I thought being gay made life hard. Turns out autism played a part too

When British writer and broadcaster Matt Cain received an autism and ADHD diagnosis at 50, it felt like the missing piece of a lifelong puzzle finally locked into place.

After decades of internal struggle, social confusion, and being misunderstood by peers, bosses, and even himself, Cain could finally name what had always made him feel out of step with the world.

For Cain, a working-class gay man growing up in 1980s England, the bullying, shame, and social isolation were relentless.

Teachers dismissed him as “overemotional.” Schoolmates mocked his walk, his voice, his love of Madonna. He was called names like “poof” and “pansy”, and subjected to physical violence.

Cain assumed these attacks were rooted in homophobia.

But with a late autism diagnosis, a more complex truth came into view: what if the world wasn’t only reacting to his queerness, but to his neurodivergence too?

At the intersection of queer and neurodivergent

Cain’s story is not unique.

A growing body of research highlights a strong correlation between queerness and neurodivergence, particularly autism and ADHD. One large-scale study published in Nature Communications (2020) found that autistic people are significantly more likely to identify as LGBTQIA+ than their allistic peers.

Another study in Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders showed that autistic people are over eight times more likely to be gender-diverse.

But despite these patterns, the world is still alarmingly unprepared to support people who live at the intersection of these identities. Diagnostic criteria, therapy models, school systems, and even Pride events often reflect neurotypical and heteronormative assumptions.

Many LGBTQIA+ people report receiving their neurodivergent diagnoses late in life, if at all.

The masking that queer people do to “pass” or stay safe can closely resemble the masking that autistic people are forced into to survive neurotypical environments. For those like Cain, the overlap is invisible until it becomes undeniable.

Misread and misjudged

Cain describes his childhood through a lens familiar to many late-diagnosed neurodivergent adults.

He had obsessive interests (Madonna, Star Wars), sensory sensitivities (to sound, touch, and smell), and suffered severe anxiety. He engaged in “stimming” long before he had a word for it, repeating phrases and musicalising dialogue as self-soothing behaviour.

But these traits weren’t recognised as part of a neurological profile.

Instead, they were chalked up to personality flaws, or worse, weaponised as evidence of his queerness being inherently “too much.” His emotional outbursts were dismissed as “hysterical”, his perfectionism ridiculed as “girly”, and his need for routine ignored in high-pressure media workplaces.

In adulthood, Cain coped by drinking, performing queerness in exaggerated ways, and chasing validation.

Despite becoming a published author and successful journalist, the cost of masking and constant rejection - from both the publishing industry and his peers - left him burnt out, overwhelmed, and still searching for a language to explain himself.

When diagnosis comes too late

Cain's autism and ADHD diagnoses came after a family member began their own assessment process.

Curious, he researched autism beyond the stereotypes, and saw himself in the nuanced, lived experiences of other autistic adults.

He learned about traits like rejection sensitive dysphoria, echolalia, and emotional dysregulation. He saw how alcohol dependency, risky sex, and difficulty with professional boundaries were not just personality quirks, but symptoms of undiagnosed neurodivergence paired with the trauma of growing up queer in a hostile world.

His diagnosis brought relief - but also grief.

He mourned the years he’d lost to shame, to misunderstanding, to trying to be someone he wasn't.

The joy and justice of naming it

Cain now actively embraces his neurodivergence.

He uses weighted blankets to regulate his nervous system, avoids overwhelming sensory environments, and asks for clear, direct communication at work. He’s also switched agents and stopped attending events that make him mask.

Crucially, he no longer tries to hide his joy. He stims freely, sings to himself, speaks about his diagnosis publicly, knowing that being openly autistic will invite both compassion and stigma.

But visibility, he insists, matters. Especially now, as conversations around autism risk being co-opted by harmful narratives of “overdiagnosis.”

In truth, many queer neurodivergent people - especially women, trans people, and people of colour - go undiagnosed for decades because their traits are ignored, misread, or pathologised through other lenses.

What Matt Cain’s story teaches us

Cain’s journey shows us the emotional toll of being doubly marginalised. Of growing up in systems where neither his queerness nor his neurodivergence was understood, let alone supported.

But it also shows us what becomes possible when people are given the language, tools, and community to understand themselves.

In sharing his story, Matt Cain joins a growing movement of neuroqueer individuals reclaiming their narratives. They are pushing for representation that is not just inclusive but affirming.

They are challenging the clinical, heteronormative frameworks that fail them. They are telling us: we exist. We’ve always existed. And we’re done being told we’re too much.

Source: The Guardian