This one's about imposter syndrome.

TikTok diagnosed me as Autistic. Alright, I’m being facetious—a real, actual, fancy-degree-having doctor diagnosed me, but it was TikTok that was the first to figure it out. It was TikTok that pointed me in the right direction, and it was TikTok that motivated me to keep investigating Autism after my therapist scoffed at the idea that I could be Autistic…

After several months of The Algorithm insisting I must have that “‘tism rizz,” I brought it up to my therapist.¹ She laughed at me. “No, I don’t think you’re Autistic,” she proclaimed. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or upset. It was the way she laughed—was it really such a ridiculous question? But she was a “mental health professional,” so she knew what she was talking about, right?

After several months more, I ended therapy and decided to follow my hunch: I began my own investigation, starting with Dr. Devon Price’s Unmasking Autism. Just a few pages in, these words hit me like a truck:

Though a masked Autistic child has no way of explaining why they find life so difficult, they suffer all the same. Peers detect there’s something unnameably “off” about them, and exclude them despite their best attempts at friendliness. When the child makes themselves small and inobtrusive, they’re granted some of the affection they desperately crave and never get enough of. So they do it more and more, quieting the voice inside themselves that says how they’re being treated isn’t fair. They work hard, demand little, and play by society’s rules as closely as possible. They grow into an adult who is even more self-effacing, and even less capable of voicing how they feel.

In a single paragraph, Dr. Price had perfectly described what I had been trying to explain my entire life, but could never find the words to do so. I put the book down and cried for a while. Happy tears, or sad tears; perhaps a mix of both.

In the weeks and months that followed, I continued down the Autism rabbit hole: More books! More videos! More TikTok! I started an “Autism Log” in the Notes app on my phone, detailing all my Autistic traits, test scores, notes from interviews with friends and family, and whatever else I deemed important. It became so long that the app would misbehave whenever I tried to add new information.

However, I began to notice something was off. Social interaction suddenly felt more exhausting. Sounds, lights, and textures seemed more bothersome than usual. Life, in general, seemed more tiring.

It seemed odd to me that I was starting to exhibit Autistic traits after researching them so heavily. Was I simply replicating the traits I was learning about? Was I, in a sense, willing myself to be Autistic?

Of course, this was a ridiculous train of thought. No one wants to be Autistic. It isn’t “cool” or “trendy” to be Autistic—these are the claims of bigots. One of the first hurdles I had to overcome in my Autism journey was deconstructing the attitudes toward Autism stemming from my school days: Back then, Autism was an insult. To be Autistic would have been social-suicide.

No, I wasn’t “faking” it; I had learned to recognize what had always been there.

After a few months, I was still facing the same difficulties, the same sensitivities, and getting the same Autism test scores. It seemed clear to me that the next step was an official diagnosis. Living in Japan but needing the process conducted in English made things a little tricky, but eventually I found a clinic that fit the bill. Soon, the day of my evaluation came, and with it, the confirmation that I am Autistic.

My main reason for pursuing a diagnosis was to eliminate any doubt regarding whether or not I was Autistic. I was looking for an official seal of approval. I wanted a doctor’s signature saying, “Yes, Sage really is Autistic.” Even though all the research I had done very clearly pointed toward that very conclusion, I couldn’t fully accept it on my own.

A voice in the back of my mind had been seeding doubt: Maybe you’re desperate for justification for your self-created misery. Maybe this is all just confirmation bias. Maybe you’re a hypochondriac. You’re not Autistic!

My hope was that diagnosis would silence that voice. In reality, I’ve seen mixed results. On difficult days, it’s very clear to me when I’m running up against the limits of my abilities as a disabled Autistic person. On those days, the voice is silent. But sometimes I have good days, and it’s then that the critic makes his grand return: You sure you’re Autistic? Maybe you just acted Autistic for that doctor. Look at yourself—you’re fine!

Unfortunately, so much of the discussion around Autism is focused on the spectrum’s negative aspects. The DSM-5’s criteria center around “deficits” and the expectation that an Autistic person should be struggling. If we aren’t suffering, we’re not Autistic.

Well, I do struggle—more often than not—but sometimes I wonder if I struggle enough, or if I’m Autistic enough.

Logically, I know these insecurities are nonsense. There is no such thing as not being “Autistic enough.” Autistic people are allowed to have good days. We’re allowed to not constantly struggle. It isn’t a competition.

I know these things to be true, yet still, I doubt.

And so, I write. I write to record my experiences, my struggles, and my victories, too; evidence of my validity as an Autistic person. So that whenever the critic decides to make himself known, I can look back on these words and use them as ammunition as against him.

With time, perhaps I can finally defeat him. Perhaps I can push Mr. Doubt backward, little-by-little, until one day he falls off the edge of my brain, never to be heard from again.

Until that day, I will write.