This is my story, from the very beginning. It was not all bad growing up undiagnosed. There were some good times, but the bad times were the loudest. I am not here to lament. This is just me reminiscing about my past, and being truly vulnerable with myself and with people like me.

There is a running joke in my family that goes something like — “She used to be so lazy, as a kid, instead of saying ‘squirrel’, she said ‘el’” — which I used to find funny. Do note that it is normal for toddlers to drop the end consonant of a word while learning to speak. But dropping the beginning consonant can be seen as atypical.

My unusual speech should have raised flags for my parents, but being from India, I can not hold it against them for missing it because of the lack of awareness.

In kindergarten, learning was mostly activity-based, and after finishing my tasks, typically before my peers, I used to sit on a small mat and snooze off. I am grateful that my parents put me in a school that taught using the International Phonetic Alphabet. Focusing on pronunciation rather than spelling helped me learn English without any hiccups.

While I excelled in academics, I struggled to maintain friendships. This was constant throughout elementary school.

In first grade, I used to have the biggest beef with the boys in my class. Everything they did pissed me off. In hindsight, I know now that I envied the boys for being able to do ANYTHING without having to face repercussions.

They could be flipping over the desks in class, and the teacher would leave them with a slap on their wrist. You might think kids do not notice these gendered nuances– which may apply to neurotypical kids. As a hypervigilant, highly masked kid, I noticed everything.

I fit in just fine by mimicking the attributes the adults deemed “good”. I was, in fact, the teacher’s pet. I brought home perfect scores in tests, which was what was expected from me.

My parents were the type to ask, “What happened to the four marks?”, when I scored 96 out of 100. So, academic excellence is all they wanted from me. My interpersonal relationships, or rather the lack of them, didn’t seem out of the norm to them.

Do not be mistaken, I wasn’t a perfect angel either. I used to be so bored in class that I used to cause unnecessary drama between my friends and watch the play unfold. The only difference between the backbenchers who were called “brats” and me was that I never got caught.

My friends, teachers, parents– no one suspected a thing, because I had the reputation of a good, silent kid. But this disruptive personality caused major issues in my friend group in elementary school. I will not claim to be “gifted”, but I did understand abstract concepts much more easily in comparison to my peers, and hence the boredom in class.

I have always been an observer. It may come off as daydreaming to some. I used to pick up details that people normally do not notice. But again, I used to miss out on details that most people did notice. Keeping that aside, my abilities came in handy for theft.

Yes, you read that right! In first grade, when I was just six years old, I stole erasers from 11 of my classmates, that too on the same day. Again, this was a result of boredom. I liked watching the kids look for their erasers desperately. I know, that sounds sick.

And rest assured, I returned all their erasers the next day, in a way that didn’t raise suspicion. For example, I tossed a boy’s eraser under his desk when he wasn’t looking and told him, “Hey look, isn’t that your eraser?”

Anyways, you get the gist of my early elementary school days. What made me realise that I was somewhat different from my peers was when I changed schools in 6th grade.

The general apathy among my classmates was unfathomable for me. Some neurodivergent individuals possess heightened empathy towards all living beings, which became an inconvenience for my adolescent peers. This is not talked about enough. I was forced to feel like the odd one owing to the unsympathetic nature of the majority of my classmates.

For neurodivergent individuals, hyper-empathy can lead to emotional fatigue. My everyday commute to school was already stressful enough. Seeing stray dogs without a limb, crows struck by electricity poles, goats being butchered, fish being displayed for sale while still alive, were all visuals I saw almost every day.

The fatigue weighed on me by the time I arrived at school. I always felt tired in school, and I avoided going for walks during breaks. This was another factor that made kids distance themselves from me. I do not blame them.

The general apathy in my classmates was something I couldn’t and I can’t understand even now. My parents and friends in elementary school understood my inability to stand seeing suffering in any being. But that wasn’t the case in the new school. Kids were brutal — this is not hyperbole.

When a scorpion was found in my class, boys stomped on it, tortured it, and killed it in an inhumane manner. When lizards got into class, some boys used to bet to see who could throw a scale and slice off its tail.

I remember in 9th grade, after having a mental breakdown in class for not being able to save a lizard, I carried its dead corpse outside on a paper, and gave it a burial all while sobbing my eyes out.

In spite of the emotional fatigue, I persevered, mostly thanks to COVID-19. While it sounds insensitive, that is my truth. The lockdown helped me recharge; it also gave me a lot of time to think.

I got COVID, and the time away from online classes in the hospital bed severely disrupted the routine I was following for the longest time. Do not get me wrong, the switch to online classes was already a disruption to my routine. But getting back to online classes after a month of not attending was overwhelming.

For someone who was thriving on academic validation, being completely lost in class shattered my self-esteem. So, I started hyperfixating on my hobbies — painting, cooking, makeup, content creation, etc.

Academics were just a second thought. But that does not mean I did badly in academics. I still scored 88% in twelfth grade. I studied and did my best just for my parents’ sake at this point.

I was set on moving to Bengaluru to study Psychology, and my parents gave in after I refused to give Medical School a chance. Along with studies, my online presence grew as well. I was able to find my people on Instagram, and I finally felt belonged.

At this point, I was still heavily masking, and had bad social anxiety. Not the “I am scared to address a gathering” type; while that was also very much true, it was more of a “I would rather be miserable than confront anyone.” kind. I let people walk all over me the first year of University.

This changed once I found my people on campus. I gave each of my mental hyperfixations a physical outlet. For the fatigue caused by environmental concerns, I joined the campus’ Environmental Diversity Cell. For the avid reader in me, I joined the campus’ book club. The outlet for my creative side was social media. I even became a confident spokesperson.

When everything seemed to be going well, the exhaustion kicked in. I didn’t allow the burnout to consume me. I let it pass by allowing myself to take a break. The break was very much needed. I came back stronger, healthier, and a lot more confident. I successfully got my degree in a Bachelor’s of Journalism, Psychology and English.

Now, I wish I could say that the hard part is done. But this is yet another beginning — for the pursuit of my Master’s degree. But only this time, I am secure and am more forgiving towards myself for every mistake I make, every opportunity I miss, and every misunderstanding I cause.

I thought things would get easier after I got my ADHD and autism diagnosis–that everything would… was originally published in The Final Draft on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What looks like distance or coldness is often nothing more than exhaustion from carrying too much for too long.

She didn’t change overnight.

She just got tired of carrying everything alone.

Every man wants a beautiful, inspiring woman.

Someone warm, supportive, full of life – the kind of woman who makes a house feel like home.

But somehow, that same woman slowly becomes the manager of everyone’s life.

She remembers the bills.

The groceries.

The appointments.

What the kids need.

What the house needs.

What everyone else forgot.

She thinks ahead – always.

What to cook.

What to buy.

What to fix.

What to handle before it becomes a problem.

She takes care of the children.

She keeps the household running.

And on top of all that, she carries the emotional weight of the family – listening, supporting, calming, holding everything together.

And little by little, she becomes exhausted.

Then one day, someone asks her:

“Why aren’t you the way you used to be?”

Really?

She didn’t grow cold.

She didn’t stop loving.

She didn’t suddenly become less feminine.

She went into survival mode.

When a woman carries everything – the responsibilities, the decisions, the emotions – there’s simply no energy left for tenderness.

Tenderness takes strength.

Softness takes space.

Love takes energy.

A woman who lives under constant pressure can’t stay light and gentle forever.

Someone carrying everything alone can’t keep shining the same way she once did.

A woman doesn’t blossom when she’s overloaded.

She blossoms when she feels supported.

Not helped once in a while.

Not watched from the side.

Supported.

By a partner.

Someone who shares responsibility.

Someone who notices her exhaustion without being asked.

Someone who understands that love is not just words – it’s actions.

Because women don’t become cold for no reason.

They become tired.

They become overwhelmed.

They become exhausted.

And if she’s not the same woman she used to be, maybe it’s not because she changed.

Maybe it’s because she’s been strong for two people for far too long.

The Real Reason She’s Not the Same Anymore was originally published in The Final Draft on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A story about pregnancy, fear, and finally finding the strength to leave

When I found out I was pregnant, I felt scared.

Not only because I was young, but because deep inside I didn’t really trust the man I was about to build a life with.

Still, I kept hoping things would change.

I thought maybe the baby would make him more responsible. Maybe he would finally grow up.

But that didn’t happen.

Trying to Build a Life While Pregnant

We only started living together when I was already seven months pregnant.

He always said he didn’t have time to look for housing, so my mother and I were the ones going to see apartments. Imagine – a pregnant woman walking around different places, trying to find somewhere to live.

Some of the places he suggested were honestly terrible.

One day, he and his mother took me to see a house where the toilet was outside, and there was no bathroom at all. I remember standing there in shock, thinking – I’m about to have a baby. How am I supposed to take care of a newborn in conditions like this?

Eventually, we found an apartment in the building next to where his parents lived. He had been living with them in a one-room apartment before that.

We lived together for only about a month or maybe a month and a half before my labor started. And that’s when things got even worse.

When Everything Started Falling Apart

He started drinking more often.

Coming home drunk. Acting aggressively. Starting arguments for no real reason.

He didn’t give me money, even though I wasn’t working at that time because I was finishing university. The fights became constant.

And there was something else I discovered only after we started living together – he didn’t like to wash himself. I literally had to force him to take a shower. Before living together, I had no idea.

He also didn’t save any money for the baby. No stroller. No crib. Nothing – even though he had told me that he had saved money.

When I asked him why he kept lying, we argued again.

One time during an argument, he threw his wallet straight into my face. There wasn’t even much money inside, but that moment stayed in my memory for a long time.

The Night I Will Never Forget

Because of all the stress and constant anxiety, my labor started early – at 34 weeks.

I remember that day very clearly.

He came home drunk and went straight to bed.

That night, I woke up and realized my water had broken.

My labor was very difficult and lasted for several days. But he wasn’t there.

He didn’t even go with me to the hospital that night.

After my daughter was born, something inside me finally changed. I realized I couldn’t go back to that apartment and pretend everything was normal.

So I went back to my parents’ home instead.

The Decision to Leave

We still tried to fix things after that.

Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we tried to make peace.

But nothing really changed.

He didn’t look for better housing. He didn’t make real efforts to build a life for us.

It felt like I was the only one trying to hold everything together.

When my daughter turned one year old, I finally made the decision to file for divorce.

That decision was scary – but it was also the first step toward freedom.

How It Affected Me

I can’t describe every single detail of those years – it would take too long.

But I know that relationship changed me in ways I didn’t expect. I felt broken for a long time.

Trusting people became difficult.

My anxiety got worse.

I started having panic attacks.

Depression followed.

Even now, years later, I am still healing.

Sometimes I blame myself for staying so long. I ask myself why I didn’t leave earlier.

But the truth is – at that time, I felt lost, young, and afraid to be alone.

Even now, although I live thousands of kilometers away from him, his actions still affect my life. He took loans somewhere, and creditors still call my parents, asking for money.

That reminds me how deeply one wrong relationship can affect not only you – but your whole family.

For Women Who Feel Trapped

If there is one thing I want other women to understand from my story, it’s this:

Pay attention to the red flags – even the small ones.

Jealousy is not love.

Control is not care.

Promises without actions mean nothing.

If someone constantly makes you feel anxious, scared, or small – that is not love.

Love should feel safe.

I regret starting that relationship.

But there is one beautiful thing that came from those years – my daughter.

She is the best thing that ever happened to me.

She is the reason I found the strength to leave.

And if my story helps even one woman recognize the warning signs earlier – then sharing it was worth it.

I Had a Baby With Him – And That’s When Everything Fell Apart was originally published in The Final Draft on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.