April 22, 2026
I am autistic, and that shapes how I experience life every day. That includes how I experience work, communication, environments, and the expectations that come with them.
When I was younger, nobody really knew about autism. I left school in 1985 and spent much of my early career navigating a world that assumed everyone thought in the same way. Understanding my autism later in life helped me make sense of many experiences, both the challenges and the strengths I bring to the workplace.
Today I speak openly about my lived experience of autism, including within my work in the Civil Service as a delivery / project manager in a Data Office. My aim is simple: to help people understand how neurodivergent colleagues experience work, and how small changes in understanding can make a significant difference.
Sometimes when people talk about clarity, they assume it means simplifying things. That is not quite right. I don’t necessarily want work to be simpler. Complexity can be engaging. What I struggle with is unclear expectations.
Statements like:
Just take a look at this when you get a chance.
Maybe we could think about doing something like this.
It would be good to move this forward.
These are normal workplace phrases. Most people seem to understand what they mean instinctively. My brain, however, starts asking questions:
When clarity exists, things become much easier. When expectations are explicit, I can focus entirely on solving the problem in front of me.
In many ways, that is where autistic thinking can become an advantage. Once the rules are clear, the focus can be intense.
For a long time I struggled to understand something about myself.
As an autistic person I naturally gravitate towards structure, clear processes, and systems that make sense. Order helps my brain feel calm and focused.
Yet some of the work I have enjoyed most, and felt most proud of, has been when things were messy, unclear, or simply not working.
What I eventually realised is that I do not enjoy chaos itself. I enjoy improving it.
There is something deeply satisfying about taking confusion and turning it into clarity. Broken processes become smoother ones. Disconnected teams begin to align. Roles and expectations become clearer.
Recently I received feedback that some of my work had helped bring a team together, created clarity around roles and day to day tasks, and made a fundamental difference to how the team worked and delivered.
That feedback resonated with me because it captured exactly what I enjoy doing.
Order gives me stability. Improving systems gives me purpose.
For many autistic people, spotting patterns, inefficiencies, and better ways of working comes very naturally. Sometimes we do not just thrive in structure. We thrive in building it.
Language can be surprisingly complicated when you take it literally. In the UK it is very common to greet someone with the phrase:
“Alright?”
For the majority of my life, I thought it was a genuine question. So I answered it honestly. Sometimes in quite a lot of detail. Occasionally to complete strangers. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that “Alright?” is not really a question at all. It is a greeting. The expected response is something like “Yeah, you?” regardless of whether anything is actually wrong.
Workplaces are full of these invisible rules. Phrases that imply something slightly different from their literal meaning. Social signals that everyone else seems to understand automatically. Autistic people often approach language more literally. That is not necessarily a flaw, it can lead to clearer communication, but it does mean some of these shortcuts can be confusing.
Over time, you learn them. But the learning process can involve a few awkward conversations along the way.
Another common stereotype about autism is the idea of “obsession.” The reality is usually closer to deep focus. When something is interesting, meaningful, or structured in the right way, my brain locks onto it with an intensity that can be incredibly productive. But that same focus can sometimes look unusual from the outside.
Take walking as an example. I track my progress through City Strides, which maps the streets you have walked. For me, it is partly about exercise and partly about structure. There is a quiet satisfaction in gradually filling in the map, street by street. My wife might describe this slightly differently. She might use the word obsession. She is probably not entirely wrong. But there is also a practical side. That kind of focus allows sustained effort over long periods, especially when there is a clear system or pattern involved.
In work, that focus can translate into persistence. Problems that require careful attention over time can become deeply engaging rather than exhausting. The key, as with most things, is balance. Focus is useful. Obsession, if left unchecked, can crowd out other parts of life. Learning where that boundary sits is an ongoing process.
One thing I have noticed throughout my career is that small structural changes can make a huge difference. Clear meeting agendas, written follow-ups after discussions, and explicit goals and deadlines. None of these things are particularly difficult to implement, and they benefit everyone, not just autistic people.
I have an amazing, supportive manager who is very caring. I also work with a number of colleagues with whom I can have good, honest conversations, enabling me to sense check myself and stay on track. Their understanding and openness make it much easier to navigate ambiguity and communicate clearly.
The irony is that many organisations talk about productivity constantly while overlooking the simple structural practices that actually improve it. Clarity is not restrictive. It is enabling.
I also implement my own support strategies. For example, I use Google Assistant reminders to signal when to start work, take a break, have a drink, eat lunch, take my medication, and finish work. These simple prompts help me stay balanced, maintain focus, and manage the day without becoming overwhelmed.
I started doing this because of something called interoception. This is the sense that helps people recognise internal body signals such as hunger, thirst, fatigue, or the need to take a break. I only learned about this quite recently, but it explained a lot. Like many autistic people, my interoception can be less reliable, which means I do not always notice those signals until I am already tired or overwhelmed.
Using reminders acts as an external prompt for things that others may feel naturally. It helps me keep my energy levels stable throughout the day rather than reacting after the fact.
Walking and other recovery strategies, including maintaining a steady exercise routine, also help me reset and recharge for the day ahead.
Writing about autism and work is not always easy. There is still a small voice that worries about being too open or saying the wrong thing. But I have increasingly realised that openness has value.
I have been fortunate in many ways. I have had opportunities, support, and a career path that many autistic people struggle to access. That is privilege, even if it is not always comfortable to describe it. If sharing my experiences helps someone earlier in their career feel less alone, then it is worth the slight discomfort of putting these thoughts into the world.
When I was younger, there weren’t many people talking openly about autism in professional environments. Most discussions were either very clinical or very abstract. What was missing were ordinary stories about how autism interacts with everyday working life: the small misunderstandings, the hidden rules, and the systems that help. If this blog contributes even a small amount to that conversation, then it is doing something useful.
There is also something quietly therapeutic about writing it down. Not therapy exactly, but clarity. Explaining how my brain works often helps me understand it better myself.
In many ways, that is the theme running through all of this. So much of work and life relies on things that nobody explicitly explains. Social shortcuts, unwritten rules, assumptions about communication. Most people absorb these things naturally over time. Others have to decode them more deliberately. Neither approach is inherently better or worse. They are just different ways of navigating the same environment.
For me, understanding those hidden rules has been a gradual process. Sometimes confusing, occasionally funny, and often surprisingly enlightening.
If there is one thing I have learned along the way, it is this: clarity helps everyone, not just autistic people. Everyone.
The same traits that sometimes make work harder for me also allow me to contribute in ways others might not.
My natural instinct is to look for patterns, clarity, and ways to improve systems that are not quite working. That instinct has helped me bring structure to teams, processes, and ways of working.
I also try to speak openly about my lived experience of autism. When I was younger, there were very few people talking about autism in the workplace in ways that felt relatable or practical. If sharing my experiences helps someone earlier in their career feel understood, or helps a manager better support a neurodivergent colleague, then it is worth it.
Neurodiversity at work is not just about understanding challenges. It is also about recognising strengths.
Sometimes autistic people do not just thrive in structure.
Sometimes we help create it.
