My experience at Durham University as an autistic woman

My first term at Durham was a whirlwind of excitement and fear. I arrived hoping to find myself, but reality quickly became overwhelming. When my parents left, gown in hand, I felt utterly alone – my mind racing with doubts and the urge to call my mum and go home. Making friends was daunting; in the quad, I felt invisible, my northern accent and state school background making me question if I belonged. My first formal only reinforced that feeling when I was met with an eye roll and a conversation about Eton.

Those first weeks blurred together in anxiety, exhaustion, and pretending to be fine – I missed home deeply but kept it hidden, calling my mum and telling her everything was okay. Even as I made a few friends and started to feel better, homesickness and burnout lingered.

When it was finally time to head back up the Bailey, I was excited, but Epiphany term hit me like a wall. I realised I hated my degree, felt lost and scared of letting everyone down, and instead of asking for help, I retreated inward – skipping lectures, ignoring assignments, and feeling like my life was falling apart.

One night, overwhelmed, I broke down to my mum, who, with my dad, dropped everything and drove three hours to be there for me, as they always have. Their quiet, unshakeable support reminded me just how much I rely on them, even when I try to act independent. They are always there, fighting for me, supporting and accepting me (even when I couldn’t accept myself), and, most importantly, catching me when I fall, which has happened many times.

With their encouragement, I finally reached out to my college support officer, who told me – honestly and kindly – that I wasn’t happy, and that it was okay to change direction. For the first time, I considered switching to history, the subject I really loved. By the end of the term, I had a plan, new roles on college committees, and, despite ongoing friendship struggles, a sense of hope and acceptance I hadn’t felt before.

And then, like the devil she is, Epiphany term arrived and marked the darkest chapter of my life. Everything I’d worked so hard to build over the past year didn’t slowly crumble and then collapse all at once, triggered by a single night out – one of those moments where you don’t even fully understand what happened, but it changes everything. I learned the hard way that other people’s choices can shape and sometimes break you, and the aftermath shattered not only my university experience but also my relationship with others and myself. Suddenly, I felt completely alone, as if I were drowning while everyone else looked on from the safety of a lifeboat.

There was one friend who became my only light in those darkest moments – someone I don’t thank enough, but whose presence truly kept me afloat. The loss of a friendship I thought would last forever. As if that wasn’t enough, I ran (unsuccessfully) for college JCR exec and felt even more rejected, losing the sense of identity I’d built and feeling cast out from college. My depression deepened to a level I’d never experienced – life felt hollow, like it was happening to me, not something I was living. Academic struggles piled on as I received the worst feedback I’d ever had, making me question if the subject I’d loved since childhood was even right for me. There are whole stretches of that term I can’t remember and never want to – just a blur of pain, exhaustion, and trying to piece myself back together while my family worried on the sidelines. What I do remember is how deeply hard and impossible everything felt.

I wish I could say returning for Easter term made everything beautiful again, but that’s not how life works. I was still lying to myself – and everyone else – about how unwell I was, dodging questions and hiding the reality that my grades were suffering, my summatives done in a blur of depression. I convinced myself a 2:2 wasn’t good enough, so I pushed even harder, developing unhealthy coping mechanisms like severe insomnia, all for the sake of passing.

Deep down, I felt like if I didn’t pass, it was all over – and maybe, in some ways, I wanted it to be. Then, just before my stretch of three consecutive 24-hour exams, my dog died – Lilly, who had been my only friend at times. My parents, as always, dropped everything to come support me, and honestly, they deserve to share my degree for getting me through. I don’t say it enough, but thank you. Those exams, with grief weighing on me, left me feeling empty and isolated.

I finished my first year while technically in my second, with only one friend left and feeling hated and alone in college. The friends who had disappeared because of someone else’s actions, and sitting at the summer ball with them was a special kind of pain. After a few too many glasses of wine, I finally asked, “Why didn’t anyone check in on me?” – and got told: “We didn’t think it was that deep. You seemed fine.” That was the moment I realised these were friends of convenience, and that hurt in ways I didn’t know how to handle. I carried on, numb and messy, until results day, when my dad came to help pack my things. At 11am, I logged in and saw I’d not only passed but done well – ending up with a 2:1. I burst into tears, unsure if it was relief or dread about returning to Durham.

My college principal surprised me with unexpected kindness. When I broke down to her, ashamed and terrified, she told me it was okay to struggle, that things would be okay – and for the first time in ages, I believed it. After that, there were hard conversations with college and department, and there was a real possibility I wouldn’t come back. I remember leaving for summer, half-hating myself for being happy to get away.

Honestly, I spent the summer grieving the university experience I thought I’d have, stumbling through a bit of self-discovery – including a regrettable decision to dye my hair blue. That time was about finding small ways to heal, leaning on my family for comfort, especially my mum, who was always there when I needed to talk at 1am or just escape for a while. My days became filled with laughter and, for the first time in ages, genuine happiness.

Visiting Emma over the holidays made me realise I didn’t need a thousand friends – gossiping with her in her childhood bedroom meant more than any big crowd. Over the summer, I was finally diagnosed with ADHD after waiting so long, and suddenly, things started to make sense. I’m still learning what that means for me, but it brought a sense of relief and hope that maybe things would be okay. When September came, and my department needed a decision about returning, it took more tough conversations with my parents, but I chose to come back – and I am so grateful I did.

Coming back this year, I was terrified but determined to push myself beyond the familiar boundaries of college life – and I’m so glad I did, or you wouldn’t be reading this now. Attending The Durham Tab open meeting on the very first day was daunting to me and when I was about to leave I somehow got dragged into a conversation with Josie about whether I was northern, followed by meeting Fin and Seamus, and the making of a group chat in the Jimmy’s smoking area, led me to the people who make me feel safe, loved, and truly accepted.

Joining groups like The Tab gave me not only healing friendships but also a new passion for writing I never expected to find. There are still many wonderful, kind people in college – I might send too many heated rivalry edits, or act like a mother to the freshers – but I’ve always felt college was a complex place for me, somewhere I loved more than it loved me back.

Taking the risk to build a life outside that world has been genuinely life-saving, giving me the community and sense of belonging I’d been searching for. College is a place I’ll always love and be grateful for, but it’s also full of painful reminders – a place where I often feel like an outsider looking in. No matter how hard I try, or how kind people are (and many truly are), I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t quite belong and maybe never will. It’s difficult to be surrounded by memories of those who broke me, seeing people I was once closest to go out of their way to leave me out, yet still pretend everything is fine. College is complicated: Both a source of growth and joy, and a place that has made me feel invisible and unworthy at times.

It’s not perfect, but it’s home