensitivity, or anxiety
- Diagnostic criteria were developed based on how autism presents in boys
- Many women aren’t diagnosed until their 30s, 40s, or later—often after their children are diagnosed
I spent 35 years believing I was broken. That I was trying harder than everyone else and still failing. That everyone else had received some manual for being human that I’d somehow missed.
The truth was simpler and sadder: I was autistic, and nobody had noticed.
The Relief of Understanding
Getting diagnosed at 35 was… complicated.
There was grief—for the girl who’d struggled so hard to fit in, for the decades of unnecessary shame, for the burnouts that could have been prevented.
But there was also relief. So much relief.
Suddenly, everything made sense. The way I processed the world wasn’t wrong—it was just different. The exhaustion wasn’t because I was weak—it was because I was working twice as hard as everyone else just to appear normal.
Learning to Unmask
Diagnosis was just the beginning. The harder work was learning to unmask—to stop performing neurotypical and start being authentically autistic.
This is terrifying, by the way. After 35 years of hiding who you are, letting that person out feels like walking around naked.
What unmasking has looked like for me:
Stimming openly: I let myself rock, flap, and fidget when I need to. It helps me regulate. I don’t care anymore if it looks “weird.”
Honoring sensory needs: I wear noise-canceling headphones in public. I leave events when they’re too overwhelming. I’ve stopped pretending environments don’t affect me.
Being honest about limits: I tell people when I need to leave. I decline invitations without elaborate excuses. I take breaks before I melt down instead of after.
Embracing special interests: I talk about my interests now, unapologetically. The right people find it endearing. The wrong people were never going to accept me anyway.
Dropping scripts: I’m learning to have conversations without pre-planned responses. It’s uncomfortable but freeing.
The Losses and Gains
I won’t pretend unmasking has been all positive. There have been losses:
Some relationships: Not everyone can handle the real me. Some friends preferred the masked version. Some family members think I’m “using autism as an excuse.”
Career considerations: I’ve had to reconsider what kind of work environment I can sustain. The high-pressure, open-office job I had before my diagnosis is no longer possible.
Certainty: I used to know who I was (or thought I did). Now I’m figuring it out. That’s uncomfortable.
But the gains have been greater:
Self-compassion: I’ve stopped beating myself up for struggling with things that are genuinely hard for my brain. I’m not lazy or weak. I’m autistic.
Authentic connections: The people who accept the real me are fewer, but the connections are deeper. I’ve found my community.
Energy: Without the constant drain of masking, I have energy I didn’t know I was missing. I can actually invest in my life instead of just surviving it.
Accommodations: I now know what I need to function—and I ask for it. Sensory accommodations, clear communication, routine. My life works better when I work with my brain instead of against it.
If anything in this story resonates—if you've always felt like you were performing normal while exhausted, if sensory issues dominate your life, if you've been diagnosed with anxiety/depression/burnout repeatedly but nothing quite fit—consider looking into an autism assessment.
Finding out I was autistic at 35 was hard. But not knowing was harder.
What I’d Tell My Younger Self
If I could go back and talk to younger Jordan—the kid who tried so hard to fit in, the teenager who rehearsed conversations in the mirror, the adult who burned out over and over without understanding why—I’d say this:
You’re not broken. Your brain just works differently.
The things that feel impossibly hard for you—small talk, eye contact, unpredictable schedules—really are hard for you. Harder than they are for most people. That’s not a character flaw. It’s neurology.
The things you love—your intense interests, your pattern recognition, your unique way of seeing the world—those aren’t weird. They’re autistic. And being autistic isn’t bad. It’s just different.
You don’t have to keep performing. You don’t have to keep masking. You’re allowed to be exactly who you are.
It took me 35 years to learn that. I hope it takes you less.
Jordan Ellis is a writer and autism advocate living in Austin, Texas. They speak about late autism diagnosis and the experience of unmasking in adulthood.