I Said Yes... To Shondaland.

Shondaland Feature & Behind the Scenes Look at My Diagnosis Story

I have great news!

I was featured in Shondaland—yes, that Shondaland. The global media company founded by none other than Shonda Rhimes, the creative force behind Grey’s Anatomy, Bridgerton, and my forever favorite, Scandal.

Earlier this month, a writer from Shondaland reached out and asked if I’d like to contribute to a story on Thriving with Neurodivergence in honor of the 10-year anniversary of Shonda Rhimes’ Year of Yes.

And of course, I said YES.

When I received the prompt, I knew immediately —this wasn’t just something I wanted to answer, I wanted to experience getting intimate with the work. I took my time with every element of the experience, from the candles I used to the eucalyptus oil I rubbed into my palms. I sat down by the window as the sun waved goodbye, hiding behind sheets of orange and pink clouds. I told the kids to leave me alone as I sipped a cup of freshly brewed peppermint ginger tea and let my pen flow across the lined pages.

I submitted my piece just before midnight, closed my laptop, and took a long shower. I finally retired to the sunroom, lit a J filled with Ice Cream Cake to settle my nerves, and sat in gratitude that it was done.

And now—it’s live. My story is featured alongside four other brilliant neurodivergent women who are saying yes to thriving. You can read the full article [here].

But because you’re part of Divergenthood, you get the full story.

Below, I’m sharing a behind-the-pen moment that didn’t make it into the published piece—a personal reflection on my diagnosis story. As someone who was late-diagnosed, this question moved me deeply. It gave me space to honor every step, every person, and every hard-earned truth that brought me here.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

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Behind The Pen - My Diagnosis Story

How did being diagnosed change how you see yourself or give context to previous experiences?

I was diagnosed with autism in my early 30s, though I always knew I was different. It was evident in how I spoke—always too loud or too quiet for what the situation required. It showed in how I perceived life—always seeing patterns and pointing out things that seemed obvious to me, but never to anyone else. I was always on the outside of things: present but never fully included.

Sometimes, I choose to exclude myself out of fear that if my true self showed up—bright, bold, quirky, passionately creative, and optimistic—there wouldn’t be enough room for me. I feared I’d be forced to shrink and dim my light again.

I grew up in the inner city of Kansas City, MO. My mom was a flight attendant for TWA, and my grandmother, “Mema,” kept me when she was away. It was my mema who taught me how to read. She always said, “In life, make sure you know how to read and count your money, and you’ll be alright.” She emphasized the importance of being able to care for myself, independent of a man, and always prioritized my education. Every morning, she made me repeat: “I don’t go to school to talk, I go to school to yearn.” It became my mantra—and likely the reason I never cared that I didn’t quite fit in with the other kids. I loved attending Gifted and Talented classes and organizing the classroom in my spare time.

Looking back, it’s clear I was autistic. But without the label, I was just Chelsia—and I was happy with that.

My favorite memory of my mema is her riding a big blue tricycle through the neighborhood—long, blown-out brown hair braided into two plaits, honey brown legs pedaling past the autobody shop. She was my shero: youthful, Black, and free. When I saw her on that tricycle, I was proud. She had the confidence to be herself, unapologetically. Looking back, she may have been autistic too. But I didn’t call it that—I called it freedom.

I lived true to myself until I entered the workforce. That was the first time my curiosity wasn’t seen as a sign of intelligence—but as a challenge to authority. Being yourself is great... until you're written up for it. I was confused and frustrated. For the first time in my life, I had to decide: conform and stay employed or learn the rules of a game I never signed up to play. I chose the latter.

Over the next 15 years, I climbed the ranks in higher education—from Advisor to Manager to Dean. I treated my career like a puzzle to be solved. I was outwardly focused, relying on achievements to feel worthy. From the outside, it looked easy. But inside, I knew I couldn’t survive the demands of a 9-5. I called in sick often—at least once a week. I always felt like I was lying, but I didn’t have the language to express the exhaustion I was experiencing. It was burnout.

I asked myself:

• Am I lazy?

• Disorganized?

• Or just one of those book-smart, not street-smart people?
  

But none of those labels fit. I wasn’t lazy or disorganized—I was burned out.

I couldn’t accept that I just couldn’t keep up, so over the years, I sought out mentors—several of them. Through those relationships, I learned something important about myself: as an autistic person, I take things literally. When someone said, “Go above and beyond,” I really went above and beyond. I poured myself into long hours, meticulous presentations, every tiny detail—because I thought that’s what was expected. But that wasn’t the ask. I was doing too much. Working too hard.

And the truth is, many of us were. We were following the script we were handed. But others weren’t exhausting themselves like I was—they were delegating, taking real breaks, building community. Community I always felt on the outside of, without understanding why. Not until my diagnosis.

Once I was diagnosed, I felt relieved. I finally had an answer for why I was different—why I thought differently, processed emotions differently, and moved through the world in a way that didn’t always match others.

But the most surprising part? No one else seemed surprised. When I told my friends, coworkers, and family, they just nodded and said some version of, “Ohhh, that makes sense.” My mom was the most surprised—not because she didn’t notice—but because she said, “I knew you were different. I just figured God made you that way.”

The most perplexing thing about my diagnosis was realizing that while I had spent years hiding who I was, the people in my life had already accepted my quirks. They didn’t need a diagnosis to love me—but I did.

That was the moment I stopped hiding. My diagnosis became my permission slip to start living. To advocate for myself. To align with people and environments that supported who I was—not who they wanted me to be. To stop shrinking. To stop living in fear. If I was going to be different, I might as well embrace it and live.

Three years post-diagnosis, I don’t even need permission from autism anymore.

I know Chelsia is enough.

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