It’s April again, which means unpredictable downpours, the hopeful return of sunshine, and—most importantly—Autism Acceptance Month. If you’re thinking, 'Wait… what exactly is that?' You're not alone. Lots of people know autism exists, but understanding it is a whole different story.

Autism is a spectrum, and there’s always more to learn.

I’m Bethan Read, a neurodiversity coach and mentor trainer based in York and an official member of the ND club since 1985. I spend my days supporting autistic and otherwise neurodivergent adults. After many jobs and many experiences—some my own—I’ve learnt a lot about what ND adulthood can look and feel like. (Spoiler: it doesn’t magically disappear when you hit 18, thankfully.)
One of the biggest themes I see, both in myself and in the people I work with, when it comes to the workplace is masking. People‑pleasing. Nodding along. The 'Yep, totally got it!' face while your brain is quietly panicking because you absolutely do not get it.

This shows up everywhere: in social interactions, work, and family life. I’ve had so many moments of not knowing when a conversation is finished, doing the 'Do I stay or do I go?' awkward dance, getting lost in group chats, or feeling like everyone else is more intelligent because they seem to 'get it' instantly while I’m stood there thinking, "Huh?"

For years, I was the queen of pretending I understood, when l absolutely did not. Someone would explain something, and I’d instantly smile, nod, maybe even throw in a cheerful 'No worries!' because I didn’t want to look difficult. Then I’d spend hours trying to decode what on earth I was supposed to do. A simple task could swallow an entire afternoon—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I was trying to interpret while performing 'Everything's fine!' at an award‑winning level.

By the time I’d finished, I’d be exhausted and still had the rest of my day’s work to do. Many days ended in migraines, tears, or that classic neurodivergent shutdown where your brain simply exits the building. But on the outside? Oscar-worthy performance of 'Totally fine’. Many ND people struggle alone because they fear being seen as different or misunderstood—because it’s already happened more times than they can count.

Looking back, I know exactly what could have helped: repetition, providing written steps (including the hidden ones people forget to mention); using clear direct wording (promise I don’t think you’re being rude), or checking in with 'Does that make sense?' in a way that actually invites honesty. Silence doesn’t always mean understanding.

Sometimes it means trying hard not to look like you’re struggling.

Then there are open‑plan offices—always an experience. (Hot desking is still a firm NO from me.) The lights, the chatter, the phones, the movement, the smell of someone’s lunch… my brain would be trying to process all of it at once. By 10am, I was already running on fumes. I once had a manager point at a desk and say, 'It’s your desk, isn’t it?' He got it. I’d chosen a spot where the light wasn’t too bright, the noise wasn’t too much, and I didn’t feel on display.

Moving felt like unplugging my entire operating system. For some people, hot desking is a mild inconvenience. For a neurodivergent brain that thrives on predictability and familiarity, it’s basically a horror film.

Meetings weren’t easier. I’d be trying to listen to the person in front of me, genuinely interested, but my brain would tune into everything else: the conversation across the room, the person who just walked in, the printer whirring, the lights buzzing. All while juggling several internal thoughts and fighting the urge to interrupt before they vanished forever.

And then there were the back‑to‑back meetings. On the outside, I looked like I was thriving—full of ideas, hyper‑focused, running on adrenaline. I’ve been told, 'You’re brilliant under pressure,' and in the moment, I was. My brain loves a bit of chaos. But what people didn’t see was the crash. The freeze. The moment I got home, my brain did that thing where it’s like receiving an email notification and just as you click it, it disappears. No thoughts left. No energy left. Just spiralling and replaying the day with the negative inner voice taking centre stage.

A five‑minute breather between meetings would have made a world of difference. Neurodivergent brains often need that pause—not because we’re slow, but because we’re processing at 100mph and need a moment to land.

You might be thinking, 'I get overwhelmed in open-plan offices' or 'Sometimes I agree to tasks I don’t fully understand', and you’re right—these experiences aren’t exclusive to neurodivergent people. The difference is the frequency, intensity, and impact. For many autistic and otherwise ND adults, these things don’t happen occasionally. They happen daily. And the impact can wipe out the rest of the day.

So thanks for reading and listening to me. I’ll end with this: that’s the heart of Autism Acceptance Month — remembering that what you see on the outside is only ever half the story, and the smallest bit of understanding can make the biggest difference.

Bethan Read has spent over ten years supporting neurodivergent children and adults across education, employment, and community settings. She has worked with autistic, ADHD, and otherwise neurodivergent people of all ages, helping them understand their strengths, navigate challenges, and make sense of how their brains work.

What shapes her approach is the mix of professional experience and her own lived experience as a dyslexic ADHDer who specialises in autism. That blend of hands‑on knowledge and personal insight means she can support clients in ways that actually work for their brain.
https://www.bethanreadcoaching.co.uk/