Author’s Note

This piece is a personal reflection on relationships, dating, intimacy, and consent, written through the lens of being a late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD woman.

I share these experiences with honesty and care, not for shock or blame. For many years, I moved through relationships without fully understanding the unspoken expectations placed on me, or how to recognise safety alongside desire.

Diagnosis gave me language for experiences I once only felt as confusion, anxiety, or self-blame. Writing this is part of making sense of the past, with compassion for the younger versions of myself who were doing the best they could with the understanding they had at the time.

If you recognise yourself in any of this, you are not alone. Please read gently.

(A personal reflection as a late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD woman)

Before I ever dated—when I was a little girl—I believed relationships were magical. I truly thought they were perfect happily-ever-afters.

I learned about love by watching television. Jack and Vera Duckworth on Coronation Street adored each other but squabbled endlessly. Seth and Betty Armstrong on Emmerdale made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Phil and Cathy Mitchell on EastEnders were fiery and often explosive. Beth Jordache and Margaret Clemence on Brookside showed me that love didn’t have to exist only between a man and a woman.

I also had my parents and grandparents as examples of love. I was excited to find it for myself one day.

I read a lot of books growing up, and later as a young adult, especially when I needed to escape. I learned even more about relationships through their pages. By my teens, I felt ready—eager, even—to date. I had gathered information from so many places. My peers were all becoming interested in relationships too.

But no one at school was interested in me.

I learned that I could be anyone and anything with new people. The best place for me to find connection was at our family caravan in Knaresborough. I didn’t really date in the traditional sense. I met people, and I either had a partner or I didn’t.

I already felt different before anyone ever touched me. When I had my first kiss at thirteen, I felt seen and wanted. Not long after, I had my first boyfriend. We didn’t live near each other, but we spent weekends and holidays together.

It was young love. I felt wanted. Needed. Like someone made living easier. We stayed together until I was sixteen.

By then, I thought I understood what made people interested in me. I knew I wanted to be loved, and I believed I knew how to make that happen. What I didn’t understand—though I couldn’t have named it at the time—was what was expected of me once someone wanted me. No one explained the rules. I just tried to work them out as I went.

I met a boy a couple of years older than me. There wasn’t much attraction on my part, but he liked me. Our first interaction was awkward. It was a blind date arranged by friends who were dating. He was tall, into heavy metal music, and interested in me.

This was my first adult relationship. I was all in—except we never communicated what we were. We weren’t officially together. We just met up and shared intense, confusing moments of intimacy.

I caught feelings—or perhaps attachment—but he only wanted sex. I didn’t understand that distinction. I didn’t understand why he took so long to reply to messages, or why plans were cancelled at the last minute. I was constantly trying to reassure myself while feeling deeply anxious, caught between excitement and confusion.

After three months, he disappeared. He ghosted me. I was devastated. I kept asking myself where I’d gone wrong, what I’d missed, what I was supposed to have done differently.

I found comfort in an old friend—my best friend at the time. I believe I fell in love with her. But I was already mentally worn down by trying to live in a world I didn’t understand. She had her own struggles, and I couldn’t see how unhealthy the relationship was while I was in it. We were together for about a year.

Leaving her was one of the hardest things I had ever done. I cared deeply about her, but the dynamic was too much for me. I couldn’t understand where the intensity and toxicity came from then. I only knew it hurt.

Relationships were turning out to be nothing like the books or the television. Still, I remained hopeful that I would find something that felt right.

When I was eighteen, I went out with a friend. Films had taught me that when you go out, you meet people, kiss people, and something begins. I met a man eleven years older than me.

Very quickly, we were together. I moved in with him after a week.

Looking back, I know now that I didn’t understand the difference between being wanted and being safe.

I spent eight years with this man. We married and had three children. During intimate moments, my body would be present, but my mind would drift elsewhere—running through lists of things I needed to do, treating intimacy like another task to complete.

I grew up inside that relationship, from my teens to my mid-twenties. I wouldn’t say I found myself there. I still didn’t understand why life felt so hard, or why relationships felt confusing and draining. But I had a lot of therapy, and I began to realise I needed more. I wanted attention. I wanted a partner, not someone who saw me as another child to look after.

Leaving was terrifying. I was brave and afraid all at once. I was alone for the first time in my life, with three young children. That chapter deserves its own piece.

Eventually, I decided to do something I had never done before: date.

My first date was awkward. I didn’t know what to say or when to say it. I waited for him to lead the conversation, constantly wondering what I was supposed to be doing. He dropped me home, we exchanged a few texts, and went on another date. Everything felt painfully slow. At the time, that slowness felt confusing rather than reassuring.

I went back on a dating site, looking for someone who felt easier to connect with.

I met a man who came to my home after work. I was prepared to be what I thought he expected. I rehearsed the evening in my head all day.

But when he arrived, something shifted. I relaxed. I felt safe. My mask slipped without effort. We talked for hours. Conversation flowed in a way that surprised me.

I felt like I had known him forever.

He was younger than me—only twenty-one—but he seemed to want me, fully. I knew I needed to be cautious, even though I didn’t quite know how to be. When he left after that first meeting, he leaned in for a kiss, and I pulled away without fully understanding why.

We have been together fifteen years now. He is my happily ever after. My soulmate.

The early days still required adjustment. We had to learn each other’s communication styles. But there was no power imbalance. He respected me. Even when I didn’t fully trust my own instincts yet, the relationship itself felt safer than anything before it.

The difference is this: even during conflict, I feel safe and respected.

After my diagnosis, so much became clear. We now understand why I misunderstood certain things, why words were sometimes taken out of context, and why communication could feel overwhelming. We stop, clarify, and process together.

I also gained insight into how often I had said yes in the past when I should have said no—not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t understand I was allowed not to. I didn’t knowingly put myself in harmful situations. I simply didn’t have the framework to recognise them.

These days, intimacy feels natural. It is no longer something expected of me or endured. My partner used language I understood from the beginning. He told me never to say yes when I meant no. He reassured me he would not leave if I wasn’t in the mood. He made it clear that nothing was owed.

No one had ever said those things to me before.

They helped me understand what intimacy truly is.

I don’t share this to shock or blame. I share it for honesty. For those who, like me, moved through relationships without understanding the rules they were expected to follow.

I know now that relationships should feel safe, warm, and mutual. There should be respect, friendship, and care. Love is not anxiety, heartbreak, or constant confusion.

This relationship makes me feel warm and calm inside. I can be myself. After all these years, a smile from him still makes something flutter in me.

Maybe that’s love.

I know it’s the best feeling in the world.

—Frost ❄️