Volunteer Week Kiara's Story

Hi, I’m Kiara. This is my story.   

Growing up, I was – and still am – a perfectionist. I achieved straight As and A*s throughout school whilst juggling art, drama, and piano as extracurriculars. To outsiders, it all seemingly came naturally to me. At 19, I got into King’s College London’s competitive Psychology programme, ultimately graduating with first-class honours. I was seen as a textbook high-achiever.

But the truth is, I only looked like I had it all together. In reality, I was falling apart in ways no one could see.

In public, I was the quiet, endearingly awkward girl. Polite. Situationally shy. But behind the scenes, I was overwhelmed — anxious, impulsive. Even now, I find myself decoding social rules that seem innate to others. I rehearse conversations, mimic body language, and stare just above peoples’ eyes to avoid direct contact — all to appear ‘normal’. I had no idea how to just be. I’m still figuring it out.

At home, the mask of neurotypicality would slip. Emotional dysregulation. Meltdowns. Outbursts. The Mr Hyde to my Dr Jekyll would emerge, leaving me ashamed and exhausted once I calmed down. I didn’t understand why I only fell apart in private— why that version of me felt like a stranger to the one outsiders saw. It left me questioning who I was. Was I a monster, or that polite, well-behaved girl? I didn’t know.

My presentation didn’t fit the stereotype. I was reserved, not disruptive; thriving, not failing — so the signs were missed. Until they weren’t. But even then, they were ignored. 

It wasn’t until I was 16 that someone finally wondered, “Could she be autistic?” 

But that only came after years of food and body image struggles. As a child, I impulse ate, gained weight, and was fat-shamed. By twelve, the battle turned inward as restriction and over-exercising became coping strategies. By fifteen, it spiralled into full-blown anorexia — with, let’s be honest, a whole load of nervosa. 

The autism diagnosis finally followed… and then? Nothing. Just a label – and the expectation to figure it out alone, whilst ironically being forced through the most neurotypical, one-size-fits-all eating disorder therapy imaginable.  Why diagnose me, if I was still expected to cosplay as neurotypical – collecting a stigmatising misdiagnosis in the process and being treated like a lost cause? 

Things unravelled further at university. A three-year course took almost six; I quietly struggled with burnout, impulsivity, and emotional distress – behaviours never contextualised to neurodiversity, but instead confirming that damaging misdiagnosis. I was labelled difficult. Unstable. Beyond help. 

Eventually, I had the missing pieces to a lifelong puzzle I’d rendered unsolvable. I was further diagnosed with ADHD — and the serious mental illness I’d lived with for years. Diagnoses that finally made sense. Along the way, I experienced realities I’d never imagined — including domestic abuse. I sought comfort in things that numbed me. I lost myself more than once.

But I came back. And that’s what led me here.

Today, I volunteer with Staffordshire Network for Mental Health. I’ve attended several training workshops, written an article on chronic stress, and co-facilitate Chatty Corner – a weekly wellbeing drop-in we’re currently piloting.  Volunteering helps me turn my lived experience into something useful. It grounds me. It’s helped me build confidence and overcome social isolation. I’m currently developing the Lichfield Young Adults’ Network — a community-led initiative to reduce isolation among 20–30-year-olds. I’m also soon starting my NHS career within acute mental healthcare.

So let me reintroduce myself. I’m Kiara. Psychology graduate. SNfMH volunteer. Lichfield Young Adults’ Network co-founder. But also a domestic abuse survivor. An ex-addict.  I have autism, ADHD, and a serious, but well-managed mental illness. I was misdiagnosed a few times too. Most importantly: I’m not a textbook example of anything. Nobody is. I am me.