I’m Not ‘Too Much’—You’re Just Not Enough for This Energy

I always knew something was different.

It was in my report cards - “exceptional, but struggles with staying on task.”

It was in my performance reviews - “incredibly effective, high standards, but a bit intense.”

It was in the way I asked “why” one too many times in meetings and got side-eyed for not just

letting things go.

So when I was officially diagnosed with autism at 48 - Level 1, female-presenting,

late-diagnosed, masked-to-the-point-of-exhaustion, it didn’t feel shocking. It felt like the final

puzzle piece clicking into place. Like my brain had been whispering “I’ve been trying to tell you this your whole life.”

Getting the diagnosis didn’t change who I am. It changed how I understand myself. And it

completely reframed how I show up at work - and how I see the way I’ve been misunderstood

there for decades.

Because when you’re a woman on the spectrum, especially one who’s climbed ladders, raised

kids, buried parents, built teams, kept receipts, and still shows up clean and clever and

competent - your neurodivergence doesn’t look like what they expect. It looks like intensity. It

looks like “too many questions.” It looks like “she’s always got something to say.”

They don’t see autism. They see a problem.

Let me paint the picture:

I ask “why” when something doesn’t make sense.

I get fixated when a process is broken.

I notice patterns - data, behavior, language - and I won’t let them go.

I want clarity. Not because I’m trying to be difficult. Because ambiguity is the fast lane to burnout for someone like me.

And when I don’t get it? I spiral. Or I shut down.

But here’s the kicker: in most workplaces, this makes me too much.

Too assertive. Too sensitive. Too direct. Too rigid. Too intense. Too... honest.

(Meanwhile, Shawn gets a trophy for “passion” when he has the same traits but with a Y

chromosome and a lower EQ.)

I’ve spent decades contorting myself into a shape more palatable to others, softening my voice, sanding down my edges, and offering “just suggestions” when I knew damn well it was the right answer. Masking. Smiling. Adapting. All while my nervous system was screaming.

Because women with ASD don’t show up the way people expect. We’re not always visibly

struggling.

● We lead.

● We organize.

● We solve.

● We build.

● We burn bright, until we burn out.

The worst part? Even when we succeed, we’re misunderstood. That sharpness you envy in a

crisis? That hyperfocus that saves a failing project? That ability to read between the lines of a

policy, a budget, a conversation? That’s autism, baby.

But it’s not labeled as a strength.

It’s “a lot.”

It’s “hard to manage.”

It’s “not a team player.”

So, here’s what I wish more workplaces understood:

We’re not being difficult—we’re being precise.

We’re not trying to argue; we’re trying to understand. When I ask five follow-up questions, it’s

not to challenge your authority—it’s to make sure what we’re building won’t collapse under the weight of its own assumptions.

Our need for clarity is not negotiable.

“Because I said so” doesn’t fly. Tell me why, every time. Vague goals, inconsistent leadership,

shifting expectations? That’s not “being flexible.” That’s chaos. And chaos fries our circuits.

Meetings without purpose are pain points.

Give me an agenda, a timeframe, and a reason to be there or don’t invite me. I’m not here to

perform productivity. I’m here to be productive.

Just because we’re not chatty doesn’t mean we’re not connected.

Small talk isn’t always in our toolkit, but trust me, we’re tracking the emotional undercurrent of

every interaction. If you want to build rapport, show up authentically. We’ll meet you there.

We mask because the world demands it—but it comes at a cost.

And when we trust you enough to unmask, that’s not a threat to team culture. That’s the biggest compliment we can give you.

I used to shrink in the face of being “too much.” Now? I refuse. I’m not going to apologize for

how I work. For how I lead. For how I think, sense, process, and persist.

You think I’m too much?

Maybe you’re just not enough—for this energy. For this brain. For this era.

Because here’s the truth: I’ve spent my whole life meeting people where they are. And I’m done. If you want this brilliance, this loyalty, this relentless integrity—you’re gonna have to meet me halfway.

And if that makes me “too much,” then maybe the problem isn’t me.