Dear Friends: It Wasn’t Personal, It Was Autism

To all the friends I’ve bailed on, left on read, replied to three weeks (or three years) later, startled with my blunt honesty, or made deeply uncomfortable with my wildly inappropriate humour at absolutely the wrong moment—hi.

It’s me.
And I’d like to say: I’m sorry.

For every time I went silent, ghosted a group chat, or failed to respond to your heartfelt message because I was overwhelmed by the colossal emotional labour of typing “thanks so much ❤️” … please know it was never personal.

For decades, I thought I was simply a flaky friend, a moody weirdo, a human social hazard with no follow-through and too many colour-coded spreadsheets. But then—plot twist!—a late autism diagnosis revealed that I was actually just overstimulated, under-resourced, and navigating friendship like it was a particularly challenging escape room… without clues… or lighting… or snacks.

And yet—this is the part that gets me—you stayed.

You’ve been patient with my social disappearing acts, welcomed me back like nothing happened, and accepted my tendency to return bearing deep affection and an unsolicited 15-minute lecture about 19th-century Icelandic sheep farming. You’ve laughed at my oddball jokes, survived my last-minute cancellations, and never made me feel like a burden.

You’ve given me the grace to be the kind of friend who:

Forgets birthdays but remembers your favourite type of earring.

Won’t answer a phone call but will give you a free lifetime supply of my homemade soap.

Might never say “I love you,” but would 100% help you hide a body (hypothetically… for legal reasons).

To the people who never told me I was “too much” (even when I was), thank you. You didn’t add to the challenges my brain already throws at me—you softened them.

I’m still figuring out how to be a friend who “fits” in the world. But I hope what I offer—honesty, curiosity, loyalty, and a deep affection I sometimes forget to text—is enough.

Love,
Lise