My name is Tristan, and at the time of writing, I’m 48 years old, by Earth rotations, at least. But I feel more like 20 in terms of physical endurance, 65 in terms of motor coordination, and… well, my mental age follows complex patterns best left to waveform analysis.

I’ve often been told I seem calm, thoughtful, and cheerful, but that surface doesn’t reflect the whole story. For decades, I passed as capable and easygoing. And while those things are true, they only tell part of the picture. Behind that calm, I was masking overwhelm, shutdowns, sensory overload, and emotional bottlenecks, and rare are those who saw me differently. I didn‘t know I was masking until the mask began to crack.

For example, I understand climate change not just as a headline, but as a cascade of high-latency exponential systems — physics, biology, social inertia. And I know enough to realise how little I can change it. That knowledge alone is overwhelming. But I smile and move on. It’s not denial — it’s survival.

I’m autistic, shaped by patterns I didn’t always have words for. I also have a constellation of other traits, including differences in attention, coordination, emotional processing, sensory load, learning style, time perception, impulse-driven curiosity, and the way I map patterns. Some are known profiles, others are are still in the ‘unnamed phenomenon’ and ‘currently discovering’ folders of my brain.

I first found the doorway through sensory processing. It was my sensitivity to contrast that first led me to uncover deeper patterns in how I function.

I’m currently on the waiting list for the diagnoses yet, but the patterns are consistent and lifelong. They explain how I function, and why I’ve often struggled invisibly. They also explain why my skills aren’t random after all.

One of the most grounding moments of my journey came from recognising that my sense of ethics and fairness is commonly shared among autistic people. That realisation made me feel at home for the first time. I wasn’t different but connected.

My life is shaped by structure, rhythm, and pattern. That includes not just routines, but complex rituals — intricate sequences that help me feel safe, focused, and grounded. I cycle long distances while staying near home. I build GPS routes with absurd precision. I find peace in movement and observation. I’m drawn to systems thinking, sensory detail, and deep conversations —though I need long periods of recovery afterward.

I’ve cycled hundreds of thousands of kilometres — but I never managed to learn to drive a car. That contrast isn’t just practical; it speaks volumes about how I process motion, space, emotions and stress. Cycling lets me self-regulate. Driving overwhelms me. One offers rhythm and control. The other demands coordination I can’t handle under pressure.

Also, I feel energised and relaxed after cycling a Gran Fondo, but going to a busy shopping mall is exhausting.

Similarly, I’ve handled critical emergencies — fire outbreaks (multiple times), critical infrastructure breakdowns — calmly and effectively. But if two people try to talk to me at once, or if messages come from multiple directions, my brain short-circuits if I’m already stressed.

My life is full of paradoxes like these.

I was raised by a single mother, doing her best to make ends meet. She taught me to be independent early because it was necessary. For a few years, we lived in a small hamlet where I was the only child around so I didn’t play much with other kids. I mostly interacted with adults. My school was a single classroom with ten pupils between 5 and 12 years old, and I enjoyed following along with the older children’s lessons more than my own. That was where my love of logic and systems first emerged.

Later, when we moved to a small town, I was still different — but the attention often landed on other children who were even more noticeably outside the norm, or on the so-called dunces. In a way, their presence gave me space to fly under the radar to the point where my autistic meltdowns were interpreted not as crises, but as unacceptable behaviour.

I rarely initiated social contact, but I always responded warmly when approached. That pattern never really changed. While I often feel comfortable in one-on-one conversations, being part of a group makes me feel like an observer or an alien quietly orbiting the social planet.

I’ve also always been physically active; some people compared my energy level to that of rabbits powered by Duracell batteries. (It’s still correct today, I can cycle 180 km one day, and repeat it the following day.)

I spent my teenage and early adult years surrounded by intense, passionate, unconventional friends. None had my age. We weren’t a group but individual orbiters with shared fascinations. They excelled in unusual topics and I loved the way they shared their passions. We were all night owls, deciding at midnight to hike to the top of a mountain to watch the sunrise didn’t seem out of the ordinary. And while I often felt like the least extraordinary among them, their presence helped me accept that divergence wasn’t something to hide from.

It was only when I stepped into the professional world that I realised how wonderfully unusual my social circle had been. I’d been seen as quirky, sensitive, passionate — atypical, but never quite ‘off.’ That changed in 2022, when I joined a large company in my first non-technical role. I didn’t fit, and I couldn’t explain why. The mismatch was so disorienting that I eventually quitted and put my professional career on hold. Since then, I’ve focused on small, manageable tasks — enough to stay connected, without pushing myself into environments that drain or distort who I am.

This project started as a way to make sense of myself and document my history for professionals. Over time, I realised it might help others too — people who live in paradox, adapt without explanation, or feel like nothing ever quite adds up. If that’s you, I hope this space offers something quiet and useful.

I’m not writing from a place of certainty. I’m writing from a place of discovery.