Uncredited: Failing Forward
Unmasking the Truth About Success and Self-Doubt After a Late Autism and/or ADHD Diagnosis
If you’ve ever carried shame for struggling in systems that weren’t built for your brain, this series is for you. It’s about the silent pressure to “measure up,” the guilt of feeling like a fraud, and the invisible labor of masking just to survive. For late-diagnosed autistic and ADHD adults, success often comes with self-doubt. As graduation season shines a spotlight on achievement, I’m sharing what it took to finally see myself as worthy of mine. This is a story about unlearning that doubt—and realizing I was never an imposter.
[Uncredited: Failing Forward]
Beginning Senior Week was supposed to be celebratory. A committee of my peers planned curated events, centered on drinking, that we could use to form our last memories as a graduating class. Most involved a “Kum ba yah” spirit where acquaintances drunkenly side hug, acknowledging how interesting the other person is, and how they wished they spent more time together in the four previous years. Impending change leads to whitewashing experiences for post-graduate cognitive dissonance. Everyone will fondly remember these memories at the reunion; It’s all part of the student-to-alumni pipeline. I must be honest and say that I enjoy the vibes exchanged during events like graduation. Artificial or not, positive feedback feels nice. I had enough meaningful relationships to balance the bullshit of the week and was eager to enjoy myself- except I couldn’t.
It was the etymology course I took. I failed it. I failed it big time.
For undergrads lacking natural talent, etymology was one of a few courses available that met the language studies component without being Arabic, Chinese, French, German, Greek, Hebrew, Japanese, Latin, or Spanish. Reading, writing, and speaking in English were challenging enough for me without adding in a new language. Clark University wasn’t alone—every school offered these courses to those who could make it past the wait list. As a final-semester senior, they warmly welcomed me to register for any course fulfilling missing requirements, including language studies. I completed a different “lack-of-natural-talent” course to meet my science requirement the year before
“Discovering Physics” was a magical experience where I sat in a room with a prism for four hours a week and completed group projects. No homework existed. We were there simply to discover physics. Like many of my peers, I attended high and had a delightful time. This was a much better alternative than the biology course I signed up for my first semester that met Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 9am WITH a lab. In the second week of school, I smoked weed for the first time and realized that 9am classes, especially on Fridays, didn’t suit me.
Math was a difficult subject for me and I had some concerns about meeting the requirement in college. I enrolled in a remedial math course in my final two years of high school in order to meet graduation requirements there. The only topic in math I enjoyed was probability, because of my innate strength in pattern recognition. I connected to the rules and applications almost immediately upon being introduced to them. This came in handy at Clark when I found a probability course that met the math requirement. In a unique twist, I relished in helping those who struggled to wrap their minds around something that they couldn’t understand. To call it rewarding trivializes the experience.
Back to etymology. The language component of the liberal arts curriculum taunted me every registration period. I had a traumatizing experience with French class in high school and was not eager to replicate it. To make things more daunting, most of the language courses required a full year of study- two courses. I put things off until my first semester senior year, where I started a childhood psychology course about language development. One class, with a look at the syllabus, and I freaked out. I had never taken a psychology course and felt overwhelmed. I dropped the course as soon as I could. The language component of my degree had been pushed into my final semester.
To check out a list of my series with descriptions and links, click below.
A soon-to-retire, experienced professor taught the course. He relished in sitting at his desk in the front of the class and lecturing without interruption. It resembled a scene in a movie, but less entertaining. He had a reserved tone and cadence. Engagement proved difficult; my methods failed. My key to academic success was a simple strategy: meticulously record everything the professor said in all my classes. This was especially true for courses within both my major and minor. Professors told me what they wanted to hear. I always struggled with reading. This approach allowed me to skim the reading materials before class enough to ask or answer a question, and then gather the information I needed to succeed in exams. The seminar format used, three hours a week per class, wasn’t a burden given my interest in the subjects.
This particular professor, teaching this particular course proved that even the best systems are not made for every dynamic. His class was in the early afternoon, after lunch. It didn’t help that my lunch spot was so much fun. I stopped using the university dining facilities after my sophomore year. The last two years involved me cooking for myself at home, eating at work, or eating at a diner next to campus called Annie’s. That place was magical.
Annie ran the grill, her daughter Megan waited tables, and an intriguing woman named Martha served home-style fare from a kitchen in the back. I felt like family there, and they treated me like it. Pictures of past “regulars” and community members over the years covered the walls. And pigs. Annie loved to collect pig-themed decor. As family does, they invited me to walk in, grab a mug, and pour my coffee before finding a seat. Annie let me keep a tab and pay it when I could. She provided this service to anyone who needed it. The diner was like a second mom’s house, where she awaited your visit with comforting food. This place drew a diverse crowd of intelligent, engaging people. Everyone was welcome. When it got busy, Annie would merge tables together. Nobody minded. Everyone was just happy to be there.
A place like this attracted an open-minded clientele and smoking a little weed after morning classes before heading there wasn’t unusual. Why would I challenge the norm? My intention was always to spend an hour there between classes. Annie’s served more than just great food, it served much-needed regulation. As an undiagnosed autistic with ADHD, I needed a lot of that. While my subconscious goal was to eat, regulate, and go, that wasn’t realistic. I positioned myself in an unsustainable predicament during my final semester. My schedule didn’t account for all the breaks I required, and the universe regulated for me.
I expected a straightforward etymology course experience. I unironically enjoy words and thought learning about their origins would be interesting. Boy, was I wrong. Initially, I arrived sober. It was awful. I tried showing up high. It was still awful. My mind couldn’t focus on the topic with his delivery style and wandered into daydreams. I started skipping class and extending my regulation time at Annie’s instead. One class lead to most of them. I hypothesized my general interest in words might help me pass the tests. My hypothesis proved incorrect. I registered for this class, along with any other that would permit me to that semester, with a “pass/fail” grading option to avoid a negative impact on my grade point average. The grades I earned weren’t important; I simply had to pass the classes. My plan worked for every class that semester, except for this one.
Toward the end of the semester, the time I spent regulating at Annie’s instead of my etymology seminars ensured I would not pass the course. It weighed on me. I worked to find comfort within this reality. I reminded myself that my father had to take summer classes to finish his degree after his last semester of college. Similar to him, I knew I could earn any missing credits later. Logistical issues weren’t my problem. My problem was shame.
New around here? Click the button below to get your bearings.
My aunt, uncle, cousin, and brother planned to come to my graduation ceremony from out of state. The shame of failure was too much to bear; I was incapable of telling them about my academic struggles. In the worst-case scenario, the school would let me take part in the ceremony, handing me an empty diploma cover. I figured I could conceal that from my family, should the need arise. Honestly, I was in denial and overwhelmed.
This leads me to the Monday of Senior Week. I visited my professor the week prior to discuss my situation. I’m sure this was a common dynamic for him and he had several failing students in his office with puppy dog eyes that year (and every year he taught the course). He proposed I write a paper on a self-selected topic, fulfilling a specific page requirement. That weekend, I balanced late-night partying with daytime research at the library, writing an essay on the origins of ethnic slurs using my Smith Corona word processor.
As usual, I finished at the last minute, printed it, and headed to his office with minutes to spare. That evening, the first Senior Week activity was to take place, with graduation just six days away. Anxiety filled me as I crossed through campus, passing my freshman dorm. They were putting up the tent for graduation in the green. It was a beautiful spring day with flowers in trees and blue skies. I made it to the English House, walked upstairs, and submitted my paper on time. The outcome was unexpected.
More context is needed before we can talk about what happened that afternoon. To understand that, we need to revisit my early days at Clark.
During those humid August days, I encountered an overwhelming number of new people, places, and situations. It was a blur. Somewhere along the way, someone told me I should attend convocation. During the ceremony, they mentioned students getting scholarships and asked them to stand. They named each scholarship after wealthy alumni or donors and announced the recipients as “(scholarship name) scholars.” I believed there were others who earned the same scholarship I did. I was mistaken. I stood alone as everyone clapped when my name was called. They called me a scholar. To be honest, I was both shocked and a little embarrassed. I avoided convocations from then on. Too much pressure.
To this day, I don’t know why they selected me for this scholarship. I was an average student in my small Central New York district, at best. I scraped 1070 on my SATs. The only possible help I received came from a last-minute participation in Boys State, leading the school’s environmental club, and a sponsorship for a summer exchange program. I awkwardly played each part. There may have been other considerations. The emotional resonance of my essay, which described yearning for the life outside my bedroom window, might have also contributed to my success. It enthralled. Regardless of the reason I was selected, after that convocation, I pushed the whole thing out of my mind.
I was busy with other matters. I was finally on my own and ready for a change. This wasn’t my solo debut. I had spent time away from my family on youth-group road trips, at summer camp, visiting relatives, and taking part in that exchange program. Every day I spent away from Marcellus inspired daydreams about leaving it. I watched The Real World. I knew what was out there. My plan was to make it through high school, move to an apartment in the big city, and furnish it with stuff from IKEA. I resolved to create the life I wanted on my terms. My plan was set in motion. My future was just beginning.
If you are had a late autism or ADHD diagnosis, what was your college experience or professional training like? What did you need? How did you regulate? Did you have a place like Annie’s? Were you tough or easy on yourself? What do you think about it all now?
Read the next and final post in this series by clicking the button below.