Being “mildly” neurodivergent — because apparently everyone thinks that Level 1 autism means “mild autism” — is a myth.
Level 1 autism is generally understood as requiring less support than Levels 2 or 3. But requiring less support does not mean requiring no support at all.
It does not mean that our difficulties are insignificant, that we can simply overcome them by trying harder, or that the absence of visible distress means the absence of distress altogether.
Those support needs exist.
And they hurt.
When attention to detail becomes “too much detail”
Throughout my life, I have researched, investigated, written academic papers and wrote papers to international articles with double-blind peer review as first author.
My brain naturally seeks connections, patterns, explanations and details. I do not merely want to know what must be done: I need to understand how, in which order, according to which rules and for what reason.
Throughout my life, I have also been told that I “go into too much detail”.
Autistic people often notice, retain and value details that others overlook. I certainly do. In my professional life, this attention to detail can be an enormous asset. It allows me to examine language closely, identify inconsistencies, question terminology, investigate context, and review my own work repeatedly before delivering it.
But the same cognitive trait that is praised when it produces excellent work is often treated as a problem when it requires other people to communicate more clearly.
That contradiction matters.
I cannot follow a rule that nobody has explained
Instructions — whether I am giving or receiving them — need to be clear and provided step by step.
I do not automatically infer what has not been said.
Something that may seem “obvious”, “basic” or based on “common sense” to someone else effectively does not exist for me unless it is stated, explained or established as a rule.
If a process is written down step by step, I will follow it precisely. If part of that process is omitted because someone assumes that everybody will understand it intuitively, I may not infer what is missing.
This is not carelessness.
It is not laziness.
It is not a lack of intelligence, competence, or professional commitment.
It is a difference in how my brain processes information.
The number of problems this has caused me throughout my life is almost unbelievable. Not because I was incapable of doing what was expected.
But because expectations were left unspoken and I was later judged as though I had consciously chosen to ignore them.
You cannot comply with an instruction you were never given.
Inclusion requires more than legislation
Inclusion is not merely a collection of laws, policies, corporate statements and official declarations.
A company can describe itself as inclusive and still communicate in ways that systematically exclude neurodivergent people. A workplace can claim to value different perspectives while expecting every employee or freelancer to process information, interpret ambiguity, and communicate in exactly the same way.
Real inclusion also means understanding that some of us are extremely literal. It means accepting that clear written instructions, explicit expectations and step-by-step processes are not special privileges. They are reasonable adjustments that allow us to work under genuinely equitable conditions.
Treating everyone identically is not always fair.
If one person can infer an unwritten rule and another person cannot, giving neither of them explicit instructions may be equal treatment, but it is not equitable treatment.
And without equity, inclusion becomes little more than a word.
When impostor syndrome meets an inaccessible environment
Now add persistent impostor syndrome, chronic depression, and generalized anxiety disorder to this reality.
Mix them all together with unclear instructions, unspoken expectations, and the constant fear that one mistake will confirm every doubt you have ever had about your professional abilities.
That offers a brief glimpse of what my past week looked like.
When something goes wrong, my brain does not immediately conclude that the process may have been unclear or that the information provided may have been incomplete. It turns against me first.
Perhaps I misunderstood everything.
Perhaps I am not as competent as I thought.
Perhaps the quality of my previous work was accidental.
Perhaps someone will finally discover that I should never have been here.
That is where impostor syndrome becomes more than ordinary professional self-doubt. It interacts with years of being criticised for processing information differently, missing rules that were never explained and being expected to understand things intuitively when intuition is precisely what I cannot rely on.
I know the quality of my work
I know I do my job well.
I know the quality of my work.
I know how much research, attention, and intellectual effort I put into every project.
I also know that my brain processes information differently from yours.
Both things can be true at the same time.
Needing explicit instructions does not erase my knowledge. Asking detailed questions does not make me less competent. Requiring clarity does not diminish the value of the work I produce.
But when no reasonable adjustments are made for those differences, the principle of equity immediately collapses.
And in a society or workplace where equity is disregarded, inclusion does not exist.
It really is that simple.
