There are countless reasons to grieve, beyond death.
We can grieve for:
- Break-ups
- A diagnosis
- Missed opportunities
- Being laid off
- Childhood
Lately, I’ve been navigating a different kind of grief—one that stems from two life-changing diagnoses I received in the last year. One revealed that I’m partially deaf in my right ear due to Ménière’s disease, which they say is irreversible. The other, completely unexpected, was that I’m on the autism spectrum.
The hearing loss wasn’t a complete shock—I had known something wasn’t quite right with my hearing for years. Still, learning about Ménière’s disease was unsettling. I had already adapted to living with limited hearing in my right ear, but hearing the name for the first time was a jarring reminder that this change was permanent. I went through a period of grief, but one I had quietly been processing for some time, in my own way.
The autism diagnosis, though, hit me like a wave. I had suspected I might have ADHD, which is why I sought testing. But autism was something I never expected. When the results came back positive, it was a shock. I found myself spiraling, reflecting on my childhood, and revisiting all the ways I had been misunderstood and mistreated.
I was always the “different” kid. I’d rather retreat to the sanctuary of my room and immerse myself in books. Literature became my escape. I didn’t know how to explain to others that I was struggling to fit into their world. I thought, maybe if I just tried harder, I could figure out how to “fit in” like everyone else. But the truth was, I was masking who I was—fighting against my neurochemistry, pushing myself to pretend to be “neurotypical.”
I remember feeling like I had to be someone I wasn’t just to be accepted. In social situations, I’d often freeze up, unsure of how to act or what to say. I remember pretending to understand jokes I didn’t find funny, or smiling when I didn’t feel like it, because I thought that was what everyone expected. And when I couldn’t keep up, I’d retreat, thinking I was somehow broken or less-than.
Now that I have a deeper understanding of myself, it’s clear to me that I wasn’t just “sensitive” or “dramatic” as I was often told, I was autistic. And that made everything harder—especially because I wasn’t accommodated for in a world that expected me to act, think, and react like everyone else.
These diagnoses have taught me that there’s nothing “wrong” with me. Instead, it’s teaching me to advocate for myself, because I’m disabled. For the first time, I feel like I can let go of the unrealistic expectations I’ve always held for myself. I’m learning to show myself compassion, to give myself grace when I can’t meet every demand or expectation. This process isn’t easy, but I’m slowly unlearning the belief that I have to constantly mask or “perform” for others.
Reflecting on my past, I grieve for the child who was forced to act “normal” when it went against the blueprint of my brain. I grieve for all the times I was made to feel “too much” or “not enough” simply because I didn’t fit the ‘neurotypical’ mold.
As I’ve learned more about autism, I’ve realized the grief I carry extends beyond my childhood. It’s tied to other losses, too—the grief of losing a partner and a relationship I thought would last forever.
In Part 2, I’ll dive deeper into that grief, and how it reshaped my view of love, loss, and what it means to move on when everything you thought you had is suddenly gone.
If you’re struggling with grief—whether from a diagnosis, a relationship, or the life you thought you’d have—I see you. Your grief is valid, no matter where it stems from.