I don’t see myself as broken anymore.
My hyperfocus isn’t self-obsession. Leaving a party early isn’t selfishness. The unopened messages aren’t proof that I don’t care. Struggling through small talk isn’t indifference.
It’s my nervous system. It’s the way my brain is wired.
I realize now that narcissists don’t lie awake dissecting their tone. They don’t spend years worrying they’ve taken up too much space.
I still replay conversations in my head. I still leave social events early and feel the familiar rush of relief when I get home. I still sometimes hold onto comments longer than I’d like. But I no longer interpret those things as evidence that I am fundamentally defective.
For most of my life, I scanned myself for signs I was too much, too cold, too selfish — not enough. Since my diagnosis, that internal surveillance has softened.
Now, when my phone lights up with a WhatsApp message, the dread isn’t quite as sharp. Sometimes I still don’t open it right away. Sometimes I reply weeks later with a brief explanation instead of an elaborate apology.
I’m not justifying myself anymore. I’m finally understanding myself.
Ironically, learning that I’m autistic has made me feel less narcissistic — and more open to connection. I know that caring about people doesn’t always look the way I thought it was supposed to.
And when I see those unread messages now, I assume I’m just overwhelmed — not a bad person.
Lara Rodwell is a lifestyle writer focusing on identity, mental health and modern connection. Her work explores loneliness, belonging and the social pressures shaping how we relate to one another today. She is also the founder of The Lonely Club, a community initiative creating inclusive spaces for meaningful connection.
This article originally appeared on HuffPost in May 2026.