Content warning:
This piece discusses childhood and teenage friendships, social exclusion, misunderstanding, emotional harm, late diagnosis of autism and ADHD, and feelings of loneliness and rejection sensitivity. Please read gently.
This is one of the most honest pieces I’ve written.
It’s about friendship, longing for connection, and growing up autistic and ADHD without knowing it.
Writing this came from a place of reflection and care—for myself and for others who might recognise themselves in these words.
Please read gently.
As a child, I thought friendships were about inclusion.
It looked like fun. It looked like having someone to play with.
Friendships seemed to just happen around me. I would stand by the wall in the playground and watch everyone else having fun. Sometimes one of the other children would come and ask me to play. I would join them, but I always felt out of place, like I didn’t quite know what I was doing.
I imagine those forced interactions on the playground led to me liking a few of the other children very quickly and wanting to be their friend. I would follow them around, try to be like them, and hope they would like me too. I didn’t know how to tell if we were friends or not. Often, I felt unsure of where I stood, but I still wanted connection.
I remember watching other children and wondering how they just knew what to say and how to be. They all seemed to have a best friend. I wanted that too. But I never quite got it as a child.
I was described as too much, overbearing, and shy.
So I started watching how everyone else behaved—how they talked and played. I started copying them, hoping it would make me more likeable. I became the friend who listened. People started telling me their problems and talking to me about other friendships.
I would try to offer advice to help. But later, I would often find myself misunderstood. Conversations I thought were private or supportive were twisted into something I never intended. I would feel pushed away, until I was needed again.
Long before I knew I was autistic and ADHD, I learned to be what people wanted me to be. I could be the listener, the intelligent one, the energetic one—whatever was required. I mirrored others to survive socially. Yet I was often the one blamed when things went wrong.
What nobody saw was how tired I became from trying so hard and still not fitting in. It was exhausting. Over time, I became very good at it. I thought that as long as I was useful, I would be wanted.
As I grew older, friendships became harder. I mirrored, adapted, and tried to meet everyone’s needs, but I felt lost. I didn’t understand how trying to help a friend could turn into being misunderstood or excluded. One day I felt close to someone; the next, I felt cast aside.
I felt deeply alone and unliked. I know teenagers can be unkind, but at the time it felt unbearable. I didn’t understand what I was doing wrong, and I still don’t fully know.
I did meet one girl during family holidays. With her, I didn’t feel the need to pretend. I think I was my real self around her. My weekends and holidays felt safe.
My friendship with her felt steady and genuine. My happiest teenage memories are with her. We didn’t live close enough to build the kind of inseparable friendship I longed for, but when we were together we were. We still are inseparable today when we see each other.
As I approached my late teens, my friends were changing. They were becoming young women, experimenting with style and identity. I felt different. I didn’t want to follow the same path, yet trying to be myself seemed to draw more attention to my differences.
Comments about my appearance stayed with me. Each remark chipped away at my confidence. I changed parts of myself again and again, hoping it would finally be enough.
It never was.
I learned early that being myself came with consequences. I became exhausted from the constant push and pull—being wanted one moment and rejected the next. But I always welcomed people back, because everyone needs a friend.
I wish someone had recognised my autism and ADHD when I was younger. I wouldn’t have broken myself trying so hard to belong. I wouldn’t have built a mask that is now so difficult to remove.
These days, I am guarded. Friendship is still something I yearn for. I want closeness. I want to be someone’s first choice. I have a couple of friends, but I still struggle to understand where I stand sometimes—whether we are truly close or simply acquaintances.
One of the hardest parts of past friendships was being misunderstood. My words were often taken in ways I didn’t intend. My kindness was questioned. I was seen as insincere simply because I cared deeply.
Now, I look back with compassion for the younger version of me—the little girl who just wanted a friend to enjoy life with. Instead, she spent her youth trying too hard with the wrong people.
The truth is, I really was—and still am—a genuinely kind person. That is something I refuse to change, even though it has left me vulnerable.
Teenage friendships were full of conflict. I often felt like I was walking on a firing line, never knowing when something I said would be taken out of context. I felt worthless and deeply depressed.
I learned the hard way that honesty didn’t always feel safe. So I stopped sharing my thoughts. I stopped trusting people with my words. I never copied anyone again—but I built a different kind of mask instead.
When everyone else was preparing for adulthood, I felt lost. Years of trying to fit in had dulled my sense of self. I didn’t know how to be an adult. I felt broken, alone, and scared.
At eighteen, I entered a relationship searching for safety and stability. We had children. We married. After years of therapy, we divorced. Those years taught me a lot.
I still want connection. I am still human. But the invites have grown quieter.
When I finally received my diagnoses, my past became clearer. I could see that many of the friendships I clung to were not safe for me. I was vulnerable, and my need for connection often placed me in difficult situations.
I want connection deeply, yet I often choose solitude because it feels safer. I experience intense loneliness and jealousy at times, which I now understand as rejection sensitivity. Seeing people I care about close to others can be painful.
My support needs have made me feel like a burden throughout my life. Because of this, I have often declined invitations or opportunities for closeness, afraid my limitations would get in the way. I didn’t want to lose friendships by being too much.
Seeing the world as unsafe for so long created coping mechanisms rooted in fear. I carry trauma from how people treated me—and from not understanding why.
For other late-diagnosed people: I see you. If my words resonate, I feel you. I still have healing to do before I can write a neat or hopeful ending to this story. But I hope one day I can trust people again. I hope I can feel safe. And I hope I can finally let go of the belief that I am a burden.
—Frost ❄️
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