Some special interests are the truest thing about you. Others are a mask wearing a nicer coat — and after a late diagnosis, telling them apart becomes its own quiet project.
I’m dually, late-diagnosed with autism and ADHD. Usually I talk about work and careers, but the longer I unmask the more I end up here, in the personal stuff — because it turns out the personal stuff quietly runs the work stuff too.
Special interests feel like pure gain. They’re the quirks you think give your life its substance; you light up when you’re doing them, and when you finally stop masking and let yourself sink into one, you feel good. Which is exactly why it’s uncomfortable to ask: is this actually mine, or is it doing a job for me that I haven’t looked at yet?
Here’s how I’m sorting mine.
The one that holds up: Lego
Lego goes all the way back. As a kid I’d build for hours in silence — it was how I processed the world, and my mum loved it, because she’d come home knackered from work and I was happily occupied and not a bother. It gave me serenity and a safe space, and I’ve kept it. I build with my kids now (and yes, I have my own private sets I’m guarding until they’re old enough to do it properly — which is a very autistic sentence, and I stand by it). No hidden job. It’s just mine.
The one that probably holds up: cycling
Long-distance cycling and bikepacking, I think, are real — but I still make myself check why I’m pulled toward them. I learned to ride late; I was hit by a bike as a kid and scared of them until I was fourteen or fifteen. Then the bike became freedom. It also turned a chubby kid into someone who looked well, which rewrote my whole high-school story — so there’s an old validation thread in there I have to be honest about.
But the core of it is clean: going out into the wild, hours from anyone, is the best sensory-overload valve I have. Pedalling through the Yorkshire Dales, the emotional backlog finally unlocks and I’ll just start crying — not because it’s beautiful (it is; the Lake District’s better, I won’t start a fight), but because I finally have the space and the solitude to feel anything at all. For someone autistic, that’s enormous. That one I trust.
The one I’m not sure about: hiking
Hiking is where it gets complicated. The memory is genuinely good — Scouts, communal walks, “try your best, not be the best,” no judgement. A safe space where a struggling neurodivergent kid could unmask a little. That part built something real in me.
But that’s not how hiking gets sold back to me now. It arrives through a feed. The algorithm doesn’t show me the solitude or the landscape — it shows me the sexy version: young, attractive women on solo hikes. And I have to be honest about the most ordinary, least flattering thing in me. I’m a 42-year-old man; statistically the algorithm has decided I might be in the market. I’m not — I’m married, with kids — but unmasking inside a long marriage is its own hard thing. Both of you have to unmask; your partner has to mourn the person they thought they’d married; you catch yourself asking whether you’re still the same person, and so do they. That before-and-after is dramatic in a way ordinary change isn’t.
Those women aren’t advertising themselves as an alternative to any of that. But the algorithm is — by aiming a genuine old comfort (nature, escape, safety) straight at the exact insecurities that unmasking cracks open. And here’s the tell: I can get all of the real thing — solitude, landscape, a clear head — twenty minutes away in Richmond Park. I don’t have to go anywhere for it. So the question was never “do I like hiking.” It’s: is the pull about hiking, or is it telling me I’m struggling with my identity and pointing me at the wrong fix?
Staying alert, not sorted
That’s the whole point, and it isn’t a tidy one. A special interest can be a core value or a coping mechanism in nicer clothes, and the difference isn’t always visible from the inside — especially post-diagnosis, when you’re re-examining everything, and everyone around you is re-examining you at the same time.
I don’t have this sorted. This isn’t a piece about having it sorted. It’s about keeping an eye on it — noticing when a hobby is really a question I haven’t answered — and staying safe while I work it out.
Show transcript
This is going to be a raw and honest video about the dangers hidden in some special interests. Be careful — because not every special interest is a core of you, a core of your values. Some may actually show, or hide, some truth about your insecurities, your challenges, or the masks you had to adopt. I'm Łukasz. I'm dually, late-diagnosed with both autism and ADHD. Normally I like to help people like myself with business and career, but more and more often I'm digging into personal topics — because that's what you discover when you're unmasking, and it affects your work and business massively. Special interests are these nice quirks that you think give some substance to your life. You feel energised when you're doing them, so when you're unmasking and allowing yourself to focus on them, you feel good. Many of them are genuine — like, I love Lego. That's a memory of my childhood, the way I processed the world; I'd spend hours silently playing. My mum loves that memory, because she'd come home tired from work, a bit knackered, and I was playing for hours with Lego and not bothering her at all. That one is more likely a real special interest — it gave me serenity, a safe space, and I'm keeping it. I play Lego with my children, but I also have my own private sets, which I'm waiting for them to be old enough to build with me properly — because I have certain values and ways of going about them. You get quite specific and strict when you're autistic. But there are other, more communal special interests you have to be particularly careful with. Two examples for me: long ultra-distance cycling, or bikepacking, and hiking. For both, I could argue they're core interests — but the way I'm triggered towards them, the way I'm pulled, makes me ask: what's actually happening? Let's start with cycling. I learned to cycle quite late, because as a kid I was hit by a bike and afraid of bikes — so I was maybe 14 or 15. The bike gave me freedom. It let me transform from a chubby child into someone quite good-looking, and that opened my whole high-school story of being an active, good-looking guy. But especially when I went out into the wild, it took me hours away from people; it protected me against sensory overload and gave me time to process all the mental and emotional stimuli. Even now, when you're pedalling somewhere in the wild, your emotions can just unlock. You're rolling through the lovely Yorkshire Dales and you just start crying — not because the Dales are so beautiful (of course they are, though the Lake District is still better; I don't want to start a fight), but because you finally have the ability to open your emotions, time with yourself. For someone autistic, that's massive. So when I think about that kind of trip: amazing, yes, this is my special interest. But that's not how it's reminded to me. Keep the suspense. Now, hiking. I was in the Scouts — very communal hiking, going with friends, good memories, a safe space. I was still masking, as a cool guy who could do things, who could survive; I know the whole bushcraft thing, I love nature, and I love the friendship, the way people learn to support each other in scouting. There's no judging — try your best, not be the best. That attitude works perfectly, especially if you're autistic or struggling as a neurodivergent person, because you're not under so much pressure; you can unmask. You're still around teenagers who might put some pressure on you, but it's not the same as school or the workplace. So it was a safe space, amazing memories, often going into the wild, away from sensory overload. But when I think about the same hobby now, it's advertised and reminded to me in a very dangerous way. Why? Because social media shows me the sexy part of it. When I go to TikTok or Instagram, the algorithm feeds me the hobbies, the special interests — and I see young, attractive women going for solo hikes, or hiking in groups. And I understand the ugliest thing in me: I'm a 42-year-old man, so statistically I could be single. I'm not — I'm in a good, still challenging marriage, with kids. But the algorithm thinks I could be prey. And if you're at the stage of unmasking while in a long marriage — where both people have to unmask, where I have to show myself in ways I maybe never showed my partner — that's difficult. Being in midlife, with children, living in the UK under all these pressures, makes you question things. And then you're shown this reminder of nature, with a kind of alternative attached. Those women aren't promoting themselves as alternatives, but they trigger natural sensitivities in a man who, in some areas, is insecure. Unmasking makes you insecure. Unmasking with a partner — who also has to go through the stages of mourning the previous person — is hard. We change through a marriage, through life, but the change from before-diagnosis to after is dramatic. You don't recognise yourself; your partner may not understand you; you ask, am I still married to the same person? And often they're going through their own discovery too. It's not uncommon to have marriages with both people on the spectrum — often an ADHD person with an autistic person. I think my wife may be ADHD, possibly the more avoidant type; that combination is really common, including among the biggest voices in this space. I'm hugely sidetracking. The point is: I need to be careful to understand what's pulling me. Do I really need those experiences? Long-distance cycling I've found genuinely good for looking after myself and clearing my mind — and it gives me a goal I have to physically prepare for, which means looking after my weight, my diet, my exercise. That's autism working for me. But hiking — I can go to the Surrey Hills, beautiful places that remind me of my hometown, Puszcza Bukowa. I can go to Richmond Park, minutes from me. I don't have to go to the Lake District — I love to, it's amazing, and honestly, people don't realise how beautiful this country is: Lake District, Peak District, Dartmoor, Cornwall. We don't value it enough. But am I going for the solitude, which I can get in other places? For the landscapes, which are amazing but which I can find elsewhere? Or is the special interest telling me I'm struggling with my whole identity — my relationships, my emotions, my values — and trying to find them? Is it telling me I'm troubled, and that maybe I should address something else? It almost sounds like it. So keep an eye on it, and stay safe.