Finally having a clear diagnosis of NVLD at almost 27 years old is bittersweet. On one hand, I feel relieved to have official confirmation of my strengths and weaknesses, but on the other hand, I feel quite resentful. Perhaps if I had received this diagnosis 10–15 years ago, I would have had the support I needed as a teenager and in college, and many of the emotional and social struggles I faced could have been mitigated.

I think especially of math tutoring: my mom tried to help by connecting me with a math teacher from our town she was friendly with, but he was more interested in whether I had a boyfriend or trying to convince me to attend his laser tag events than understanding my learning disability. A qualified special education teacher could have made a real difference in helping me navigate my difficulties instead of leaving me frustrated and exhausted.

College, in particular, was the loneliest time of my life. Everyone promised me I would make lifelong friends no matter how socially awkward and shy I was, and my mom was confident I’d find my people immediately, just like she had on her first day of medical school. One friend of my mom’s promised me that “you will make friends. The first people you meet are not necessarily the ones you want to know for the rest of your life, but eventually those people will come along too” although God or the Universe clearly had a wicked sense of humor and “those people” were no where to be found on campus no matter how hard I tried to put myself out there”. My mom tried to shove friendships down my throat because they looked good on paper, insisting I befriend someone living in the dorm next to me because they shared a name with someone I had looked up to as an older sister. My mom is the most outgoing person I know and the antithesis of me. She makes superficial “friends” almost everyone she goes because she’s very charming and relishes in small talk but has just a handful of genuine, close friends. She encouraged me to invite this person to our home, even though I didn’t feel comfortable, and chastised me when I hesitated. But we had very little in common—she was a tomboy from Alaska into hiking, camping, and fishing, while I am a fast-talking daughter of immigrants from NY who loves travel, music, and reading. She was cold and unkind, making those forced interactions painful and frustrating.

On top of this, my mom’s helicopter parenting influenced my college choices. She insisted I stay close to home and even requested that I live in an all-girls dorm, believing it would be cleaner and full of “nice” kids who weren’t promiscuous, noisy, or doing drugs. This well-meaning control ended up putting me with a despotic roommate, and I got only about four hours of sleep a night—extremely unhealthy. I also realize now that I made social mistakes in trying to avoid discomfort: I often went home on weekends because of my difficult roommate or boredom, instead of going to events where I might have met people I had more in common with. I assumed friendships would naturally happen if I just showed up, but that wasn’t the case. I’m reading this book called Platonic where it says that assuming people like you is good for trying to make friends but that’s been hard for me to fathom since I dealt with so much bullying when I was younger even by people my mom thought would be the perfect friend for me.

Reading my official diagnosis made me emotional, reflecting on all the times I felt ostracized despite trying my hardest. It’s hard not to feel sadness or some resentment looking back, knowing that so many people told me I would eventually be happy and find really kind people but never did. The report marked that I was a “bright articulate, and kind young woman” who presents as “friendly and polite” and “makes good eye contact”.

At the same time, I do have bright spots to hold on to. I have a best friend from childhood and I’m still in touch with a few friends I met at my international school and during my time living abroad after college. Those relationships remind me that I am capable of having friends even if they don’t fit my extrovert mom’s vanilla, superficial, quantity over quality criteria.

I’m sharing this because I’m trying to process all of this and move forward without getting stuck in regret or self-blame. I’d love to hear from anyone who has faced delayed diagnoses or long periods of social difficulty: how do you cope with these feelings, heal, and build meaningful connections now? Any advice or perspective would be deeply appreciated. I am trying to put myself out there now that I’m done with my studies as I’d like to expand my social circle and also find a life partner but so far it’s been an uphill battle. I hope things eventually improve but I’ve been feeling really down.