I’ve never been good with ambiguity.

Tell me you’ll text me “later,” and I’ll immediately wonder if that means in ten minutes, ten hours, or sometime before the next solar eclipse. When someone says, “Let’s see where this goes,” my brain automatically demands a map, a schedule, and possibly a written contract. Dating apps, with their vague “looking for something casual but maybe serious but not sure yet” energy, feel like a psychological Irish Times Crossword, and I’ve never been able to finish that.

I used to think everyone else had secretly been handed the Rule Book of Human Interaction in their teens, and mine just got lost in the post. It turns out that it wasn’t lost, but written in a neurotypical dialect that I couldn’t quite translate. Dating in your 40s is already an adventure, part social experiment, part emotional endurance test, part spiritual practice. Add in a late autism diagnosis, and suddenly it’s less Sex and the City and more Survival in the Sensory Jungle.

Or perhaps like joining a gym in January, everyone’s enthusiastic, a bit deluded, and just hoping to find something that makes them feel alive again. While also wondering if this whole “romance” thing came with an instruction manual, you somehow lost around 1998.

When I was officially diagnosed as autistic, something clicked like the universe finally whispered, “Oh, by the way, this is why loud restaurants make you want to hide under the table and crowds of people cause a deep panic.” It was equal parts revelation and relief. Finally, all the moments that once felt like character flaws, the sensory overloads, the deep dives into niche fascinations, the social hangovers after too much “peopling” started to make sense.

So, when I re-entered the dating world, I made a pact with myself: I’d be honest about my autism. Not as a test, not as a confession, but as an act of self-respect. If I’m going to share my energy and my time, I want it to be with someone who knows I might occasionally need to stare at a candle flame for a few minutes before I can form words again.

What I didn’t realise, however, was how creative people could be with their responses.

“Are you like… Rain Man?”

That was one man’s genuine question asked with the sort of puzzled sincerity usually reserved for complex IKEA instructions.

I laughed. Hard.Because anyone who knows me knows I struggle profoundly with numbers, time, and anything remotely number-adjacent.. If there’s a patron saint of the numerically challenged, I have her candle lit permanently.

Counting cards? I can barely count change. Telling time? Only if it’s digital. Rain Man? More likely to be on Google asking, “How many weeks are in six months?” again.

“I don’t want to date someone weird.”

Another memorable moment. He stood up, mid-flat white, and declared this as if he were giving a public service announcement.

And here’s the thing, I didn’t feel rejected or judged. I felt free.

Because I realised in that moment that weird is often code for different in a way I don’t understand.

And I no longer apologise for being different. I’ve spent decades trying to squeeze myself into the shape of what I thought others wanted: smaller, quieter, more predictable. Autism didn’t make me strange; it made me real.

So when people call me weird, I take it as a compliment. Weird means alive. Weird means awake. Weird means I haven’t completely numbed myself to fit into a world that rewards conformity.

“You don’t look autistic, are you certain?”

Ah, yes, the classic. Always delivered with a mixture of confusion and unintentional comedy.

That particular date went on to tell me he’d read an article online claiming psychologists were falsifying data about autism. He said this while earnestly sipping his smoothie like he’d just cracked the Da Vinci Code.

I smiled politely while my inner therapist whispered, “You can’t fix this one.”

There’s something strangely liberating about realising you don’t need to educate everyone. Not everyone is ready to meet your truth with curiosity, and that’s okay. I no longer chase understanding from those who aren’t interested in offering it.

The Gift of Self-Knowledge

Being autistic doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I process the world differently, more intensely, more deeply, sometimes more awkwardly. But it also means I love with the full force of my attention.

I listen with my whole body. I notice details others miss: the micro-expressions, the rhythm of silence, the way someone’s eyes soften when they speak about what they love. And when I connect, it’s never halfway.

Autism isn’t something to overcome; it’s something to understand, to honour, and to integrate.

And in the wild, weird ecosystem of modern dating, where ghosting is common and communication is often reduced to emojis, being neurodivergent has become my most excellent filter. It quickly reveals who can meet me in my depth, and who’s here for the surface-level swim.

Love, Light, and Noise-Cancelling Headphones

I used to think dating was about finding someone to complete me. Now I know it’s about finding someone who can sit with me in comfortable silence while I unmask and just be.

The truth is, I no longer want to be the woman who contorts herself to fit the expectations of others. I’d rather be the woman who shows up as her gloriously messy, authentic, slightly-too-honest, occasionally-overstimulated self and trusts that the right person will see that as magic, not madness.

So yes, dating in your 40s while autistic isn’t easy. It’s unpredictable, often absurd, occasionally exhausting, but it’s also deeply clarifying.

Because when you learn to accept yourself fully, including quirks, traits, and hyperfixations, rejection stops feeling like a failure and starts feeling like a filter.

And that is the real power of growing older, wiser, and infinitely more yourself.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to recharge my social battery and make peace with my calendar, which I’ve once again accidentally double-booked.

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