Recovery from bulimia is rarely a straight line, and when you’re a late-diagnosed autistic woman, that path can feel even more tangled and misunderstood. For years, I thought I was simply broken—too sensitive, too rigid, too much and not enough all at once. I didn’t know I was autistic. I only knew that something didn’t fit, and somewhere along the way, I turned that discomfort inward.

Bulimia became my coping mechanism. It was never really about food. It was about trying to make sense of a world that overwhelmed me, trying to soothe a nervous system constantly on high alert, and trying to find some kind of control when everything felt uncertain. It was sensory, it was compulsive, and it was a desperate attempt to regulate emotions I couldn’t name, let alone express.

When I began to recover, I did so without knowing I was autistic. I was trying to heal an eating disorder without understanding the root of it. That’s part of why recovery took so long, and why it never quite made sense until my autism diagnosis. Suddenly, things began to click. I hadn’t failed recovery—I had been working with the wrong map.

Post-diagnosis, everything changed. I started to view my past with compassion rather than shame. The rituals, the food aversions, the meltdown cycles—these weren’t signs of defiance or dysfunction. They were signs of a brain trying to survive in a world not built for it.

Now, life after bulimia looks different. It’s not just about eating regularly or not purging. It’s about meeting my sensory needs, honouring my need for routine and downtime, and creating an environment that feels safe and manageable. Recovery, for me, has become deeply intertwined with autistic self-acceptance.

There are still challenges. The world remains loud, fast, and unpredictable. Social interactions can still feel like a performance. But I’ve stopped trying to mould myself into someone I’m not. I stim freely now. I set boundaries. I give myself permission to eat the same safe foods on repeat if that’s what my body needs that day.

I’ve also found connection—real, authentic connection—with others who walk a similar path. There is something powerful about being seen, not just for your struggles, but for your strengths. My autistic brain is not a flaw. It’s a different way of experiencing the world. And that difference is something I’m learning to embrace.

Life after bulimia, as a late-diagnosed autistic woman, is a reclamation. It’s quiet, it’s slow, and it’s filled with nuance. But it’s mine now. And that, more than anything, is what recovery means to me: not just surviving, but finally coming home to myself.

For most of my teenage years, I was lost inside a system that didn’t understand me—and truthfully, I didn’t understand myself either.

As a teen, I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act. The official reason? Bulimia, self-harm, and what was later labelled a personality disorder. To the clinicians, I was a textbook case of emotional dysregulation. To the staff, I was “difficult,” “manipulative,” and “attention-seeking.” And to myself? I was just exhausted—utterly overwhelmed by a world that never seemed to make sense, no matter how hard I tried to play by its rules.

It would take more than a decade, several inpatient stays, and countless intervention before I received the diagnosis that finally made everything click: Autism Spectrum Disorder.

The Misdiagnosis That Missed the Mark

Growing up as a girl on the spectrum is like learning to speak a language no one else can hear. I mimicked. I mirrored. I performed. And I did it so well that the cracks only showed when I was alone, when I couldn’t cope, when the mask slipped.

No one thought to explore autism. Why would they? I was "too articulate," "too emotional," "too self-aware." All the things that, in girls especially, often obscure the core features of autism. Instead, the meltdowns were seen as manipulation. The shutdowns? Passive aggression. The sensory overwhelm? Drama.

When I couldn’t eat without rituals, when I broke down over seemingly small things, it was always chalked up to a personality flaw—never a neurological difference.

Life Behind Locked Doors

Being sectioned as a teenager is a deeply disorientating experience. You lose your freedom, your privacy, your sense of personhood. But for me, it also became a strange kind of sanctuary. I wasn’t expected to navigate the chaos of normal social life.

But being misunderstood inside a psychiatric unit is its own kind of trauma. Staff struggled with me. I struggled with myself. I was told I wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t engaging properly, wasn’t showing enough insight. But how do you engage with treatment that doesn’t actually treat the root of your pain?

The therapies designed for borderline personality disorder didn’t help because I didn’t have BPD. I wasn’t chronically unstable—I was constantly overstimulated. I wasn’t attention-seeking—I was desperately trying to be understood.

The Turning Point

It wasn’t until my early twenties that I read about autism in females. At first, I dismissed it—because I’d absorbed the same stereotypes that had kept me misdiagnosed for so long. But the more I read, the more I saw myself in every sentence, every case study, every quiet, camouflaged girl who’d slipped through the cracks.

Receiving my autism diagnosis wasn’t just a moment of clarity—it was a quiet revolution. Suddenly, my entire life made sense. The sensory issues, the social exhaustion, the rigid thinking, the special interests, the shutdowns. It wasn’t all in my head—it was in my wiring.

Rebuilding, Gently

Now, I’m slowly learning to live in a way that’s more aligned with who I really am. That means unlearning years of shame, redefining what recovery looks like, and embracing the parts of myself I was taught to suppress.

Autism isn’t a deficit—it’s a difference. But when that difference goes unrecognised, unsupported, and mislabelled, it becomes fertile ground for mental health struggles. I often wonder how different my story might have been if someone had looked beneath the behaviours, instead of just trying to manage them.

To anyone out there who’s walking a similar path: you are not broken. You were never broken. You were just misunderstood in a world that wasn’t built for your kind of brilliance.

And you deserve to take up space—authentically, unapologetically, and wholly as yourself.

It’s strange, the way healing works. When I was deep in self-harm, I couldn’t imagine a life without it. It was how I coped, how I made the noise inside my head quieter. But now, years into recovery, I no longer feel the urge. That part of my life feels distant, like it happened to someone else.

And yet, the marks remain.

My body still carries the map of those years. Faint lines, raised skin, silvery reminders etched into my arms, legs, and other places only I see. People talk a lot about the emotional healing, and rightly so—it’s hard work. But no one really prepares you for what it’s like to live in a body that still tells a story you no longer relate to.

There are days I catch sight of a scar and feel nothing at all. Other days, there’s a quiet sadness. Not regret, exactly—but a softness, a compassion for the younger version of me who didn’t know how else to survive.

Sometimes there’s shame, too—especially in summer, in short sleeves, in intimate moments. The fear of judgment, of questions, of someone misunderstanding where I’ve come from. I’ve learned how to navigate those moments with honesty when I can, and boundaries when I need to.

But more than anything, I’ve come to see my scars not as flaws, but as proof. Proof that I lived. That I kept going. That healing is possible, even when it feels unimaginable.

I don’t glorify what I went through. I don’t wish it on anyone. But I also refuse to be ashamed of the body that carried me through it. This skin—scarred, strong, still here—is mine. And I’m learning, day by day, to be at peace with it.

If you’re in the thick of it right now, please know this: healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means forgiving yourself. It means choosing, again and again, to stay. And one day, the pain that feels endless now will be a memory—not a craving.

You will outgrow the need to hurt yourself. And when you do, your body will still be here, waiting—worthy of love, worthy of softness, worthy of being lived in fully.

Scars and all.

Recovering from bulimia is never just about food—it’s about unravelling years of pain, patterns, and survival strategies. As an autistic woman, my eating disorder wasn’t just about weight or appearance. It was about control, routine, sensory overload, and trying to quiet a world that so often felt too loud.

For years, bulimia was how I coped. The rituals gave structure to chaos. The numbness that followed purging felt like relief when everything else was too much. But it wasn’t sustainable—and it certainly wasn’t peace.

Recovery meant more than stopping behaviours. It meant learning how to recognise sensory sensitivities around food, how to sit with uncomfortable emotions, and how to build a life that felt safe and predictable enough that I didn’t need to turn to self-destruction to survive it.

Being autistic made recovery different. Traditional treatment often didn’t fit—I needed flexibility, understanding, and support that took my neurodivergence into account. But slowly, with the right help and a lot of self-compassion, I found a way forward.

I still have challenges. Some textures still make me gag. I still struggle with hunger cues and routine changes. But now I nourish myself from a place of care, not punishment. I no longer fear food—or myself.

Recovery isn’t a finish line. It’s a choice I make every day. And as an autistic woman, I’ve learned that my brain and body aren’t broken—they just needed to be understood.

If someone had told me, during my darkest days, that one day I’d be working with children—laughing with them, guiding them, holding space for their big emotions—I’m not sure I would’ve believed it.

Recovery from self-harm isn’t a straight line. It’s a process filled with setbacks, growth, and quiet victories. There were times I didn’t think I’d ever trust myself enough to be a safe space for someone else. But healing has a way of surprising you. Slowly, the urge faded. The shame softened. And I began to rebuild.

Now, I work with children. And it’s one of the greatest honours of my life.

There’s something incredibly powerful about being able to offer the kind of support I wish I’d had when I was younger. I understand what it means to feel overwhelmed by emotions that don’t yet have names. I know what it’s like to want to disappear, to feel misunderstood, to be desperate for control.

But I also know how much difference one safe adult can make.

Working with children while living in recovery has taught me to be even more compassionate—with them, and with myself. It’s not about having a perfect past. It’s about showing up, being present, and modelling what resilience can look like.

I carry my history quietly now—not with shame, but with purpose. Because I know what it means to hurt, and I know what it means to heal. And every day I get to show a child that they’re not too much, not too broken, and never beyond help, I heal a little more too.

Recovery made this life possible. And this life—this chance to give back—is the most beautiful part of it.

When people think of trauma, they often imagine singular, dramatic events—accidents, violence, or loss. But there is a quieter kind of trauma that burrows deep into the bones: the trauma of being misunderstood, mislabelled, and locked away. For many autistic women—especially those who grew up undiagnosed—this trauma comes in the form of being sectioned under the Mental Health Act during their most vulnerable years.

I was a teenager when it happened to me.

What the professionals saw was a troubled girl. I was self-harming, refusing food, shutting down, lashing out, begging to go home and then, moments later, begging to stay. What they didn’t see was an autistic girl drowning in a world that didn’t make sense, overwhelmed by social expectations, sensory overload, and emotional pain I didn’t yet have the words to express.

I didn’t fit their idea of autism. I spoke fluently. I made eye contact (though it hurt). I smiled. I masked. So instead, they gave me labels that fit their framework: Borderline Personality Disorder. Eating Disorder. Emotional Dysregulation. And when those labels didn’t explain everything, they simply decided I was “non-compliant” or “manipulative.”

And so, I was sectioned.

The act of being forcibly detained—physically restrained, medicated against my will, watched while I slept, stripped of autonomy—did something to me that I still carry today. The system that was meant to protect me became the source of my deepest fear. There is something especially traumatic about being told you are the problem, when in reality, the problem was that no one understood how my brain worked.

Inside the hospital, the environment was unbearable: fluorescent lights, loud alarms, unpredictable routines, and constant invasions of personal space. Every sensory assault pushed me further into shutdown or meltdown. Staff interpreted this as defiance or deterioration, not realising they were witnessing the effects of sensory overload and autistic burnout.

Looking back, I don’t remember healing in that place. I remember surviving it.

What I needed was understanding. What I got was control.

Years later, when I was finally diagnosed with autism in early adulthood, so many things started to make sense. The shutdowns. The intense emotions. The rigidity. The way I mimicked others to fit in and then collapsed in private. I grieved—not just for the time lost, but for the girl I had been, locked away and never truly seen.

Being sectioned wasn’t just a difficult chapter in my life—it was a profound rupture. It’s taken years of unpicking shame and rebuilding my sense of self. I’ve had to learn that my reactions weren’t signs of madness or manipulation, but valid responses to an invalidating world.

To anyone reading this who has walked a similar path: you are not alone. You were not broken. You were surviving in a system that didn’t know how to see you.

And to the clinicians, professionals, and carers: please look deeper. Autistic girls don’t always look how you expect. Misdiagnosis can cost years. Misunderstanding can cause harm. The labels you give—or fail to give—can change the entire course of a life.

I’m still healing. But now, I’m healing as me—not as a diagnosis, not as a file, but as a whole person finally seen.

There’s a moment—raw, quiet, and unforgettable—after a suicide attempt when the world feels different. Maybe you wake up in a hospital bed. Maybe you hear the voice of someone you love. Maybe you just breathe, for the first time in what feels like forever. That moment is heavy. But it’s also sacred. Because it means you’re still here. And that means something.

If you're reading this, you survived. And that survival matters more than words can say.

The truth is, surviving a suicide attempt can leave you feeling broken, ashamed, confused, or angry. It can also leave you feeling relieved, grateful, terrified, or all of the above. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s valid. There’s no right way to process coming back from the edge.

But there is a way forward.

What happened doesn't define you. It’s a part of your story, but it’s not the end of it. It’s the turning point.

You’re still here. That means there’s more for you. More healing. More growth. More quiet mornings and laughter and second chances. Even if you can’t see it yet, that life is still possible.

You Are Not a Burden

One of the cruelest lies depression tells is that the world would be better off without you. It’s not true. It never was. The people who love you—some of whom may not even have had the words to say it before—felt the earth shake when they almost lost you. Your presence is not just wanted—it matters.

Your pain isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s something to be cared for, honoured, understood, and treated with compassion. You’re not weak for feeling overwhelmed. You’re human.

And you are absolutely not alone.

Healing Starts With Honesty

Recovery starts with the courage to say: I need help. That help can look like therapy, medication, community, or simply talking to someone who listens without judgment. Healing doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a journey—a hard one—but it’s also real and possible.

Start where you are. Take it moment by moment if you need to. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just need to stay. Keep choosing to stay.

There’s More Ahead

Life after a suicide attempt isn’t just about surviving—it’s about rediscovering life itself. It’s about finding new reasons to wake up, new ways to cope, and new connections that remind you that even in your darkest hour, you are never truly alone.

There will be days that are hard. But there will also be days that are beautiful—quietly or loudly beautiful—in ways you couldn’t have imagined.

Your life doesn’t have to go back to how it was before. It can become something new. Something fuller. Something more true to who you are and what you need.

You Are Worth the Fight

You are worthy of care. Of love. Of another chance. You are allowed to make mistakes. You are allowed to struggle. And you are allowed to keep going.

If you ever wonder why you’re still here, just know this: someone out there needs your story. Needs your presence. Needs your voice. The world is better with you in it.

This is not the end. It’s the beginning of something real. Something that just might surprise you with its light.

Please, keep going. You’re not alone. And your life is worth living.

There’s a moment in every recovery story—a quiet, powerful shift—when you realise healing is possible. It might come after a long night of struggle, or in a small, unexpected act of kindness. It’s not always loud or dramatic. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re somewhere on that journey right now. Maybe you’re newly trying to stop self-harming, or maybe you’ve been on this path for a while and are feeling tired. Wherever you are, know this: you are not alone. And more importantly—there is hope.

Healing Isn’t Linear, and That’s Okay

Recovery doesn’t look the same for everyone. Some days feel strong and empowered; others feel like starting over. That’s normal. Healing isn’t a straight line—it’s a winding road with ups, downs, and plateaus. What matters isn’t perfection—it’s persistence.

If you’ve relapsed, it doesn’t erase the progress you’ve made. Every step you take away from self-harm, no matter how small, matters. Celebrate those moments. You’re learning new ways to cope. You’re showing up for yourself. That’s strength.

You’re More Than Your Struggles

It can be easy to feel defined by pain—like it’s written into your identity. But your story is bigger than this. You are not your scars. You are not your darkest days. You are a whole, complex, valuable person with dreams, talents, and a future worth fighting for.

You deserve to feel safe in your own body. You deserve peace. And you deserve support. Whether it’s through therapy, trusted friends, creative outlets, or grounding techniques, there are tools and people out there that can walk with you through this.

Little Victories Matter

Recovery often starts with the smallest choices—pausing for a breath, reaching out instead of retreating, using a coping strategy that helps you make it through the moment. These “little” victories aren’t little at all. They’re the building blocks of a new, healthier life.

Be gentle with yourself. Celebrate progress. Speak kindly to your heart. Healing isn’t about never struggling—it’s about finding new ways to keep going.

A Future Worth Believing In

There will come a day when the urge to self-harm doesn’t feel like it owns you. When you look back and realise how far you’ve come. When you feel joy without guilt. That future exists. It’s waiting for you. And every day you choose recovery, you move closer to it.

So hold on. Keep going. Let others help you carry the weight when it gets heavy. You don’t have to do this alone.

Your story isn’t over. In fact, the best chapters may still be waiting to be written.

You are worthy. You are loved. You are healing. And you are never, ever alone.

If you or someone you love is struggling, don’t hesitate to reach out to a professional or a trusted support network. Help is real. Hope is real. And healing is possible.

7 years ago today, I survived a suicide attempt.

At the time, I didn’t think I’d make it to the next week, let alone the next chapter of my life.

Since then, I’ve returned to education and gained the qualifications I once thought were out of reach. I’ve met some of my best friends — people who remind me daily what it means to be seen, supported, and loved.
I’ve traveled, laughed and, danced in places I’d never imagined visiting, and made memories that will last a lifetime.
Most importantly, I’ve fallen back in love with living.

It hasn’t always been easy, and healing isn’t a straight path, but I’m proud of how far I’ve come.
If you’re struggling right now: please hold on. The future you can’t yet see might be more beautiful than you ever imagined.

Here’s to growth, resilience, and the people who make it all worth it.

Being an autistic woman with an eating disorder like bulimia often feels like living in a world where your needs don’t fit the mold, and worse, where your pain goes unnoticed because you’ve learned to hide it too well.

Autism in women is so often masked. We're taught, sometimes without words, to copy, to blend, to stay small and quiet. And when you grow up constantly analysing how to “act right,” it’s easy for that same hyper-awareness to twist inward, toward your body, your food and your rituals around eating. Control becomes survival.

For me, bulimia didn’t really start as a desire to be thin. It started as a way to regulate sensory overwhelm. To feel something. Or sometimes, to feel nothing. The cycle of bingeing and purging created a predictable rhythm in a chaotic world. I didn’t realise it was an eating disorder at first. I just thought it was a problem with me, like everything else seemed to be.

Social settings made it worse. Eating with others meant trying to match their pace, mimic their small talk, ignore the textures that made me want to crawl out of my skin. Afterwards, I’d retreat to the bathroom, not because I was ashamed of how much or how little I ate, but because my body felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore.

What’s hard is that most ED treatment isn’t built with autistic people in mind. Therapies that ask you to “feel your feelings” assume those feelings come in neat, nameable packages. Group therapy assumes you feel safe in groups. Inpatient settings not designed for autistic people with loud alarms and unstructured routines and unfamiliarity. Even the language used around “recovery” can feel foreign when your relationship with your body and food has always been shaped by neurodivergence.

But healing, for me, began when I stopped trying to recover in a neurotypical way. When I started unpacking how masking, sensory dysregulation, and a lifetime of being misunderstood played into my eating disorder. When I found therapists who got it, or at least tried to. When I found community in other autistic women who nodded when I told them I didn’t feel “sick enough” to ask for help. (You are. I was too.)

Living with autism and bulimia is not a failure of willpower or identity. It’s a reflection of how few spaces exist where we’re allowed to be fully ourselves, sensitive, deep-feeling, needing control and comfort.

I’m still learning how to listen to my body instead of fighting it. Still learning that I don’t have to earn rest, or love, or food. I’m learning that being autistic isn’t a barrier to healing, it’s a key to understanding the kind of healing I actually need.

If you’re reading this and you recognise yourself, know this: your pain is valid, your needs are real & your healing is possible, even if it looks different. Especially if it looks different. And, a message to the little me in the photo who just needed a hug: it gets better, I promise!

I spent years locked behind doors that weren’t designed for people like me.

Sectioned under the Mental Health Act. Misdiagnosed with a personality disorder. Told I was manipulative, dramatic, too intense. Nobody saw the quiet chaos inside me, the shutdowns mistaken for defiance, the meltdowns seen as aggression, the masking mistaken for stability.

No one asked why. They just restrained, medicated, and dismissed.

Years later, I was diagnosed as autistic.

That moment broke something open in me. Not because it fixed everything but, because for the first time, I saw myself clearly. And I realised I was never the problem. The system failed to understand me, and in doing so, it made me believe I was unlovable.

I am autistic, I survived misunderstanding, misdiagnosis, and mistreatment. But, I am one of the lucky ones, unfortunately far too many young females lose their lives to suicide following years of mis-diagnosis. So many lives could be saved by simply understanding.

Every year, 727,000 people take their own life. There are many more people who attempt suicide and even more who feel suicidal. Suicide is a taboo subject because we don’t talk about it enough. To break the narrative and the stigma, we need to talk, we need to be honest, we need to open up and share.

What are suicidal feelings?

Suicidal feelings can mean different things to different people, but to break it down, they essentially involve having thoughts about ending your life or feeling that people would be better off without you. These thoughts can be disturbing and worrying but it’s important to know that they’re not uncommon and there are lots of things you can do to get support if you start to feel this way.

Suicidal thoughts can take many different forms and can be caused by different things. Sometimes we might wish we simply weren’t here anymore or feel we’d be better off if we just didn’t wake up one morning when something horrible, sad, or stressful happens.

Sometimes suicidal thoughts can be triggered by certain events, harrowing experiences or can be associated with depression and anxiety. The reality is many people will experience these thoughts at some point in their lifetime and if this is you right now, you’re not alone.

Suicidal thoughts do take different forms and it’s important that you recognise when you really need to seek help urgently. There’s a difference between thinking about not being here anymore and feeling that you can’t go on, and thinking about methods of suicide or making clear plans to take your own life.

What causes suicidal feelings?

Suicidal feelings can build up over time, or they can develop suddenly. They are not always linked to depression, and there are many different circumstances that may lead to you struggling to cope and feeling suicidal. These difficulties may include, but are not limited to:

• Mental illness
• Bullying or discrimination
• Abuse
• Bereavement and grief
• The loss of a relationship
• Feelings of failure
• Isolation or loneliness
• Cultural pressure
• Doubts about your sexual or gender identity
• Adjusting to a big life change
• Traumatic event

Things to remember if you or a friend are experiencing suicidal thoughts

1) Asking a person if they are thinking about suicide will not encourage them to take their life

In fact, it will do the very opposite. Asking someone you care about directly if they are thinking about ending their life communicates that you’re open to speaking about suicide in a non-judgmental and supportive way.

Asking in this direct, unbiased manner, can open the door for effective dialogue about their emotional pain and may even provide them with some much-needed relief to speak about what they are going through.

2) Experiencing suicidal thoughts does not make you a failure, it’s just a symptom of an illness or life experience

Life is not static, people can go through ups and downs and your mental state will too. This is completely normal and it's okay. You are not alone, you are still as successful when you are struggling as you are when you are happy.

3) It’s possible to come out the other side and feel okay again

Just because this is a struggle for you right now, does not mean you will struggle with these thoughts forever. Many people experience these thoughts and they pass. There is support there and lots of people who will help you to feel better.

4) An individual with suicidal thoughts and attempts can live a long, successful life

Your suicidal thoughts don’t define you.

5) So many people would care if you died by suicide

If you are struggling with a sense of hopelessness, please remember that the sorrow of losing you to suicide would be endless and immense. You are not a burden and you are greatly loved by so many people.

6) Not every suicidal thought is going to kill you

Suicidal thoughts are scary and are a sign that you’re really struggling, but they do not necessarily mean that you want to die and they do not mean that you’re going to feel this way forever.

Getting help if you are feeling suicidal

If your suicidal thoughts start turning into plans, please reach out for support! It can be so hard to ask for help, but if you are suicidal then help is what you need.

Tough times aren’t meant to be endured alone! There is always someone there to listen to you, whether it be a friend, a family member, a therapist your doctor, a helpline or someone else. You are not alone!

Helping a friend

If you are concerned about the wellbeing of a friend or family member, remember that having the confidence to talk about suicidal thoughts does save lives.

Things to look out for :

Suicidal thoughts can start to show up as physical symptoms, including a change in appetite, poor sleep, low self-esteem or an urge to self-harm. A person may struggle to focus on their day-to-day life, and instead, be consumed by suicidal thoughts.

They may also use phrases such as:

“My life is so hopeless, I have no other choice but to end it.”

“Everybody would be much better off without me.”

“No one would care if I was dead”.

Don’t be afraid to initiate a conversation. If the answer to the question is no, this could provide you with some much-needed relief, but it may also open up the conversation in the future if that friend is not yet ready to talk about what they are going through yet.

By being brave enough to let them know you are open to having the hard conversations, it could leave a door open for them to reach out for support.

If a friend does open up to you, let them know you’re there to listen, and know that you don’t need to have any of the answers or look to fill the space in the conversation. Give them a chance to think, feel and reflect on what they’ve shared with you.

Let them lead the discussion at their own pace so that you don’t unintentionally put pressure on them to share anything they aren’t ready to. Talking can take a lot of trust and courage. Always remember that you might be the first person they have been able to talk to about this.

Make sure you get support for yourself too. If someone you love and care about is battling with suicidal feelings there are also places you can go for support too.

Suicidal feelings are so challenging. Whether it’s talking about them, feeling them or supporting someone with them. It’s a hard topic but it’s an important one. The more we share, the more we open up the more we show those around us that it’s okay to not be okay. It’s alright to not be alright and you’re not alone.

For years, I carried a label that never quite fit, misdiagnosed with a personality disorder, told I was "too sensitive," "too much," or just "difficult." It wasn’t until much later that I discovered the truth: I’m autistic.

Being a late-diagnosed autistic woman means reprocessing so much of your past, your struggles, your coping mechanisms, your pain and, realising none of it was your fault. The world just didn’t see you clearly.

Diagnosis wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of understanding, compassion, and healing.

For years, I was in a cycle of self-destruction, battling bulimia, bouncing between therapies, misdiagnosed with a personality disorder. They said I was impulsive, attention-seeking, emotionally unstable.

But no one asked why I was struggling with food, to cope, to exist in a world that felt too loud, too chaotic, too much.

Years later, I learned the truth: I’m autistic.

The eating disorder wasn’t vanity or rebellion, it was control, routine, sensory regulation, punishment for not fitting in. The “personality disorder” was my trauma response to being constantly misunderstood and masked beyond recognition.

Being a late-diagnosed autistic woman means unpacking years of shame that was never mine to carry. It means finally understanding the why behind it all.

Recovery from an eating disorder is never easy, but when you're autistic, it's a whole different kind of journey. I was diagnosed with bulimia when I was 14 years old, I’m also autistic. It took a long time to even realise that both things were true, and even longer to understand how deeply they were connected.

Most eating disorder treatment models are not built with neurodivergent people in mind. They focus on typical emotional regulation, talk therapy, and "normal" eating habits, all of which can feel completely inaccessible when you're autistic.

For me, bulimia wasn't just about body image or weight. Yes, those things were part of it, but it was also about sensory overload, executive dysfunction, routine disruptions, and emotion regulation.

Some days I binged because I was completely disconnected from my body and couldn’t tell if I was hungry or overstimulated. Other days, I purged because the feeling of fullness was so overwhelming it felt like my skin was on fire. It wasn’t about being thin. It was about trying to regulate a nervous system that felt like it was constantly under attack.

Autism and bulimia tangled together in ways that therapists didn’t always understand. I was often labeled 'resistant' because I needed structure, predictability, and sensory accommodations that most ED treatment just didn’t provide. Sitting in group therapy where I couldn’t speak up because of social anxiety? That wasn’t resistance, that was survival.

Recovery, for me, had to look different. It had to be autistic-friendly. That meant:
- Learning to identify and respect my sensory needs, even when they didn't align with a "normal" meal plan.
- Building routines that supported regular eating without becoming rigid rituals.
- Finding safe foods and expanding them slowly, without shame.
- Having therapists who understood both EDs and autism — and who didn't pathologise my communication style or my need for stimming or quiet time.
- Letting go of the idea that recovery had to look a certain way.

Recovery is not a straight line. But I’ve learned that being autistic doesn’t make healing impossible, it just means I have to find a path that works for me, not for some generic model of recovery.

If you’re autistic and struggling with bulimia, or any eating disorder - you’re not broken. You’re not alone. You don’t have to fit someone else’s recovery blueprint. You deserve support that honors who you are, how you communicate, and what your body and brain need to feel safe.

Your experience is real. Your healing is possible. And your story matters.

Being autistic with an eating disorder is a whole different experience that not many people talk about.

For me, it's bulimia. And it doesn't look like the stereotype. It's not just about body image or control, sometimes it's sensory overload, routine disruptions, emotional meltdowns, or even just not knowing how to feel hunger or fullness.

Being autistic can make it hard to communicate needs, and bulimia can turn that silence into self-destruction.

Food is complicated. Texture, taste, timing, all of it. Some days I obsess over it. Some days I can’t face it. And in between are moments of shame, guilt, confusion, and exhaustion.

Recovery isn't linear, and for autistic people, it often needs to look different. I need structure, predictability, and people who understand both my neurodivergence and my eating disorder.

If you're autistic and struggling with an ED: you're not alone. Your experience is valid, even if it doesn't fit the typical narrative.

For most of my life, I felt like I was walking through the world with a manual everyone else had read but, mine was missing pages. I masked, I mimicked, I coped. I was labeled ‘shy’ ‘too sensitive’ and sometimes, just plain ‘too much’.

It wasn’t until I was an adult, years into building a life, a career, and relationships, that I was diagnosed as autistic.

I spent years trying to make sense of why certain things felt so overwhelming: fluorescent lights, the scratchy seams in clothing, the unspoken rules of small talk, the exhausting performance of ‘fitting in’. I was told it was anxiety. But deep down, I knew there had to be something else.

Getting my diagnosis felt like exhaling for the first time in decades. It was a key that unlocked years of confusion, self-doubt, and internalised shame. Suddenly, the traits that made me feel alien were part of a pattern, one that had a name.

Many autistic women are diagnosed late, often because we don’t fit the outdated stereotypes. We learn to mask. We blend in, until we burn out. Autism has long been studied through a predominantly male lens, and that left many of us invisible.

The truth is, we were always here. We just didn’t have the words for it.

After the relief came grief. Grief for the younger version of me who struggled alone. For the misunderstandings, the misdiagnoses, and the years of thinking I was broken. But alongside that grief came healing. Naming it gave me power. I started building a life that honored my needs, not one that hid them.

I learned that self-acceptance doesn’t mean complacency, it means rewriting the story with compassion and truth.

Unmasking is a process. Some days, I still catch myself shrinking to fit into spaces that weren’t made for me. But I also catch myself growing, finding joy in my special interests, setting boundaries without guilt, and connecting with others in ways that feel real.

Eating disorder recovery isn’t one-size-fits-all. Especially for neurodivergent individuals.

Autistic and ADHD individuals are disproportionately affected by eating disorders, yet they often go undiagnosed, misunderstood, or unsupported in recovery spaces that weren’t built with them in mind.

Recovery might look different when:
* Sensory sensitivities make fear foods overwhelming
* Rigid thinking patterns aren’t about control, they’re neurological
* Emotional regulation challenges impact self-care routines
* Social expectations clash with authentic self-expression

But different doesn’t mean broken. It means we need better frameworks.
Compassionate, inclusive care can and must be tailored. When providers understand neurodivergence, healing becomes more accessible and sustainable.

To every neurodivergent person navigating recovery: your journey is valid. You are not too much. You are not doing it wrong. You’re doing it your way and, that matters.

Let’s keep pushing for awareness, research, and treatment models that honor neurodiversity.

I was always “too much” or “not enough.”

Too quiet. Too intense. Too sensitive. Too blunt. Too daydreamy. Not social enough. Not flexible enough. Not normal enough.

For most of my life, I thought there was something wrong with me. Something I just couldn’t name.

Until I finally received an autism diagnosis - in adulthood.

And everything clicked.

Autism, as it turns out, doesn’t look like the stereotypes we were all shown. It’s not always the boy who lines up toy cars or avoids eye contact. Sometimes, it's the girl who’s praised for being “shy” and “mature for her age,” the woman who burns out after socialising, who mimics others to fit in, who internalises everything.

Autistic women often go undiagnosed for decades. We’re the masters of masking, hiding our natural behaviours to appear "normal." We learn scripts, study people, mirror mannerisms. It becomes second nature, but it comes at a cost: exhaustion, anxiety, depression, and often… a complete loss of identity.

Getting a diagnosis as an adult is a strange mix of emotions.

There’s grief, for the years lost trying to fix something that was never broken. For the misunderstandings, the friendships that failed, the burnout I blamed on being weak. For all the times I thought, “What’s wrong with me?”

And then there’s the relief. The giant exhale. The realisation: Oh. I’m not weird. I’m autistic.

The pieces of the puzzle finally fit—not just the surface behaviours, but the way I think, feel, and process the world.

Since my diagnosis, I’ve started unmasking—slowly, awkwardly, imperfectly. I’ve stopped pretending I enjoy crowded events. I give myself permission to stim, to rest, to not force eye contact. I now understand my sensory sensitivities and communicate my needs better.

More importantly, I’m learning to show myself the same compassion I’ve always offered others.

Being autistic doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means my brain works differently. And now that I know this, I can work with it instead of against it.

If you’re reading this and seeing yourself in these words: you’re not alone. There are so many of us. Hidden in plain sight. Masked. Misunderstood.

Your late diagnosis doesn’t make your autism less valid. Your experiences matter. Your story is worth telling.

I was sectioned under the mental health act at 14 years old. In and out of inpatient wards until my early twenties. Labeled, medicated, misunderstood. They told me I had a personality disorder, borderline, unstable, too emotional, too much.

But no one saw the sensory overload, the shutdowns, the desperate need for routine. No one asked what hurt, only what was “wrong” with me.

Years later, I got the correct diagnosis: autism.

Being a late-diagnosed autistic woman after years of misdiagnosis isn’t just about getting answers, it’s about grieving everything that happened because no one saw the truth. It’s about the trauma of systems that were supposed to help but didn’t. It’s about reclaiming who I am, piece by piece.

I wasn’t broken. I was overwhelmed, unsupported, and unheard.