Cristina Collins

Asking a Second Question

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For most of my life, I thought ADHD explained everything. And in many ways, it explained a lot.

But as I've learned more about neurodivergence, I've become curious about other parts of myself too: the sensory overwhelm, the intensity of my interests, the way I can disappear into something that fascinates me for hours, and how exhausting environments that seem completely ordinary to other people can sometimes feel to me.

Eventually, I found myself asking another question:

Could autism be part of my story too?

I don't have a definitive answer to that question, and I've become surprisingly comfortable saying so.
I've completed a number of screening and self-report measures out of curiosity. Some pointed toward autistic traits, while others painted a more nuanced picture. What emerged most consistently wasn't a label — it was a much clearer understanding of how I experience the world.

Sensory processing, in particular, finally gave language to something I've accommodated for most of my life without realizing that's what I was doing.

I need quiet to think. Background sounds don't always stay in the background. Crowds and highly stimulating environments can drain me. I've naturally created quiet spaces for myself and learned when I need time alone to recharge, long before anyone gave me terminology for why.

I've also recognized how deeply my attention can settle into something that fascinates me. When I'm interested, I don't simply want to learn about something — I want to understand everything about it.
None of those discoveries changed who I am.

They've helped me understand the person I've been all along.

What I Learned From Asking
 

Here is what I didn't expect: even exploring the question made me nervous.

I caught myself wondering what I might discover and what it could mean for how I understood myself. There's a particular vulnerability in answering honest questions about your inner world and knowing that something is going to come back.

Experiencing that uncertainty gave me a deeper appreciation for what it takes to seek clarity about your own mind,  and how emotional that process can be.

A few things I've learned along the way:

You can want clarity and feel afraid of what that clarity might mean at the same time. Curiosity, relief, fear, hope, uncertainty — even conflicting feelings — can all exist together.

Results are information, not a verdict. They can help describe patterns and give language to experiences, but they don't tell you who you are or outrank your own knowledge of your life.

There can be grief in understanding yourself differently. Sometimes new understanding means looking back at earlier versions of yourself with entirely different eyes and wondering what might have been different if you'd known then what you know now.

A label isn't the only valuable outcome. Some people want a formal answer. Others want language for their experiences, greater self-understanding, or practical ways to make life work better.

Not every exploration ends with a perfectly tidy answer. Sometimes greater self-understanding comes before certainty about a label or without a label at all. That doesn't make what you've learned about yourself any less valuable.

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