What it felt like to be unknowingly Autistic at university
I didn’t know I was Autistic when I started university, but looking back, everything makes sense. This is what I wish I had known and what helped me cope.
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I didn’t know I was Autistic when I started university, but looking back, everything makes sense. This is what I wish I had known and what helped me cope.
Content warning: This article contains references to relationship abuse, masking, and academic struggles. Please take care while reading.
It’s been seven years since I started at Durham as a freshman, but it’s only in recent years that I’ve been able to understand why that first year felt so difficult. It took a long time to recognize that I am Autistic. That realisation has helped make sense of the isolation, confusion, and exhaustion I experienced as an undergraduate.
This reflection is for anyone starting university while navigating Autistic traits whether you’ve been diagnosed, self-identify, or are still figuring things out.
I grew up in Chile and went to two different schools. I was labeled a difficult student in both. Now I understand that what I experienced was routine sensory overload and being misunderstood by teachers who didn’t know how to support disabled students. I had what’s often described as a “spiky profile, ”I excelled in some subjects and struggled intensely in others.
Thankfully, Durham offers foundation years for students with nontraditional academic backgrounds. I got into the History program based on a passionate personal statement filled with my special interests. That first year, though, I immediately felt out of place.
Socially, things felt off in ways I could not name. People at my college seemed to bond instantly, but I never managed to break into those cliques. I got strange looks. I was enthusiastic about things like Harry Potter and Doctor Who, but the people around me acted like they had outgrown those interests. The only person who shared my love of sci-fi turned out to be Autistic too, though neither of us knew it at the time.
I didn’t know what masking was back then, but I did what I could to blend in. I picked up British slang quickly and used it constantly, thinking it would help me fit in. It didn’t. And trying too hard only made me stand out more.
I also forced myself to go to bars, clubs, and noisy social events even though I found them overwhelming. I wanted to feel normal, but the smells, sounds, and pressure to socialize made those nights unbearable. I would pretend to enjoy myself, then spend days recovering.
Masking might seem like a way to cope, but for many Autistic people it drains us deeply. It can even lead to Autistic burnout. When you spend all your energy trying to appear acceptable, there is very little left for your actual wellbeing.
A lot of Autistic people say they feel like they were born without a guidebook for how to socialize. That was true for me, too, but it went beyond that. It felt like I also missed the part where people learned how to study, manage time, and handle basic life tasks.
My foundation year was particularly confusing. I didn’t know how to write essays, manage deadlines, or organize my day. I never learned those skills in school, and no one flagged that I might need extra support. I once had a psychologist compare me to Temple Grandin, but that was as close as anyone ever came to naming Autism.
I switched to Combined Arts for my degree, which felt more manageable, but I still struggled with executive functioning. I only began to understand how to study toward the end of my time at university. For most of my first year, I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
That first year also included a difficult romantic relationship. I had spent most of my teenage years feeling unwanted and unlovable, so when someone seemed kind and cultured and said I was special, I wanted to believe it. But the relationship quickly became controlling. I moved into a room near his thinking it would make things easier. Instead, I stopped attending classes and spent most of my time in his space because he didn’t want me to leave.
He admired my intelligence but only used the word “Autistic” as an insult when I upset him. He often drank heavily, and I blamed myself for his breakdowns. I had to take care of him emotionally and ignored my own needs completely.
People often say Autistic folks are more vulnerable to manipulation because we miss social cues. That may be partly true. But I want to be clear that this doesn’t make us weak or naive. The unspoken rules of relationships can be hard to grasp, but that should never justify being treated without care. No one should have to be an expert in social dynamics to deserve respect.
Later that year, I was diagnosed with dyspraxia after a few counseling sessions flagged Autistic traits. My home situation meant that getting an Autism diagnosis was not possible, but even the dyspraxia label helped me feel more understood.
Unfortunately, the support I received was limited to extended exam time. Nothing addressed the challenges I faced day to day. The diagnosis gave me language, but not the tools I needed to navigate university life in a sustainable way.
I didn’t get the best marks. I didn’t love my time at university. But now that I know more about myself, I can look back and recognize how much I was carrying without support.
If you think you might be Autistic, or if you’ve already been diagnosed, I hope some of what I’ve shared helps you plan ahead. University can be challenging, but it should not come at the expense of your wellbeing. You deserve support, care, and space to be yourself.
I didn’t know I was Autistic when I started university, but looking back, everything makes sense. This is what I wish I had known and what helped me cope.
Content warning: This article contains references to relationship abuse, masking, and academic struggles. Please take care while reading.
It’s been seven years since I started at Durham as a freshman, but it’s only in recent years that I’ve been able to understand why that first year felt so difficult. It took a long time to recognize that I am Autistic. That realisation has helped make sense of the isolation, confusion, and exhaustion I experienced as an undergraduate.
This reflection is for anyone starting university while navigating Autistic traits whether you’ve been diagnosed, self-identify, or are still figuring things out.
I grew up in Chile and went to two different schools. I was labeled a difficult student in both. Now I understand that what I experienced was routine sensory overload and being misunderstood by teachers who didn’t know how to support disabled students. I had what’s often described as a “spiky profile, ”I excelled in some subjects and struggled intensely in others.
Thankfully, Durham offers foundation years for students with nontraditional academic backgrounds. I got into the History program based on a passionate personal statement filled with my special interests. That first year, though, I immediately felt out of place.
Socially, things felt off in ways I could not name. People at my college seemed to bond instantly, but I never managed to break into those cliques. I got strange looks. I was enthusiastic about things like Harry Potter and Doctor Who, but the people around me acted like they had outgrown those interests. The only person who shared my love of sci-fi turned out to be Autistic too, though neither of us knew it at the time.
I didn’t know what masking was back then, but I did what I could to blend in. I picked up British slang quickly and used it constantly, thinking it would help me fit in. It didn’t. And trying too hard only made me stand out more.
I also forced myself to go to bars, clubs, and noisy social events even though I found them overwhelming. I wanted to feel normal, but the smells, sounds, and pressure to socialize made those nights unbearable. I would pretend to enjoy myself, then spend days recovering.
Masking might seem like a way to cope, but for many Autistic people it drains us deeply. It can even lead to Autistic burnout. When you spend all your energy trying to appear acceptable, there is very little left for your actual wellbeing.
A lot of Autistic people say they feel like they were born without a guidebook for how to socialize. That was true for me, too, but it went beyond that. It felt like I also missed the part where people learned how to study, manage time, and handle basic life tasks.
My foundation year was particularly confusing. I didn’t know how to write essays, manage deadlines, or organize my day. I never learned those skills in school, and no one flagged that I might need extra support. I once had a psychologist compare me to Temple Grandin, but that was as close as anyone ever came to naming Autism.
I switched to Combined Arts for my degree, which felt more manageable, but I still struggled with executive functioning. I only began to understand how to study toward the end of my time at university. For most of my first year, I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
That first year also included a difficult romantic relationship. I had spent most of my teenage years feeling unwanted and unlovable, so when someone seemed kind and cultured and said I was special, I wanted to believe it. But the relationship quickly became controlling. I moved into a room near his thinking it would make things easier. Instead, I stopped attending classes and spent most of my time in his space because he didn’t want me to leave.
He admired my intelligence but only used the word “Autistic” as an insult when I upset him. He often drank heavily, and I blamed myself for his breakdowns. I had to take care of him emotionally and ignored my own needs completely.
People often say Autistic folks are more vulnerable to manipulation because we miss social cues. That may be partly true. But I want to be clear that this doesn’t make us weak or naive. The unspoken rules of relationships can be hard to grasp, but that should never justify being treated without care. No one should have to be an expert in social dynamics to deserve respect.
Later that year, I was diagnosed with dyspraxia after a few counseling sessions flagged Autistic traits. My home situation meant that getting an Autism diagnosis was not possible, but even the dyspraxia label helped me feel more understood.
Unfortunately, the support I received was limited to extended exam time. Nothing addressed the challenges I faced day to day. The diagnosis gave me language, but not the tools I needed to navigate university life in a sustainable way.
I didn’t get the best marks. I didn’t love my time at university. But now that I know more about myself, I can look back and recognize how much I was carrying without support.
If you think you might be Autistic, or if you’ve already been diagnosed, I hope some of what I’ve shared helps you plan ahead. University can be challenging, but it should not come at the expense of your wellbeing. You deserve support, care, and space to be yourself.
I didn’t know I was Autistic when I started university, but looking back, everything makes sense. This is what I wish I had known and what helped me cope.
Content warning: This article contains references to relationship abuse, masking, and academic struggles. Please take care while reading.
It’s been seven years since I started at Durham as a freshman, but it’s only in recent years that I’ve been able to understand why that first year felt so difficult. It took a long time to recognize that I am Autistic. That realisation has helped make sense of the isolation, confusion, and exhaustion I experienced as an undergraduate.
This reflection is for anyone starting university while navigating Autistic traits whether you’ve been diagnosed, self-identify, or are still figuring things out.
I grew up in Chile and went to two different schools. I was labeled a difficult student in both. Now I understand that what I experienced was routine sensory overload and being misunderstood by teachers who didn’t know how to support disabled students. I had what’s often described as a “spiky profile, ”I excelled in some subjects and struggled intensely in others.
Thankfully, Durham offers foundation years for students with nontraditional academic backgrounds. I got into the History program based on a passionate personal statement filled with my special interests. That first year, though, I immediately felt out of place.
Socially, things felt off in ways I could not name. People at my college seemed to bond instantly, but I never managed to break into those cliques. I got strange looks. I was enthusiastic about things like Harry Potter and Doctor Who, but the people around me acted like they had outgrown those interests. The only person who shared my love of sci-fi turned out to be Autistic too, though neither of us knew it at the time.
I didn’t know what masking was back then, but I did what I could to blend in. I picked up British slang quickly and used it constantly, thinking it would help me fit in. It didn’t. And trying too hard only made me stand out more.
I also forced myself to go to bars, clubs, and noisy social events even though I found them overwhelming. I wanted to feel normal, but the smells, sounds, and pressure to socialize made those nights unbearable. I would pretend to enjoy myself, then spend days recovering.
Masking might seem like a way to cope, but for many Autistic people it drains us deeply. It can even lead to Autistic burnout. When you spend all your energy trying to appear acceptable, there is very little left for your actual wellbeing.
A lot of Autistic people say they feel like they were born without a guidebook for how to socialize. That was true for me, too, but it went beyond that. It felt like I also missed the part where people learned how to study, manage time, and handle basic life tasks.
My foundation year was particularly confusing. I didn’t know how to write essays, manage deadlines, or organize my day. I never learned those skills in school, and no one flagged that I might need extra support. I once had a psychologist compare me to Temple Grandin, but that was as close as anyone ever came to naming Autism.
I switched to Combined Arts for my degree, which felt more manageable, but I still struggled with executive functioning. I only began to understand how to study toward the end of my time at university. For most of my first year, I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
That first year also included a difficult romantic relationship. I had spent most of my teenage years feeling unwanted and unlovable, so when someone seemed kind and cultured and said I was special, I wanted to believe it. But the relationship quickly became controlling. I moved into a room near his thinking it would make things easier. Instead, I stopped attending classes and spent most of my time in his space because he didn’t want me to leave.
He admired my intelligence but only used the word “Autistic” as an insult when I upset him. He often drank heavily, and I blamed myself for his breakdowns. I had to take care of him emotionally and ignored my own needs completely.
People often say Autistic folks are more vulnerable to manipulation because we miss social cues. That may be partly true. But I want to be clear that this doesn’t make us weak or naive. The unspoken rules of relationships can be hard to grasp, but that should never justify being treated without care. No one should have to be an expert in social dynamics to deserve respect.
Later that year, I was diagnosed with dyspraxia after a few counseling sessions flagged Autistic traits. My home situation meant that getting an Autism diagnosis was not possible, but even the dyspraxia label helped me feel more understood.
Unfortunately, the support I received was limited to extended exam time. Nothing addressed the challenges I faced day to day. The diagnosis gave me language, but not the tools I needed to navigate university life in a sustainable way.
I didn’t get the best marks. I didn’t love my time at university. But now that I know more about myself, I can look back and recognize how much I was carrying without support.
If you think you might be Autistic, or if you’ve already been diagnosed, I hope some of what I’ve shared helps you plan ahead. University can be challenging, but it should not come at the expense of your wellbeing. You deserve support, care, and space to be yourself.
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