I’ve spent much of my life feeling like I didn’t quite fit. I struggled with moments that others seemed to easily handle, like saying goodbye to trusted people or navigating social situations. For years, I thought the problem was just me – I wasn’t trying hard enough, I wasn’t good enough, I wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until my late diagnoses at university that everything finally started to make some sense.
Being diagnosed as neurodivergent later in life has been both a relief and a challenge. It’s given me the language to understand myself better, but it’s also made me reflect on how much of my life could have been different if I’d known sooner. The lack of understanding in my early years has contributed to some debilitating mental health conditions, while also making a physical condition more challenging to manage. I still struggle with the frustration of “what ifs,” wondering how different—and perhaps easier—my path through life might have been, even though I know I can’t change the past and that, in fact, my journey has led me to where I am today.
Before my diagnoses, I often felt like I was walking through life with an invisible barrier between myself and everyone else. I didn’t understand why I struggled so much with things like change, endings, or feeling misunderstood. I carried this horrible feeling of being “different” without ever having a name for it.
Looking back, I see how this lack of understanding affected so many aspects of my life. Relationships felt harder to maintain, and I often found myself withdrawing when I didn’t feel seen. Without a diagnosis, I internalised this as a personal failing – a pattern that only deepened the shame and confusion.
Not knowing why you’re struggling and repeatedly feeling misunderstood has become a trauma in my life. I don’t blame anyone for this, but I do grieve for the younger version of myself who didn’t have the tools or support to look after herself. It’s a grief I’m still working through, along with skills I’m having to learn later on in life.
Even now, I sometimes feel hesitant to share that I’m neurodivergent openly. I’ve feared being misunderstood or judged, and, if I’m honest, I’ve felt embarrassed to admit it at times. That embarrassment stems from societal misconceptions that I am ashamed to admit I once held myself – misconceptions I now work hard to challenge, both in myself and others.
Receiving my diagnosis during my studies was a turning point. For the first time, I had a framework to understand myself – not as “broken,” but as someone whose brain simply works differently from the narrative that had been pushed on me throughout school. This knowledge has been empowering. It’s allowed me to advocate for myself, set better boundaries, and connect with like-minded individuals who truly understand.
The word “disabled” isn’t negative or scary – it’s neutral. Accepting this has been a journey, but it’s one I’m grateful to be on. I say I am disabled for different conditions combined, but I would always encourage you to ask individuals what they prefer. Everyone is different, and that’s ok. After all, wouldn’t it be boring if we were all the same?
My recent work with Scope, a disability charity, has been one of the most rewarding parts of this journey. I’ve met incredible people who inspire me every day with their resilience, kindness, and passion for creating change. Through my projects with the Disability and Neuroinclusion team on campus, I’ve also found a space where I can be myself without fear of judgement. I am entirely grateful for this.
I’ve also been surprised and heartened by the openness of my colleagues during Disability and Neurodivergence Month. Their willingness to learn and engage at events has been deeply encouraging, even if a part of me still finds it bittersweet that I notice this openness so much.
A huge part of being neurodivergent for me is finding the joy in the little things. Whether it’s seeing trusted people, finding the perfect item, or getting excited about a new project, these moments remind me of who I am – someone the little version of me would feel so nurtured by. I no longer feel ashamed of these parts of myself – they’re what make me me, and I wouldn’t change that, even if sometimes the feelings attached don’t always feel so positive at first.
If you’re reading this and navigating your own journey with being neurodivergent and/or disabled, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I’m still learning, too, and I don’t have all the answers, but I’m here to listen, support, and share experiences. Your voice matters, and your story is important.
Students are always welcome to reach out to me. My email is ussu.vpsupport@surrey.ac.uk, I’d be more than happy to learn alongside you, amplify voices, and help create a safe space where we can all feel seen and understood.
Sam (she/her)
VP Support, 2024-25
