This is a guest blog written by Aysha, an autistic woman with lived experience, as part of our Yellow Ladybugs Mentoring Series. In this raw and powerful piece, Aysha shares what it was like growing up in a culturally diverse, working-class household shaped by family violence, chronic illness, and survival-mode parenting—where autism was never recognised, and getting by took priority over getting support.

Her story is one of deep resilience and reflection. She explores the impact of being misread, misdiagnosed, and misunderstood for decades—and how learning she is autistic (and ADHD) in adulthood allowed her to finally make sense of her experiences, forgive herself and her family, and begin designing a life on her own terms.

Aysha brings years of peer support, advocacy, and hard-earned wisdom. Her story is especially powerful for those navigating complex trauma, disability, and late diagnosis—reminding us all that there is no timeline for discovering who we are.

Readers will take away:

• A deeply honest account of how trauma, poverty, and chronic illness can mask autistic traits and delay identification

• The emotional shift that can come with an adult autism diagnosis—especially when layered with cPTSD and physical disability

• The importance of self-forgiveness, justice sensitivity, and designing life around your needs, not society’s expectations

• Encouragement to ask for accommodations, advocate for support, and connect with others walking similar paths

• A powerful reminder that survival is not a flaw—and there is strength in reclaiming your story at any age

Content note: This blog includes personal reflections on family violence, trauma, chronic illness, and late autism diagnosis. Please read with care, and take breaks if needed. If any part of this story brings up difficult feelings, you are not alone—support is available.

• 1800RESPECT (24/7 counselling for family violence and abuse): 1800 737 732

• Lifeline (24/7 crisis support): 13 11 14

• Blue Knot Foundation (for complex trauma support): 1300 657 380

My household began fairly normally as far as Australian families go. An immigrant father and a working-class mother. But due to family violence (and—likely—undiagnosed neurodivergence and mental health challenges in both parents), when I was seven, I found myself living with my single mother and two sisters. My mother was working two jobs and only able to give us the basics. Hearing the violent threats and the parents wishing each other the worst (they were both very open about this to us), as well as my father’s struggles with addiction, made me grow up fast. One of my sisters (whom I also believe is undiagnosed autistic) had violent meltdowns, and I recall a lot of parental energy going into calming these down. Sadly, a lot of her anger was also aimed at me, who was eight years younger. She was violent to me and destructive to my toys.

For most of my life, I thought that my socio-economic barriers and family violence history were what made me an outsider to most of those around me. People can understand that when someone has had a troubled upbringing, it causes differences. And trauma-driven behaviours. For me, it camouflaged my “other” differences, I feel. Autistic and neurotypical languages are two different languages. Trauma is another language that may cross the two.

Due to my background, I was determined to ensure that I wasn’t living week to week financially. I had always been ‘expensive to maintain’ due to chronic fatigue and pain. These physical challenges I now know stem from Endometriosis, POTS, MCAS, and Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (plus Scoliosis). I pushed myself to extremes to succeed in my career. To earn good money and be (hyper) independent. I had a successful 20-year marketing and advertising career. And what was the result of all the stress and inflammation? I was diagnosed with Stage 2 Triple Negative breast cancer at 42.

About 15 years before I realised I was Autistic (and ADHD), I realised I had cPTSD from childhood trauma. I had both emotional and physical symptoms. It became clearer as the world learned more about Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD) and Demand Avoidance that my neurotype was about a lot more than ‘just’ cPTSD. Once diagnosed, I was then able to forgive myself and my parents for what I may have done, which were autistic reactions. Similarly, with their own undiagnosed neurodivergence, I forgave their behaviour. And also their inability to get me the appropriate support when I was young due to not knowing much about autism or realising my clumsiness and pain were a real medical issue. I now forgive myself when I react to a social or sensory challenge. I know what I need to stop a meltdown before it happens (usually). Being AuDHD, I accept that I can be a contradiction to people. Between needing a lot of structure and having to do new things in equal parts. I notice when my reactions are due to my extreme Justice Sensitivity or RSD. And I also go easy on myself when I need to leave a workplace, as I feel these are actions that my values cannot ignore. For the longest time, people thought I was flighty and too quick to resign from a workplace, but it was my ‘canary in the coalmine’ senses telling me what was right and wrong in my eyes.

Essentially, I am more relaxed, curious about my own reactions, and can set a pace for my life that may not meet neuro-normative expectations but suits me just fine. I advocate for my own government support such as NDIS—and likely eventually the Disability Support Pension.

My therapists and friends are always surprised that—no matter how much adversity I encounter—I push on. Why do I do that? There are two reasons. Firstly, as I do not take no for an answer. I know what support is out there—and I want to get my share. And secondly, I want the next generations not to have to struggle like my generation and the ones before us. If there is any chance I can to teach someone how being Autistic in a neurotypical world is ‘uncomfortable at best and challenging at most’, I will. I deliberately overexplain why I don’t want people to call me on the phone, or shake hands. It often feels like way too much energy to be advocating. When it feels like that, I give it a rest for a day or two and keep going. Why? Likely my strong sense of justice.

To anyone who is looking to embrace their autistic identity—be proud. You are succeeding in a world not built for you. Even if you are just hanging on some days. Do what you can within your limits. Work within your own limits, not society’s expectations. Do not be scared to ask for help (although accept that it is often draining to advocate within the government and healthcare systems). Build your network—I have been joining Neurokindred’s Peer Support groups and enjoying meeting people on a similar path. Invest your time in neuro-affirming therapy.

Design your life and make others fit around your needs. Say no when you don’t want to do something. Enlighten people about your strengths—and when you may need support. Ask for accommodations—and make your own accommodations, knowing they are fine and normal to have. If people brush your needs off, take a deep breath and circle back to them. They are important. Have belief in yourself that you can succeed and nurture your superpowers.

In the past, I may have felt shame about my upbringing or that it took me so long to work out that I am autistic. (As well—of course—as the grief about how much easier life could have been had I known even a decade earlier.)

The diagnosis process has been a beautiful opportunity to re-think my beliefs. For instance, I was very intolerant of medications, believing that they were the easy way out. I never would have thought I’d be happy needing medications either. Now? I accept that some have a more difficult path than others. And I am one of those. Medications enable me to live my life to the fullest. I am so grateful to my psychiatrist for giving me my life back.

I accept that sometimes, we need a little (or a lot of) help to get through life. So, to ensure that stigma is broken down, I am as loud and proud as being Autistic with Ehlers-Danlos (as well as a long list of co-occurrences including cPTSD) as possible.

What has delighted me about doing this is that I have had incredibly deep conversations with all kinds of people about my challenges. This has encouraged them to think about their needs and confess their own. Or those of their loved ones. Sharing struggles and resources is such an important way to help others on their way and to destigmatise. The more that humans accept that other humans have struggles and are imperfect, the better. There is no shame.

Whenever I have had the opportunity, I have told my story—including in this very blog—and via my seven years as a volunteer Career Mentor for youth mental health agency, headspace. Meeting people 20–30 years younger than me who saw my career and thought I had it all sorted—then telling them my lifelong struggles—opened up a realistic way to inspire. I’ve stopped trying to meet neuro-normative expectations. This is my life—built around my needs, on my terms. And if my story helps someone else feel less alone, and more empowered then I’m glad I shared it.