When “Different” Finds Its Name

Did you ever feel the sting of rejection — when you thought you had a friend, only to find out you didn’t?

Moments like that stay with you, leaving you wondering what you did wrong, why you never quite fit in. For so many, those memories live quietly in the background until much later in life, when the truth finally emerges: it wasn’t just shyness or sensitivity. It was traits of autism, overlooked and hidden beneath the pressure to conform.

When we first began writing our novel, “The Shameful Secret of Pride Month”, we poured that ache into Shevy. She’s just fourteen, growing up in a strict ultra-Orthodox world, and the weight she carries is almost too much for a girl her age. Through her voice, we tried to capture what it feels like to be silenced, to be shamed, to constantly wonder if you’re somehow “wrong.”

We based much of Shevy on Shane’s lived experiences — especially the bullying, the body shaming, and the sense of never quite belonging. Shane remembers being told in front of an entire class, “Oops, I touched you. I better wash my hands now because you smell.” They remember hiding in a basement during what was supposed to be a game of hide-and-seek, only to realize twenty minutes later that the “game” was really just a way to abandon them. Those moments weren’t fiction. They were Shane’s reality. And the sting of that rejection is the same ache we gave to Shevy.

It’s often only later in life, with distance and reflection, that the pieces begin to fit together. We go through test after test until something clicks, and we recognize the truth: we aren’t broken. Our minds are simply wired differently. That’s why diagnoses are happening more now than ever. Once people step away from communities that demand sameness, they finally have the space to reflect. They look back and see how badly they needed help as children — and how little they got. They notice the patterns that never added up, the struggles that were never discussed, treated, or even allowed to be named.

In Shevy’s world, like Shane’s, everything was hidden. Difference was treated as a stigma, and parents — desperate to fit in — turned away. Silence was easier than shame. Fitting in mattered more than being understood. And so children grew up without words for their pain, without compassion for their struggles, left to carry the weight alone.

But adulthood can bring a shift. A diagnosis doesn’t erase what happened, but it gives meaning to what was once confusion. It takes years of shame and softens them into understanding. It lets you look back on your younger self — the child who was bullied, abandoned, silenced — and finally see them with compassion instead of blame.

If Shevy were real, I believe that would be her path too. She would spend years carrying the ache of being “different” without knowing why. And then, later in life, she’d finally hear the word that explains it all: autism. Not a limitation, but a truth that reframes her story.

For Shane, that realization has become more than personal reflection — it’s become a mission. After recognizing their own autistic traits later in life, Shane has shifted their coaching to focus on neurodiversity. They know firsthand how disorienting, painful, and also liberating it can be to receive a diagnosis as an adult. And they also know how much support parents need when their children are newly diagnosed. Whether it’s someone finding answers at 30, or a parent learning how to understand their child better, that support can change everything.

That’s why we wrote Shevy the way we did. Not just as a character in a book, but as a mirror to so many real lives. A reminder that even in the hardest stories, there is room for healing, for recognition, and for the hope of becoming whole.

And that’s why we write. To take the silence we grew up with and give it a voice. To tell the stories we needed back then — stories that remind anyone who has ever felt different, abandoned, or unseen that they are not alone, and that their story still matters.