"To the outside world families may seem ordinary, but there was a quietness that shaped my childhood, creating an altogether experience from what others might have expected.

I always felt different. The world around me moved at a pace I struggled to keep up with and moments that brought fun to my peers felt dauntingly overwhelming. I didn’t laugh, there was no humour with me, instead those were replaced by a quiet contemplation that lingered. I was stuck in my own little world. I had no idea why. While other children played, I remember being on the side-lines, observing, analysing, wishing I could join in, feeling angry, upset with myself – yearning for a connection I could never quite grasp, or understand.

As I grew older, my parents seemed determined to maintain an air of normalcy around me. Conversations about developmental milestones didn’t arise, diverting attention, reassuring family and friends that asked about me that everything was fine. And that’s how I fundamentally grew up. My disability or what I later learned was a disability wasn't on the radar.

I became adept at masking my struggles. I practiced the art of pretending, slipping into the roles that others expected of me, while feeling the weight of my realities. I navigated the school halls, without understanding the noise and chaos, traffic jam in my head. I soldiered on, eager to please. My schoolwork took a hefty knock, teachers noticed my struggles, but nothing was ever done to help me function in my school years.

I was very young when some of the truth began to unravel. The specialist raising a question about my mental abilities when I was just 2 years old helped open the door, but it was simply a thought process that continued to remain tucked away. Nothing was done; I soldiered on, still living with physical, mental and emotional struggles.

I spent years feeling disconnected from my own reality, unable to understand why I was affected in certain ways. It took a long time to untangle the confusion and uncover the truth. When I finally began to understand, it was overwhelming at first, but gradually it became liberating. These revelations brought much-needed clarity to the hidden mental battles I had been fighting for so long. It wasn't until my forties that I received a late diagnosis of cerebral palsy, and then in my fifties, a diagnosis of autism, that everything began to make sense. The challenges with coordination, the struggles I faced in school, and the constant sense of sensory overload finally had explanations. But with this understanding came questions. Why had these truths not been acknowledged and why had no one confronted or dealt with them earlier?

I did eventually manage to ask the question of why I wasn’t told, and what came back from my father I didn’t anticipate or expect to hear and which took me by surprise. Years on from that late conversation and my take on it, is that while my parents had spent years avoiding my disability, wanting me to be the same as my siblings, this wasn’t much about that, more about it was easier to ignore because then the whole situation would go away and it didn’t need to be addressed. My disability didn’t fit into their lives and as a result I continued to struggle and soldier on. It was never about protection because ignoring something as big as a disability doesn’t mean you’re protected – ignoring it will make you even more exposed. This was my life.

It mattered to me – knowing who I am and why I've spent a lifetime struggling is important – understanding why I feel the way I do – they are a part of me that I needed to find acceptance on – we all have a right – no one should have to remain hidden.

Through my writing – and for the first time I feel seen – as an individual with a profound story of resilience. Though the journey ahead isn’t easy, I have discovered strength in authenticity. With renewed purpose, I continue to advocate for myself, determined to navigate life on my terms. I embrace my unique perspective, learning to celebrate my differences and forge connections in a world that now feels a little less daunting.

In my growth, I have found the power to rewrite my narrative, paving the way for others to do the same – a story no longer hidden, but shared, full of hope and possibility. Writing about my disability not only symbolises the light of understanding on a disability I knew nothing about, but the endless potential for me to have a brighter tomorrow."