One year on from my autism and ADHD diagnoses, what is life like now?

This morning, over coffee, I found myself thinking about last night.

Yesterday evening I did something brave, for the first time, and by choice. I attended a neurodivergent writing workshop.

It is something I have always wanted to do but never quite found the courage to attempt.

I kept my expectations deliberately small. If I simply sat and observed, that would have been enough for me to feel proud today.

Allow me to guide you through my evening and share what I learned about myself from the experience.

We arrived at six o’clock sharp, my partner and I. My usual ten-minutes-early rule would have worked perfectly, but we went to the wrong part of the building first.

In true autistic Frost fashion, I allowed my partner to walk into the room ahead of me while I crept in cautiously behind him.

We were told we could sit anywhere we liked, but realistically there were only two seats worth taking: the two directly in front of the workshop leader.

I unbuttoned my wool and faux-fur purple gothic coat, draped it carefully over the back of the chair, and sat down.

At that moment I silently thanked my organisational instincts for packing a notebook and pen. The advertisement hadn’t mentioned needing them, but one assumes that part goes without saying.

I won’t bore you with every detail of the workshop. Instead, I will share what I noticed.

I could feel my nerves, but not in the usual anxious way. This time the tension lived in my body.

My arm felt stiff when I tried to write.
My mind was attempting to think of what to put on the page while simultaneously scanning the room and the people around me.
My thumb kept quietly creeping toward my mouth.

I didn’t feel as though I was producing my best work in that moment.

It wasn’t the environment.

The lighting was perfect — low but bright enough to see comfortably.
There were no external noises interrupting us.
I was physically comfortable.
There was no pressure to perform.

It was simply my unique way of observing.

This morning, after reflection, I realised the workshop wasn’t really about the writing I produced at the time. It was teaching me something far more valuable: the kind of writer I am.

I am a reflective writer. An essayist.

I can write fantastical pieces and take readers on adventures, but not under time constraints, and not in a room full of people. My imagination flourishes on my terms, when it is ready to unfold — and I am at peace with that.

I still had fun last night, and I listened to some brilliant pieces written by some beautiful minds.

One girl in particular stood out to me. She was only in her late teens, I would guess. The piece she read aloud was vividly imaginative — hyperphantasic in a way that moved the entire room.

At the back of the room, her mum sat quietly out of the way, letting her daughter take the space she deserved. There was something comforting in that. A sense that this young writer was being supported in a way that would allow her imagination to grow.

At the end of the session I overheard her speaking with the workshop leader about wanting to attend university to study creative writing.

If you are that girl, please follow that dream. You have an extraordinary imagination.

Watching her reminded me of something I have been learning slowly this year: I didn’t miss out on these experiences. They simply arrived later for me.

I woke up this morning thinking about that moment, and I realised something unexpected.

I loved last night for you.

And I loved it for myself too.

Because I stepped outside my comfort zone and tried something new.

And I now understand something important about myself: capacity does not mean I am broken.

It simply means I need a little more support than others to experience the beautiful things life has to offer.

Last night wasn’t a breakthrough. It wasn’t a moment that changed everything.

It was simply one small step along a longer path — and sometimes that is more than enough.

— Frost ❄️