A Christmas letter to my younger self
In our second festive blog, we’re joined by Molly Anderton, NdC Lived Experience Advisor, as she shares insights into her Christmases growing up as an undiagnosed Neurodivergent person and sends warm wishes back in time to her younger self.
Somewhat ironically, I received my Autism diagnosis 2 years ago, in December 2023, just a couple of weeks before Christmas. I say this is ironic because whilst I am someone who manages to cope with quite a lot of change on a day-to-day basis and in general, Christmas has always been somewhat of an exception. I often find myself in a heap, my social battery and ability to maskcompletely drained, before the Christmas Dinner has even reached the table. I know now that I am not alone in finding the festive season both challenging and utterly exhausting, but growing up I felt as though this was just yet another example of me being overly sensitive and too emotional.
As a young child, I struggled to come to terms with the fact that my Christmas Day wouldn’t ever look like those portrayed as ‘perfect’ or to be aspired to in films or amongst my peers. I’m not talking about huge piles of expensive gifts, or even a day with no arguments, and I was fortunate to grow up in both a financially stable and loving family. My parents had, however, separated when I was 5. This left me, the only child in my immediate and extended families, to be an awkward ‘piggy in the middle’ of any disagreements and often feeling like an intruder or outsider around relatives.
The older I got, the more challenging I started to find the yearly transition from spending Christmas morning with my Dad, to the afternoon with my Mum. My heart sunk as I walked, alone, from his car at the end of Mum’s drive. I would hold back the tears, conscious that I was entering straight into another bustling family dinner, subject to loud music and already-tipsy Grandparents. The idea of ‘leaving’ my Dad, of not seeing him again on Christmas Day and knowing he would therefore be alone for at least some of it, filled me with guilt.
“ I know now that I am not alone in finding the festive season both challenging and utterly exhausting...”
In the space of just a couple of days I would see almost every member of each of my three families, each of whom I had a completely different and uniquely complex relationship with. I learned to smile, tolerate hugs and be grateful for the cards and gifts that I received. Internally (and mostly subconsciously), I was desperately trying to adjust my personality and facial expressions to match the expectations and demeanour of the relations I was currently sitting with. I feared their judgement if I failed to do so, and the potential rejection this might lead to. I firmly believedthat if I just tried harder to control my emotions, if I successfully held back the tears of sheer overwhelm and dysregulation, then perhaps I would finally feel accepted.
Despite my best efforts, any unexpected or out-of-routine changes to the day meant the façade quickly shattered. When Grandparents didn’t spend their usual 4 nights with us (instead only coming for Christmas Day), it was as if you’d told me Christmas had been cancelled. In my head there was no way it could possibly work, Christmas would be ruined and it felt unbearable, all because it was different. The year that my Mum wore a different outfit to her usual Christmas Day dress (it didn’t have to be a specific dress, it just had to be a dress), it sent me into an uncontrollable spiral of panic and distress. After a couple of hours trying to force myself into being okay with this minor detail, I broke down crying and begged her to get changed so that the day could continue ‘as usual.’ My brain seems to rely so much more heavily on predictability and sameness to cope with, or even just survive, the additional demands of the festive season.Even now, aged 24 and with an awful lot more self-awareness and understanding, my Christmas routine remains almost identical and unchanged.
“Whether you are an Autistic individual or have an Autistic loved one, often the most powerful gift you can give this Christmas is that of grace, empathy and compassion.”
I wish I could go back to the younger version of myself and embrace her in a warm, gentle hug. I wish I could tell her that it is okay to find Christmas ‘too much’, whatever that might look or feel like. I wish I could educate my loved ones: I would tell them that my sadness and tears do not mean that I am ungrateful, or that don’t want to spend time with them, but that perhaps a hug and some alone time was what I really needed. I’d share with them that there is no such thing as a ‘perfect Christmas,’ and that in fact some of the most special ones have been those with no expectations. I’d tell her to hug those relatives a little tighter, to appreciate the memories created with them, because they won’t always be around to cheat their way to success at (all of) the board games.
Whether you are an Autistic individual or have an Autistic loved one, often the most powerful gift you can give this Christmas is that of grace, empathy and compassion. Help us to slow down, to do things in a way that work for us rather than what might be seen as ‘socially acceptable,’ and try to enjoy the small glimmers amongst the chaos and the huge surge in social demands.
