In this blog, our Trauma Ambassador Georgina describes her experience with being diagnosed with autism and how she now works to support others.
“I turned 41 last week. That feels significant—not because of the number, but because two years ago, I nearly didn’t make it this far.
At the time, I didn’t want to die—I just needed everything to stop. The noise, the effort, the confusion of trying to exist in a world that didn’t feel designed for me. I didn’t have answers back then, just labels. “Emotionally unstable.” “Hormonal.” “Doing it for attention.” That’s what I was told when I sought help after my suicide attempt. No curiosity. No care. Just dismissal.
Eventually, I sought a private diagnosis. I wasn’t new to the idea of autism. Ten years ago, I started to suspect it. I’d worked with a young girl who was autistic, and in learning how to support her, I realised my brain might work more like hers than anyone else’s. But I carried on. I thought I was just failing at life in some undefined way. Burnout was a frequent companion.
Then my cousin—16, neurodivergent, beautiful, and failed by every system meant to protect him—was murdered. His loss broke something in me. It also gave me a reason to speak.
Volunteering with the NHS and the Oliver McGowan Mandatory Training programme changed everything. Meeting other autistic people—especially women who had been diagnosed late like me—felt like breathing for the first time. They weren’t broken. They were brilliant. So why wouldn’t I want to stand with them?
I finally sent off the diagnosis form that had been gathering dust in my inbox. Ten minutes later, I had a call. A cancellation had come up. A week later, I was diagnosed autistic and ADHD.
From that moment, things started to shift.
Now, I volunteer across multiple NHS and advocacy projects. I deliver training to NHS staff—from nurses to consultants—about autism and learning disabilities. I sit on interview panels, asking people what they know about neurodivergence and how they plan to support people like me. I help write training materials and resources. I contribute to the perinatal mental health board, helping shape care for autistic women navigating pregnancy and postnatal support.
It’s surreal sometimes—especially when I think about how little support I had. I once walked into a health facility after a suicide attempt and was told, “We’ll call you next week.” I never got that call.
Now I speak to those same systems, face-to-face. Not for vengeance—but for change. For the people who never got to speak.
Volunteering has been my lifeline. It gave me a way to exist out of spite. I say that half-jokingly, but there’s truth in it. I was told I was too emotionally unstable to be autistic. That I was too conversational. Too “normal.” But I’m here. And I’m talking. And now, they have to listen—because it’s mandatory training. That’s poetic justice.
I see the warning signs now. I didn’t used to. Burnout would sneak up like a fire in a locked room. Now I protect myself better. I have therapy, personal training, and physical rehab. I block out rest days in my calendar. I communicate with the teams I work with: this is when I’m available, this is when I’m not. I even sat down with ChatGPT (yes, really) and mapped out my capacity.
And I’m learning that I deserve rest. That I don’t have to prove I’ve earned it. That being tired is enough.
I’ve created a recovery plan for myself. I’ve given it to trusted friends so they can check in when I’m slipping. It’s full of the things I’ve learned—like how cooking makes me feel human again. Or how pretending I’m looking after a Tamagotchi helps me remember to meet my basic needs. (Drink water. Get outside. Charge your social battery.)
This journey has given me a sense of community I didn’t have before. My cousin called me recently just to check whether it’s normal to organise your wardrobe based on your emotional state. We laughed, because—yes. It’s so reassuring to find people who don’t have the guidebook for life either, but are willing to help you stitch one together.
I’ve realised I’ve spent most of my life adapting, but rarely advocating—for myself, anyway. Volunteering flipped that. Now, I speak about how female autistic experiences are misunderstood, misdiagnosed, and dismissed. About how trauma and masking lead to burnout and silence. About how the world disables us more than our neurodivergence ever could.
People often say, “We’re all a bit autistic.” I push back on that. If we were all autistic, we wouldn’t need autism-friendly showings or quiet hours at the supermarket. Having traits isn’t the same as having to survive a world not built for your brain. Being autistic is part of every single thing I do. It’s not just something I “have.” It’s who I am.
And I’m proud now.
Proud that I kept going. Proud of the work I do. Proud that in spaces where I was once invisible, I’m now heard.
Two years ago, I was silent.
Now, I speak for those who still can’t.”
Georgina Wilson,
Trauma Ambassador
If you would like to access support around any of the issues mentioned in this blog, or to share your own lived experience, give the Healthwatch Essex Information & Guidance Service a call on 0300 500 1895, email [email protected] or text/WhatsApp on 07712 395398.