Page 121 of Left-Hand Larceny
My mouth opens. Then closes. I stare at the bookshelf instead of their face.
“Masking,” I repeat. “Like autism or something? I do seem to major in parental approval.”
They shake their head gently. “I’m not diagnosing you, Sadie. That’s not my lane. But I do think you’re neurodivergent.”
I blink. Hard.
“What makes you say that?”
They smile, warm and completely unfazed.
“The way you process information. Your sensory sensitivities. How you approach problems with this blend of hyper-focus and burnout. Your people-pleasing instincts are actually very common in neurodivergent ciswomen—especially those raised in environments that emphasized image and achievement. You’ve adapted beautifully, but that doesn’t mean the pressure hasn’t been enormous.”
I stare at my hands. I don’t know what to do with this. I’ve spent my whole life thinking I was just bad at things. Disorganized. Emotional. Lazy. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough, all at once.
“I thought I was just broken,” I whisper.
“No,” Gillian says firmly. “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant. Your brain just doesn’t run the same OS as the people who wrote the rulebook.”
Something in my throat catches. “Why didn’t anyone tell me this sooner?”
“Shit,” Dr. Gillian winces. “I stuck my foot in my mouth, didn’t I.” They smile, not unkind. “We’ve never talked directly about your neurodivergence, but I didn’t realize no one had. People tend to see what they’ve been taught to see. I’ve noticed the way you build systems. The way you process under pressure. You’ve found ways to succeed in an environment that doesn’t always make room for brains like ours.”
I sit very, very still.
“I wasn’t sure anyone noticed.”
“That’s because you learned to mask well enough to blend. And because the system rewards that kind of thing.” They pause. “But I’ve been watching the way you care. The way you notice the smallest shifts in people. The way you advocate for others and shrink for yourself. And I wanted you to know—if you don’t know what comes next, that’s okay. You’re allowed to buildsomething that fits you. Exactly as you are.” A pause, “I’m proud of you, Sadie.”
I nod, but my throat’s tight. It’s the first time someone in authority has ever said it out loud. Not hinted. Not praised my ‘quirks’ or ‘perseverance.’ Just… seen it. Named it.
“I think I’m scared,” I admit. “That if I stop doing what I’m ‘supposed’ to do, everyone will be disappointed. Or leave.”
“You deserve to be chosen for who you are,” they say. “Not who you pretend to be.”
Tears prickle behind my eyes, unexpected and sharp.
“Are you trying to make me cry in your office?”
“Only a little. It means I’m doing my job.”
We both laugh, and I press the heel of my palm against my cheek. I should feel undone by this conversation—but I don’t. I feel… seen. Like a puzzle piece that’s finally being placed in the right spot.
Dr. Gillian hands me a small brochure about career services, but they also slide over a card for a therapist who specializes in neurodivergent adults.
“You don’t have to figure everything out right now,” they say. “But you’re allowed to explore what works for you, not just what makes everyone else comfortable.”
I nod, slowly. “I think… I might actually want that.”
Their smile is soft. “Good. Then you’re exactly where you need to be. And whatever you do next,” Dr. Gillian adds, “you’ll be okay. Because you’re curious. You care. And you don’t give up.”
I feel myself nodding, slowly, like I’m absorbing sunlight through my skin. I’m not sure if it’s permission or revelation, but something settles in my chest.
I bite the inside of my cheek and smile.
I walk home with my earbuds in, but no music playing. The conversation with Dr. Gillian loops in my head like a song I didn’t know I needed to hear.
You don’t give up. You’ve found ways to succeed. I’m proud of you.
