Many factors are driving the current shift away from promoting diversity, equality, and inclusion (DEI). Some of these are political and based on prejudice, and you really cannot do anything with stupid except pity it. But I’m also seeing an ideological argument more and more often that needs to be dispelled.

The thinking seems to be that DEI puts people in positions of responsibility they are unqualified for because of DEI criteria rather than ability, and that DEI therefore undermines a truly meritocratic structure where the best people for the job rise to the top regardless of other factors. This belief, however, shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what DEI should be about.

DEI is absolutely not about giving certain groups an advantage in recruitment or promotion competitions because they happen to have a particular characteristic, be it gender, race, disability, or something else. This may have happened occasionally, but that is not how DEI should work. Instead, DEI is about giving people from these groups a fair chance against others who have not faced the particular struggles that result from these characteristics. These struggles can come from prejudice among decision-makers, a lack of reasonable adjustments for differences, or many other causes.

The classic illustration of how DEI should work is three people trying to see over a fence to watch a sports match. The tallest can see over the fence without help, while the other two find their view blocked. One needs just a couple of extra inches of height to see over the fence, while the other needs much more help. One solution is to give the two shorter 2 people boxes of different heights so that when they stand on them, they are the same height as the tallest person. But an even better solution is to replace the solid fence that blocks the view with a chain-link fence that anyone can see through, regardless of height.

DEI is not about giving anyone an unfair advantage. It is about removing barriers so that everyone can be judged fairly on the criteria that matter for the job. If you are recruiting an air traffic controller, the only criteria for the job should be their abilities, qualifications, and experience in that role, not the colour of their skin, their gender, or their disability (or lack of one). All of these criteria work both ways, of course – irrelevant criteria to the job should neither be used to prefer one candidate over others nor to exclude candidates. In other words, you should not pick the person for the job just because they are white or not disabled, nor should you exclude candidates because they are not white or are disabled.

Of course, this all works much better in theory than in practice. We all have unconscious biases, whether we like it or not, and we all tend to be drawn to people like us. DEI aims to remove both conscious and unconscious bias so decisions are based only on relevant criteria. It should never be about favouring a candidate over others because they are from a particular group, whether that group is the majority or is seen as underrepresented. It is about addressing why groups are underrepresented, not making the figures look better for their own sake.

The argument to ditch DEI, therefore, is either based on a total misunderstanding of what it is or is a brazen attempt to make decisions based on personal prejudices. I leave you to draw your own conclusions in individual cases.

For many autistic people, masking is a way of life, and likely always will be to some extent. But none of us can keep our masks on all the time, and when we do mask for too long without a break, it can do us enormous damage. Our mental health can be badly impacted, and we are left completely drained from what others see as normal day-to-day life.

Ideally, of course, we would not have to mask so much or even at all, but we are a long way away from a world like that. If anything, the acceptance of differences seems to be diminishing rather than increasing. So our lifelong role of pretending to be the neurotypical version of ourselves will likely continue.

One consequence of this is the huge importance of autistic people having spaces where we can unmask without fear and allow ourselves to recover. Ideally, this will be at home, since most of us spend a lot of time there, and a safe space where we can be ourselves is one of a home’s key functions. But for many autistic people, this is not the case. It was not for me for many years, and it drove me almost to complete destruction. For several years, the only time that I could really relax to any extent was on the train between work and home. But because it was usually overcrowded, noisy, and stressful, it was far from a safe space!

An autistic life with no kind of regularly available safe space is likely to be a huge struggle. None of us can play a role 24/7, 365 days a year, and we shouldn’t be asked to. If you find yourself in a position where none of the places where you spend most of your time is safe, then it is important to try to find micro spaces within them that are, even if only for short periods. It can be a simple as going for a short walk or even sitting in the bathroom for a few minutes. Anywhere that you can escape the perceived scrutiny and judgment of others, even for a few moments, can help a lot. It is almost like coming up for air when underwater – even a short breath can make a difference, especially when being able to get out of the water altogether will not be an option anytime soon.

Seeking these moments of relief is not selfishness or self-indulgence. It is a basic survival need, like eating or breathing. I often feel the relief throughout my body when I can finally relax after being on display for a long time. Soon after, the exhaustion tends to hit!

We live in a world not designed for autistic minds, and that still has a very long way to go to accept our true selves. Until that happens, there is nothing wrong with doing what we must to get by. Others do not need to understand why we need these spaces to accept that we do.

When we talk about the foods we like and dislike, we usually focus on their flavour. This is the main sensation we experience when we eat. Of course, a lot of what we think of as flavour is actually aroma, but the result is the same. We experience the ‘taste’ of the food through our nose and our tongue, and we either like or dislike it.

What is generally given secondary consideration is the texture of the food, but for many autistic people, this can be the real dealbreaker. This has certainly been the case for me, though I only really understood it quite late on in life. But it explains a great deal. It now makes sense to me why I can happily eat melted cheese on a burger or pizza but am repulsed by the feel of hard cheese in my mouth. It explains why I dislike most pasta, even though it has almost no flavour at all. And it now makes sense to me why I occasionally will do anything to remove a food from my mouth as quickly as possible!

Texture can be a funny sense. Many of us dislike the sound of someone scratching a blackboard, but I think we really dislike the idea of what it would feel like if our nails did the same thing. The sound itself isn’t particularly different from other sounds that provoke a much less extreme reaction. Much the same applies to a knife scraping across a plate. Do we dislike the sound, or the imagined sensation of the knife in our hand that is making it?

Our bodies crave texture in many ways, which is why things like flotation tanks can be so powerful, both for good and bad, by removing the constant sensations that we are used to. But a heightened sensitivity to texture can be hard for others to understand. For example, we all wear clothes with labels, and for most of us, it makes no difference at all. We probably couldn’t even tell you where the label is on the clothes we are wearing right now by feel alone. But for many autistic people, a label in an item of clothing can be an absolute dealbreaker, and may well have to be removed before they can wear the garment comfortably. It may seem like the story of the princess and the pea comes to life, but it really can feel like a boulder if it affects you.

I do not struggle greatly with labels in my clothes, but I do have other sensory issues with touch. I am very sensitive to the position of my socks on my feet. Seamless socks have been a huge help, but I still have to adjust them constantly if they twist on my foot. I do not mind the labels on my clothing, but the label on my duvet must always be at the foot end of the bed, as I cannot stand feeling it through the duvet cover against my arms or chest.

These sensations are real, and they are much more than preferences. It’s like having a few pieces of grit in your shoe, but much worse! If I could ignore my issues with texture, I really would, since it is often highly inconvenient, but I can’t ignore it any more than I can stop myself from blinking at a sudden bright light.

But it also means that some textures can bring me enormous pleasure. I never tire of rubbing my fingers on a silky fabric, or perhaps a piece of carved wood with a very regular pattern. These sensations have as positive an impact on me as others have a negative one.

The more I look back, the more I see how my sensitivity to textures has impacted my life without me even realising it. This understanding doesn’t change how I react, but it helps me understand why I cannot bear the feel of spaghetti in my mouth or certain fabrics against my skin. It reassures me to know that I am not choosing to be this way on some subconscious level, but that my experience and needs are real.

I am conscious, though, that for many years I could not explain why I had these strong reactions to textures, and there are likely many autistic people still at that stage on their journey. As always, a little understanding can go a long way, even if their needs make no sense to you or seem to follow no logic or reason!

Say the word “burnout”, and most people tend to think of a total collapse. After all, the clue is in the word. You have been pushed so far that you are completely out of energy, willpower, resilience, and anything else you need to keep going. But the truth is that autistic burnout does not always look like this, which is why many of us have likely been fighting it for years without even realising it.

Autistic burnout happens when we become so exhausted from being strangers in a strange land that everyday functions become impossible or highly challenging. It is when we have masked for so long that we forget who we really are, and when doing the things we must every day takes more energy than we have available. It builds over time, as the energy deficit increases, until even the most basic tasks like eating, washing and dressing ourselves become a huge deal rather than things we do without even thinking about them.

But the reality of autistic burnout is that some of us have been so burnt out for so long that we have got very good at pretending to cope. We say that we are fine when we are anything but. We lean so heavily on our routines (because we don’t have the mental energy to do anything different) that we are completely devastated if we’re forced to deviate from them. We keep going in a state of total exhaustion and collapse each night as soon as the essentials are done.

The problem is, this is not sustainable, and it is likely having a long-term impact on our health and well-being. Nobody can run on empty for months at a time without it catching up with you at some point. Even when you are in the cycle of permanent exhaustion, you may recognise that you have gone from living to existing, as every ounce of strength goes to the absolute essentials only.

But because we keep going, everybody else thinks we are fine. We may even manage to kid ourselves that this is the case a lot of the time. This is a big issue because you cannot begin to address a problem until you have identified it and admitted it exists.

The solution will be different for everyone, and there are no easy answers or quick fixes. But it will mean making some kind of change. What these look like and what is possible for you, only you can determine. You may well feel trapped and unable to make any changes right now. I felt that way for a long time, but everything changes in the end. Being aware of the current problem and the need for a change can at least open your eyes to opportunities you might otherwise miss when they do arise.

It can also help to understand that the permanent exhaustion you feel isn’t because something is wrong with you, and it isn’t your fault. You are not designed to work in this environment. A fish out of water struggles in seconds – why would you be any different? Of course, there is probably no handy lake that suits you to jump straight back into, but recognising your needs and how they differ from your current situation is a significant step forward.

Life was not meant to be like this. You are not supposed to feel completely drained and exhausted the whole time, to keep coping by the very skin of your teeth, and to continually try to make progress in a world that is not designed for you. Even a small step can start to feel like a huge relief.

When someone close to you dies, there are a few phrases that you hear many times from friends and family as they try to console you. I understand this, as I have used most of them myself when trying to console others in what is, frankly, an inconsolable situation from their point of view. Many of these phrases are harmless, if sometimes a little irritating. Telling someone to let you know if you need anything when they are feeling so lost that they have no idea what they need, other than getting their person back, is not as helpful as you might imagine.

But the phrase that I have struggled with the most is that everything happens for a reason. I know it is meant with the best of intentions and designed to give hope for a future that looks very dark at the time. I know that those who say it do so to offer comfort and support. But I just cannot agree with it, and I see no evidence to support it.

Perhaps my autistic tendency to take things literally is at play here, but even 9 months on, I am struggling to see how my wife being taken so suddenly, when she had so much to live for, happened for a reason. I miss her enormously every single day, and I have yet to find a single positive from her death. Perhaps it is better that she is no longer in pain, but I am convinced that, if given the choice, she would have preferred to carry on living, albeit with some major health issues, than to die when she did. She had absolutely not reached the stage where she had had enough, and her quality of life was so poor that death was preferable.

Why, indeed, did she get cancer in the first place? I know that around half of us do at some point, but I am also finding it hard to see a good reason for that. I’m sure some good does come from people having cancer, but I am far from convinced that it remotely offsets the pain and suffering from this dreadful disease.

I completely understand why people would like to believe that everything happens for a reason. It is a way to keep yourself going through the worst of times. But I don’t see any justification for stating it as a fact, and suggesting it to someone recently bereaved may not be as comforting as you imagine. Wanting something to be true doesn’t make it real.

Rather than offering dubious platitudes, I would far rather people agree with me that losing my person is horrible, and that they talked to me about her. The greatest comfort I received in the immediate aftermath of my wife’s death was when I shared memories of her with others. For a moment, she was back with us as we laughed about notable incidents in her life. Do not be afraid to mention the person who has gone – it can be the best way of supporting and comforting a bereaved person.

As I write this, it is past the time when I normally have lunch, and I am hungry. But I have started writing; I know how much I want to write today, and stopping to eat, then starting again, will use much more energy than carrying on until I am done and then eating, whenever that may be.

This is a dilemma I face constantly in every area of my life. Switching tasks and starting a new one usually takes a lot of time and energy, so once I get going, I really dislike stopping until I finish.

It is one of the few things I miss about travelling to the office, compared with working full-time at home as I do now. I valued the time spent travelling between home and work both because I could read or rest on the train or bus without feeling guilty, and because it gave me time to mentally switch between the two. By contrast, yesterday evening I received an upsetting work email just before I finished, and it stuck in my mind well into the evening because I had not had that buffer zone to unwind and switch off from the nonsense of work. Walking downstairs simply does not take long enough at times like these!

But the switching problem can also occur across different tasks within the same part of life. When I finish a work task, unless the next priority is extremely urgent, it usually takes me quite a while to figure out what to do next and get going. My brain stays stuck on the previous task long after I have pressed send. Sometimes that means going back to it because I have another idea that can improve the work, but more often it means my focus lags behind where it needs to be.

I suppose my head feels rather like the paths that water finds when flowing down a beach. It takes a bit of time to find the natural route, and then sticks to it, flowing deeper and faster as time goes by. But if that route is then blocked, finding the next best one takes a while and involves digging a new trench in the sand until it can flow freely.

I do not know the science of why autistic brains seem to work like this, but I do know that others have similar issues. We take huge amounts of time and energy to get started, but then hate being interrupted mid-task and find it hard to start something else once we stop, even if the first task was fully finished.

I know myself well enough to go with the flow on this and not be too hard on myself, but unfortunately it doesn’t fit the model of the ideal worker that many employers want. However, people with this issue are often also the ones whose deep focus, once we get going, can make us a huge asset. I may take a while to get going, but I am also known at work for how fast I get things done once I am up and running and for quickly understanding complex topics.

People come as a package, and we cannot isolate the parts we find helpful and expect them to suppress or ignore the parts that are inconvenient to us. If you want that level of control, you need a robot, not a human being.

As individuals, what matters is knowing ourselves as well as we can, including being honest with ourselves about our challenges and our strengths. It can be uncomfortable, but it makes life easier in the long run. We can’t admit to a challenge or get help with it if we cannot even be honest with ourselves about it.

I have seen patterns everywhere for as long as I can remember. In fact, it’s relatively recent for me to realise that others don’t see many of them. For example, I can usually get to the key messages of long documents quickly, not because I read particularly fast, but because I can quickly see the pattern the document follows and instinctively go straight to the important part. I cannot even tell you how I do this; it just seems completely obvious to me, like a jigsaw piece fitting into a whole of the same unique shape.

Pattern recognition is a very useful skill in many areas of life. One of its best applications, in my view, is relating a problem that needs solving to a problem in a completely different area that has been resolved. Or recognising that something that I am struggling to understand is, in fact, very similar to something that I do. I suspect that quite a lot of the time when people think I am bright, they are mistaking my ability to spot and apply patterns for intelligence!

But pattern recognition is much more than a useful tool to me. It brings me enormous pleasure every day. I love seeing symmetrical and geometric designs, especially when they occur naturally. A Fibonacci spiral in a plant or the shell of an animal is one of the most beautiful things in the world to me. I think this love of order and pattern also feeds into my love of numbers and maths. What can be more ordered and reliable than numbers? It is why I much preferred maths to English at school. Maths questions were right or wrong, not subject to the whim of the teacher marking the exam!

I look for patterns everywhere without even realising it, but I have a particular love of patterns which group things in fours. I have absolutely no idea why I feel this way, but I find that a flight of stairs with a number of steps that is divisible by four enormously pleasing. I will often count my steps in fours, or repeat stims with my fingers in groups of four. I suppose I am making my own patterns to soothe my mind, but I really would love to know why I focus on 4 and not some other number!

Patterns also bring me pleasure because they bring me a bit of understanding and predictability to a world that usually makes no sense to me at all. When something follows a pattern, it is much easier to predict what will happen next. Even if someone follows a pattern of being difficult about everything, I find that easier to deal with than someone whose reactions can vary erratically between huge approval and total rage, with no apparent connection to the subject at hand.

It is also why I find my own mental health struggles so infuriating. Many of my down days are completely unpredictable and have no obvious trigger, which makes them impossible to predict and very difficult to navigate. How do you stop the pain when you cannot see a cause?

But even then, patterns can help. Looking at geometric designs really does soothe my mind, as does listening to what I think of as highly geometric music, particularly Bach.

I can’t imagine a time when patterns aren’t important to me. They are deep in my subconscious, and I could no more stop seeing them than I could stop breathing. But I would not want it any other way.

I rely heavily on routines to navigate my life. They are ways I have found work for me, and sticking to them removes the uncertainty of trying something different and having it go wrong. This is particularly the case with tasks that involve or impact other people, when most autistic people have arrived at a way that works after making mistakes and being ridiculed or worse, for not instinctively knowing the ‘right’ way to do something.

Over time, some of my routines have become micro-rituals, and I follow them for my own peace of mind, especially the ones that only affect me. For example, in the morning I always brush my teeth, shave, and shower in the same way and order. This means I can do some of this semi-automatically without worrying that I will forget something. As long as I start with the first task in the sequence, I can generally trust my body to follow the rest of the steps automatically. I don’t start wondering halfway through the day whether I remembered to brush my teeth if I know I went to the bathroom and followed the ritual.

This matters to me because I spend a lot of time every day worrying that I have forgotten something important or essential. I regularly have to check that all the doors and windows are closed several times before bed because my brain fixates on the idea that I left one open. I still haven’t come up with a foolproof micro-ritual that gives me the mental reassurance I need!

But when micro-rituals work, they can also be enormously satisfying. It can give me a disproportionate amount of pleasure to mentally mark a sequence of tasks, like clearing up after eating, as complete. When your brain is as anxiety-ridden as mine, anything that can give you an edge is worth having.

I know some people would hate to have their lives as regimented as this and much prefer spontaneity. I do see the appeal of that, but I know that I would feel wrong and unsettled if I did not follow my routines, and I would worry enormously about whether I had done some important but mundane task if I did not have a system both for doing it and for remembering that I had done it when I start to worry.

That final point is the crux of the matter here. Doing something is not enough. It matters to do it in a way that sticks in my mind enough that I can reassure myself that I did it when I start to worry later. Micro-rituals give me this reassurance. They are not perfect, and they are not for everyone, but they work for me in some areas of my life at least, so I will keep using them.

I have always loved to eat. Few pleasures in life are so good and come as regularly a a good meal, as my waistline attests! But I am also acutely aware of the impact food, or lack of it, can have on my overall mood and mental health. On a recent holiday, I found myself in a new town, in dreadful weather, having gone many hours without eating while travelling. As I searched for somewhere to eat, worried about falling victim to a tourist trap, my well-being declined sharply. I am convinced this wasn’t just low blood sugar, but also because food and feeling full give me a strong sense of security.

I have been through times in the past when I did not have enough to eat (though my experiences are nothing compared to the long-term hunger faced by many), and I think that this mentally scars me to some degree. I also have strong adverse reactions to some common foods due to my autistic sensitivity to texture. The upshot is that food isn’t just important to me; I need to know I will like what I eat.

The disappointment I feel when I have a meal I don’t enjoy, and that doesn’t satisfy me, goes way beyond my stomach. It makes me deeply unhappy in a more general sense. I find it incredibly hard to focus on anything else while I feel this way.

So now that I live alone, I am not ashamed to say that I eat pretty much the same meals every week. I have no issue eating the same thing for several consecutive days if I like it. I would far rather do that than risk the down of a poor meal that does meet my needs. I rarely get bored with foods I like (I do not recognise too much chocolate as a concept in any form!), but eating things that I know that I enjoy brings me a deep sense of security and frees up mental capacity for other things.

I know that this is yet another difference that I have from many neurotypical people, and I am fine with that. It is not that I do not like trying new things; it is that I must manage the risk. Having a nibble of something new while most of my plate is full of favourites is one thing; ordering something completely new in a restaurant when I am very hungry and risking being served something that I find inedible is quite another.

In some ways, my conservative approach to food is similar to my choice to usually wear the same clothes. It saves mental energy on decisions that can have much greater consequences for me if I get them wrong than for others, and familiarity brings me a lot more comfort than the thrill of something different.

When I come across food that I don’t like, it can be much more than just not being to my taste. There are foods that I find absolutely revolting to experience in my mouth, and it is not an experience that I care to have any more than necessary. If that means that I am missing out on a few things that I would enjoy if I tried them, so be it. I am happy with the level of risk I take with food and the rewards I get from generally sticking to what I know.

Autistic people often have a complex relationship with food, not least because it is such a sensory experience. Food stimulates almost all of our senses, so an issue with any of them can impact what we like to eat. This is not a choice or a preference. It is a reaction that makes us do almost anything to make it stop. It is why I was repeatedly sick when forced to eat spaghetti at school and why I still cannot touch it to this day.

Perhaps I am a fussy eater. But I am an adult, and I am not hurting anyone else by being this way. I just wish more people understood that this is far deeper than not liking certain foods.

I was recently told by someone that I seemed to do 3 days’ worth of work in a day. I have had similar comments about my work speed throughout my life, and I remember almost always finishing exams with a huge amount of time left. I do not say this to brag, because I do not understand it or do it deliberately. I simply work at my speed, and I struggle to understand how others can take so much longer on some tasks than I do, though I completely respect that they do. I do not feel fast at all; I just go at what seems natural to me.

But these comments at work have increased significantly since one thing changed: I now work at home full-time. I can only work at this pace, or at all really, in certain conditions. The most important criterion is that my sensory needs are met. I struggle with noise, particularly hearing many voices at once, so most offices that I have worked in have been far from ideal. When I worked in a shared office, I was most productive early in the morning when there were few other people around. I would often get more done in the hour or two before it got noisy than I would in the rest of the day.

Sensory comfort likely impacts the productivity of most people, but when you are autistic with specific sensory issues, it can quickly become overwhelming when they are not met, and impossible to concentrate on anything else, with a subsequent huge impact on productivity. For me, being asked to work in a big, noisy office is like being asked to do a long walk with a large, sharp stone in each shoe that I cannot remove. All I can think of is the noise as my brain tries to follow every conversation that it can hear.

For me, space to work away from multiple voices is not just a preference but a virtual necessity. But when I have the right conditions, I can power through work at what others consider a ridiculous speed. All of which makes it mystifying why so many autistic people have to fight so hard for our sensory needs to be met at work. We are not seeking special treatment, just the environment we need to perform at our best. It seems deeply ironic that so many employers seem unwilling to take often simple steps that will hugely boost productivity!

If a consultant told the same employers to buy an expensive time-management system or IT tool to see a significant increase in productivity, many would likely happily hand over the cash. But listening to their autistic staff when they say what will help them seems like a very different proposition, even though it may well yield spectacular results.

It is good to see that more employers are recognising the strengths of autistic people and actively seeking us out as employees. It would be great if many others could see that even if they do not deliberately try to employ autistic people, those who already work for them could be a goldmine with a few small changes that would help their productivity rocket.

At a recent meeting, the bizarre ritual of chatting before starting the business included asking me what I had done over the weekend. Fortunately, and rarely, I had left the house to visit the opticians, so I had an easy answer, even though it was quite dull compared to what others on the call had done. But reflecting on this later made me see that there is still a huge lack of understanding about the cost of working for many autistic people.

I am lucky. I work at home full-time in a job I know I am good at. But almost every day, I am absolutely exhausted when I finish work and tend to collapse into an armchair for the evening before going to bed early. The weekends are little better. I find I need most of both days to recover from the week at work and build some energy reserves for the week ahead. If I try to do something physical, like tidying the garden, I find I have little capacity for it, even though being both outside and active helps my mental health.

I think it is still widely misunderstood among many neurotypical people just how exhausting everyday life, and particularly going to work, can be for autistic people. I know that work is tiring for everybody, but many autistic people do not have the capacity to do much outside work at all. At the same time, I regularly hear of colleagues going out for the evening midweek and having all sorts of exciting adventures at weekends. The only way I can realistically do much outside work is to take time off and allow time to recover before going back to work.

The reasons for this exhaustion are many and complex, but near the top of the list is the need for many of us to constantly mask at work, even when working remotely. I cannot respond naturally to emails or Teams chats without risking being admonished for being blunt or rude. Meetings wear me out in almost no time at all because I find taking in anything orally such hard work, and attempting to observe the myriad of unwritten social conventions also takes a huge amount of energy (and still often ends in failure).

Then there is the constant worry that we are going to be misunderstood, complained about, ridiculed or abused for being different. We may have to fight constantly for our basic needs to be met, and having to switch between tasks and recover from interruptions regularly can take us a lot more energy than neurotypicals. If our sensory needs are not properly met, as is often the case, just existing in that space can be enormously draining before we even try to do any work, and we are tormented by noise, bright lights, horrible textures, or pervasive aromas.

All of this combined means that for many of us, a life outside work is just a dream. We are either working, recovering from work, or preparing for work. It is why it is so important that as many of our basic needs at work are met wherever possible: for us, this is not just part of our life; it is most of our life, and nearly all of our energy goes there. It is why we may be reluctant to commit to events outside of work (in addition to the fact that things like after-work drinks or a meal are often not sensory-friendly and may highlight our social issues).

A little understanding can go a long way. Your autistic employee or colleague may look like they are coping just fine, but you are not seeing the whole picture. Chances are, they need a lot longer to recover than their neurotypical colleagues, with an inevitable major impact on the rest of their life.

Today has been really hard, and it took me by surprise, though I should have seen it coming. I went to the opticians for an eye test and to order new glasses. The appointment was fine. Bizarrely, my eyes seem to be improving as I get older. But what hurt was that this was something that I always did with my wife. We would book adjacent appointments for tests and then meet up again in the shop to help each other choose new glasses.

Of course, I am perfectly capable of doing all this on my own. It just made me very sad, and it felt very lonely to have to do it on my own. Part of this was that it was yet more decisions with nobody to help share the load. But mostly, I just missed the experience of being with her during a fairly mundane yet necessary part of life.

Just when I think I am adjusting to life on my own, it comes back and hits me right between the eyes out of nowhere. I think it is knowing that it will not just be like this today, but every day from now on. My brain still seems unable to accept that she is never coming back completely.

Life still feels incredibly empty a lot of the time. During some recent time off work, I got my back garden tidied, and it looks very nice now. But I immediately started wondering why I bothered, when only I will see it. I still find it very hard to see meaning in nice things happening to me when I have nobody to share them with.

I am not through the first year yet, and I still have a couple of anniversaries to go that I think could be very tough. I am starting to understand why many who grieve a partner say that the second year is even worse than the first, even though I am not there yet.

It still feels so wrong that life is just carrying on without her. Every day there are things I want to share with her, important and trivial, and each time that I remember that I can’t, it feels like losing her again.

I suppose the trip to the opticians will be a bit easier next time. But it also makes me realise that there are going to be many, many more things I will inevitably compare to when we did them together and wish we still could.

Grief really does suck. I would not wish it on anyone, but we all have to face it at some point. Pretending that it is anything other than awful, however, or saying things like give it time, helps nobody. Grief is hideous, and the only way through is to do the grieving. I hate it.

It is starting to feel that being openly neurodivergent means you have a target on your back. Just this week, we have had a TV documentary in the UK openly doubting the existence of ADHD, and researchers deciding that many autistic people aren’t autistic at all.

At heart, I think much of this comes down to the basic human fear of anything or anyone who is different from ourselves. It is the same primal instinct that, left unchecked by intelligent consideration, drives racism, anti-immigration movements, and othering of all kinds. Different can be scary because it is hard to understand at first, but that does not make it bad. We are all glad to find somebody different when they have a skill or ability we need but don’t have ourselves, whether it’s unblocking a drain or flying a plane!

So, the fact that some people see the neurodivergence movement as a threat should really come as no surprise. Just about every other group of people who are different in some way is being demonised at the moment. Society is becoming less and less accepting, not more and more aware of the value of diversity.

Once over my initial fury at these latest developments, it occurred to me to consider how I would feel if my autism diagnosis were withdrawn or revoked. In a word, it would be lost, which is how I felt for most of my life until learning that I am autistic. Over the years, I looked into many possible explanations for the struggles I faced that most of those around me did not seem to share. At work, I found dealing with other people in situations like meetings very difficult, so I went on every course I could find on interpersonal skills. It didn’t help. I tried to hold eye contact when people spoke to me, but it meant that I heard nothing that they said. I tried to be less blunt in my communication, but it made me incredibly frustrated because my warnings were ignored, and I couldn’t help but think I should have been clearer.

The only thing that explained all of my problems was my autism diagnosis. It was genuinely like being born again (and I say this having spent many years in evangelical circles that told me I was born again, but that never made me feel seen and understood in the way that my diagnosis did). If my diagnosis were revoked, I would not believe or accept it, but setting that aside, I would not know what to do with myself. I would be back to feeling lost and wondering if I was choosing to be difficult and to have all these struggles. Were others better socially just because they put in more effort than I did? Why did I not know the hidden language of nods, winks, and subtle changes in tone of voice? Were my very real sensory issues just a choice I was making to seek attention?

Of course, I know the true answer to these questions. I have only really started living properly and becoming remotely comfortable with who I am since my diagnosis. I will never accept that I am not autistic, because I know that I am, regardless of what any misguided academic may say. Being autistic in a neurotypical world is already hard enough without all this nonsense seeking to undermine neurodivergent people. How about, instead of doubting our lived experience because it does not fit with your personal theories, you play a part in securing the support we need, whether you agree with how we describe ourselves or not?

Autistic characters in TV shows and films are more widespread than ever before. In general, I think this is a good thing, as representation is important and the presence of these characters does raise awareness of autistic issues. Of course, you can always argue about the portrayal of a specific character, but the autism spectrum is very wide and varied, so no single character can ever properly represent us all. There are, however, some aspects of autism which are rarely, if ever, portrayed in the media (and I apologise if some of these have been seen occasionally, but even if they have, I think more attention would help.)

Firstly, you rarely see more than one autistic character in any situation, and certainly not two characters who are both autistic but who are also wildly different from each other. I think a couple of instances of this would be hugely educational for many people, who still unconsciously think that all autistic people are pretty much the same. It would also be realistic, as with at least one in a hundred people being autistic and probably more, there are often more than one of us in a group of any reasonable size.

I have never seen a fictional portrayal of an undiagnosed autistic struggling to understand their differences and then experiencing the relief and understanding that a diagnosis brings. While the diagnostic process itself is unlikely to make for good drama, that emotional reaction that I had and that I hear others talk about certainly would. It would also be good to see autism portrayed as a journey of self-discovery, not a once-and-done thing at the time of diagnosis.

I think it would be good to see more of the inner struggles of autistic people portrayed somehow. We often see autistic characters as misunderstood, mistreated, or alienated because they behave differently, then eventually and grudgingly accepted because their strengths are useful in solving crimes or diagnosing patients, but we do not see the constant self-doubt, the pain of being bullied or mistreated that can last for days, or the battle to perform everyday tasks that can be a huge issue for some of us. Neither do we see how the strengths help us in more mundane situations, but then that does not make for good drama!

Finally, it would be good to see more recognition and portrayal of co-occurring conditions, such as depression and anxiety from years of masking, or the gut problems that plague so many of us, while educating on the causes of these links. I know very few autistic people who do not have other health issues, and it would be nice to see this represented, such as an autistic consultant who solves crimes while always having to run to the bathroom!

Autism in the media has come a long way, and that is a good thing. But it now needs to go deeper and be a bit more realistic about the day-to-day experience of autistic people. There is an easy way to achieve this – involve autistic people in the writing and production of these shows and films with autistic characters, in the same way that a chef is consulted to make a restaurant drama realistic. There are plenty of us who would love to help!

For many years, I chased the classic neurotypical vision of success. I wanted to get promoted as often as possible at work, have a lot of money, and be looked up to by others. Now, knowing that I am autistic and am older, I find much of this repulsive and absolutely not the life that I would like to have.

Like many, I was brought up to work hard at school, go to university, and then get a good job with excellent prospects. I did most of that, but even in childhood, it was apparent that I was different from most people around me. I did not share the fascination of many of my fellow students at university with just hanging out with others, as I was socially awkward and did not know what to say. At the end of my first year, I struggled to find anyone to share a house with for the second year, so I placed an advert and ended up sharing with complete strangers. This time of my life was not the endless social playground making contacts for life that it was for others. I am no longer in touch with anyone from school or university, and have not been for many years.

When I started work, the future looked bright. While my chosen career path was not going to lead to multimillionaire status, with a few promotions I should at least be very comfortable and in a prominent position. But that faltered quickly. I could do the work just fine, but that was not what progressed your career. Being able to talk a good game, seduce an interview panel, and build a network of influential people was, and still is, far more important if you want to get on. I did not fit that mould at all, and I could not even pretend to be like that.

Looking back, I regret trying to play that game for so long. I did reach the level I wanted to get to, but it took me until I was about 50 instead of about 30 as planned, and I had several major missteps along the way, with getting sacked looking a lot more likely than being promoted, just for being myself. But my progress at work no longer brings me any sense of satisfaction or achievement, and I do not regard it as a success.

I see now that success for me would look very different to how it did to the 20-year-old neurotypical wannabe version of me. Work is important, but satisfying work that allows me to be myself and to support the life I would like to live is far more important than success for its own sake or big financial rewards. I have found that the things that bring me the greatest happiness and a sense of success are helping others and making a positive impact on their lives. I still struggle to see how leaders who know that they upset those they manage and continue to do so live with themselves at all.

Success is one of those things that looks different for each of us. But if you are neurodivergent, your version of success will likely be very different from the common view, like most other things about you! Future success for me would be turning my side hustle of writing into my full-time job, so I can work on my terms with the people I choose and not spend hours every day on corporate nonsense and dealing with people who have no idea how to treat others with respect. Success would be finding ways to be the true, best version of myself without having to pretend or mask any longer. Success would be accepting myself as I am, rather than getting frustrated that I am not like others.

None of us has to conform to others’ expectations if we do not want to. Success can and does look different for all of us. Neurodivergent people should not have to keep chasing the neurotypical version of success, or be shamed for not doing so.

For the last few years, I have been working in my day job on an area that many others involved have said is the most complex project they have ever encountered. It is tricky and somewhat counterintuitive, but I still struggle to see just what others find quite so complex. This is not an unusual situation for me, and it has led me to reflect on different understandings of complexity and how different sorts of brains process complex matters.

My first clue came when I was told repeatedly that I manage to make complex things seem much simpler when I explain them to others. I say this not to brag, as I do not see myself as particularly talented in this area, but because it gave me a huge insight into how my brain deals with complexity. I can explain things simply because I have to make them simple before I can understand them myself. I do this in a couple of different ways, which seem obvious to me but apparently do not occur to many other people.

Firstly, I firmly believe that nothing is complex if you break it down into small enough steps. If something still seems difficult to follow, you can probably break it down into smaller steps than you are currently trying to understand. For example, I cannot explain how a combustion engine in a car works in every detail. But I can understand that igniting a small amount of fuel creates a force that moves a piston, which turns the wheels. If I wanted to understand how the rest of the engine worked, I would look to break it down into similarly small steps.

After many years, my brain often seems to carry out this breakdown of its own accord. It can help to have flow charts, diagrams, or process maps, but I usually find I can do this step best in my head. You keep breaking down the issue until you get to steps which are simple enough to understand. Then all you need to do is put the (now understood) steps in sequence, and perhaps understand how the result of one step can impact others.

I am probably making this sound more straightforward than it sometimes is, but I genuinely believe that anything can be broken down this way if you keep breaking it down into smaller and smaller steps. My brain happens to default to this approach, I think, because I am autistic.

There is one other strategy or shortcut that I use to both understand complexity myself and to explain it to others. I try to find an equivalent that I do understand, and then map one to the other. The match does not even need to be perfect to give me the understanding I need; I can also compare sections of one thing to sections of another. This is autistic pattern recognition in action, as sometimes the comparisons I make seem to be between things that are wildly different from each other.

For example, at work I once compared our state of readiness for a possible future change to my readiness to be thrown into the river outside the office. Like our position on the work topic, I was prepared in that I am able to swim, but I was unprepared in that I would have preferred to put on a wetsuit rather than be fully dressed, and ideally I would like to climb in gently rather than be thrown in!

Where you can compare complex and perhaps quite dry subjects to something more everyday and possibly even amusing, it will both stick in your head and be more likely to connect with others. Again, being autistic seems to mean that my brain does this of its own accord, but I believe that anyone should be able to apply this approach.

I do not understand everything by any stretch, and there is one area where I think that none of this works – understanding other people! If I could find a way to figure out why others say and do the crazy things they do, I really would be sorted for life.

I always carry a cleaning cloth for my glasses in my pocket, but I never use it to clean them. Instead, whenever I am remotely stressed, I run it between my fingers and enjoy the silky sensation of the fabric. It calms me, helps me to stim, and I can do it in just about any situation without anyone noticing or commenting if they do.

Before I thought to carry the cloth, I would rub my clothes in the same way, but this depended on which clothes I was wearing, wore patches out of them, and could look rather odd in public. The cloth is more discreet, consistent, and socially acceptable.

It may not seem a big deal, but carrying this cloth brings me a huge amount of comfort, even when I am not touching it. If I ever find myself without it, I have to get it immediately and can become quite distressed if I cannot find it (even though I have a pack of several identical, brand-new cloths on the shelf!).

The value of these comfort objects for many autistic people cannot be underestimated, and there are several reasons why they help us. Firstly, they may help us with stimming. This means they provide sensory stimulation we might otherwise lack, which feels much like an itch you cannot scratch. It can quickly become the only thing you can think about, which then prevents you from listening to someone speak or from doing any other tasks that are supposed to have your full attention. Much of the rubbing of my cloth is entirely subconscious, and I often have it in my hand while leading meetings or having challenging conversations.

Then there is the constancy and security that they bring. The world can be a very confusing and scary place when you are different. Many autistic people have a lot of experience of being mocked or worse just for being ourselves, and we second, third, and fourth-guess ourselves all the time. Having a comfort object does not make this easier, but it does provide some relief while we struggle with these unseen dilemmas. It is like bringing part of our safe space with us wherever we go.

Finally, we may use it like others use a stress ball or similar object. It can give us a physical focus for strong emotional or mental experiences. I rub my cloth faster and with greater pressure when I am stressed, and it really does help to the point that I feel very lost without it.

Perhaps this all sounds alien to you, or you think we are childish, like a toddler who takes a favourite stuffed toy everywhere. The drivers may be similar, but so are our experiences – feeling lost, overwhelmed, threatened, or misunderstood. Comfort objects rarely cause any harm or inconvenience to others, and you do not need to understand why they help us to accept that they do. Mock if you must, but at least recognise that you show your own ignorance when you do.

Why do so many neurotypicals think it is fine to try to force everyone else to be as similar to them as possible? For the approximately 8 millionth time in my life, someone has complained that I was rude for not following their specific rules for interacting with others. I asked DIRECT but polite questions to elicit information, yet somehow this was wrong. Nobody else present agreed with them, and I have had no negative consequences, apart from feeling enormously upset even though I know I am in the right.

It infuriates me that I am still so affected by this kind of nonsense. I know that I did nothing wrong, but the arrogance of others to judge me by whatever warped standards are in their head still somehow penetrates my multiple layers of armour and cuts me to the heart. I feel so vulnerable and weak, and it drives me nuts thinking that the person who complained probably forgot about it within a few minutes while I am still haunted by it days later.

I suspect that some of this is the after-effects of a lifetime of being criticised just for being myself, and of living in fear of others being angry with me for doing what I genuinely thought was best at the time. Even though I no longer live in that situation, it all comes flooding back at the slightest hint of trouble.

It also tells me that the message that we are all incredibly different from one another still has a very long way to go before it gets through to many people. Diversity is about so much more than gender, race, social class, or anything that you can see. Even 2 people from identical backgrounds can be wildly different in how they think and the decisions they make when faced with the same situation. This is a good thing. It helps us progress as humanity by building on the breakthroughs and innovations of others. So why do so many people still seem to view it as a problem to eliminate?

Yes, it might be easier in the short-term for you if everyone else shared your views and approach exactly, but it would not be that helpful when you needed someone with a medical mind to diagnose your illness or an engineering mind to build a bridge across that river for you. You are happy enough when someone who can fly a plane pilots you, or an expert chef cooks for you, so why is my thinking differently from yours such a problem? It is small-minded, selfish, and ignorant.

We are all very different, whether you like it or not, and berating others for being themselves and not being exactly like you is completely unacceptable. It makes me more grateful than ever that I am nothing like you at all.

When you spend many years as an undiagnosed autistic, you may be constantly pressured to doubt yourself. When your reactions, or what seems reasonable to you, are constantly exposed as hugely different to what others think of as ‘normal’, you may either be told that there is something wrong with you, or begin to think it yourself anyway. I know I did. For many years I genuinely thought that there was something seriously wrong with me, that I was choosing to be awkward and difficult, or perhaps both. People said as much to me on multiple occasions, including people who were very close to me and who I trusted.

Sadly, it is true that if you tell someone something repeatedly for long enough, they will eventually believe it, however ridiculous it is. If the person doing the telling is someone you respect and know well, it happens much faster. The classic autistic response to this is to mask more, even if we do not realise that we are doing it. Instead of addressing and trying to understand why we are different, we believe what others say about us being broken and try to cover it up by pretending to be like them.

This was me for many, many years. I thought the reason I was not getting on at work and struggling with my marriage was that I was defective and just not putting in the effort others did, even though I was exhausting myself trying. It is one of the reasons that my autism diagnosis was such an enormous relief when it came. For the first time in my life, I could start to accept myself as I am.

But that did not fix the issues with self-doubt that had now firmly established themselves in my mind. When you are constantly told that your judgment is wrong, that your reactions are inappropriate, and that your idea of what is ‘normal’ is wrong, you are bound to start doubting yourself. Add in a bit of gaslighting, which far too many of us have also been subject to, and you start to think you need to double-check your own name.

Around ten years on from my diagnosis, I am still nowhere near fully addressing this and starting to trust myself. It is one of many reasons that I miss my wife so much. She would sense-check things for me and help me to trust my judgment, rather than the years of abuse I received for doing what I genuinely thought was the right thing. I now regularly ask AI about my reactions to things before I act on them to try and gain some support, such is my low level of trust in myself.

It is a horrible place to be. If you cannot even trust yourself, who can you trust? It makes it hard to make decisions, plan for the future, and especially do things for yourself, as the shadow of all the times you were told you were selfish, lazy, or worse hangs over you. But autistic people have just as much right to trust ourselves as anyone else. Our gut reactions are as valid as others’, even if they differ. We are not always right, and we make mistakes, but so does everybody else. The difference is that most neurotypicals do not seem to beat themselves up for weeks over every minor error in the way that many of us do!

Autistic people can and should trust ourselves. It is hard to undo years of being taught otherwise, but it is an essential part of self-respect. Without it, we end up putting too much trust in others to make decisions for us, which inevitably leads to abuse at some point. Relearning self-trust is incredibly difficult but important, and, like every other journey, small steps will get you there in the end. The trick is to start now and keep going, however long it takes.

As I get older, I find my memory failing more often, and it was never that great (in general terms) to begin with. But I can still remember vividly a smell from over 50 years ago, even while I struggle to remember what day it is or what I am supposed to be doing later this afternoon! Of course, there are always certain landmark moments that stick in our minds – weddings, births, deaths, promotions, and so on – but this particular memory sticks with me for a very different reason.

The smell in question was encountered on an ordinary shopping trip with my mother. Several of them, in fact, because I repeatedly experienced it in her favourite shop. It affected me on such a visceral level that I would have done just about anything to get away from it, and I always knew I was in that shop, even though I could not yet read. But my mother and others in the shop could smell nothing at all. I can remember nothing else about those times, but the smell is in my head like it was yesterday.

There are other memories that stick with me because of the strong sensory reaction I had to them. Again, I suspect that everyone has these connections to some extent, but I think that autistic sensory differences may mean that we experience them more often and perhaps more powerfully. They may also be linked to more ‘ordinary’ events. For example, Many will remember the smell of a favourite baker’s shop or of coffee brewing in the morning, but autistic sensory issues can arise with respect to all sorts of things that others do not seem to notice at all. But the fact that they stick so firmly in our heads perhaps demonstrates just how powerful the impact of these stimuli on us can be.

I also have pleasant memories of sensory experiences. The feel of the satin edge of a baby blanket that I carried everywhere with me. Particular voices which I would happily listen to reading absolute nonsense for eternity. But the vividness of these memories suggests to me that the sensations engulfed my brain and left a huge impression on me, unlike some other experiences that may be considered a big deal by others but that I almost instantly forget!

To me, these memories emphasise the reality of autistic sensory differences, and confirm that they are real and not just something we are imagining or should get over, as is frequently suggested. Just as particularly kind or horrible words may stick with us, if you are autistic, you may have similar strong memories of random smells, tastes, or textures.

Memory is always going to be highly selective, and this selection is, in part, based on the impact it has on us. We describe mediocre TV shows as highly forgettable, and more pleasant experiences as completely unforgettable. As sensory experiences can have such a profound impact on autistic people, it is really no surprise that they stick in our minds. But it is further evidence of just how differently some of us experience the world around us than others.