Reflections on Completion, Growth, and the Autistic Drive for More

By Michelle Labine May 3, 2025

This laptop and I have been through a lot together. It’s became a witness to my transformation—through two master’s degrees, the journey of PhD research and writing my first book. It sat with me through early mornings, late nights, and everything in between.

Yesterday, I successfully defended my PhD project. I passed with distinction.

And while I’m incredibly proud and deeply grateful, the moment left me with an unexpected question rising quietly inside—Is it ever enough? Honestly, as I reflect, I think this question has been softly echoing through my life for as long as I can remember.

In the early years of school, I excelled. I loved school. It made sense to me.

There were clear expectations, rules, and structure; I thrived in that environment. I figured out quickly how to be the teacher’s pet, how to follow the rules, and how to get the A’s. Achievement became my compass, my ‘enoughness’ currency, and my shield.

On the outside, I had friends and seemed to fit in just fine. But on the inside, I often felt unknown—like no one truly saw or understood me. And honestly, how could they? Back then, being a friend felt like a performance. I had learned to be deeply other-focused, constantly shaping myself to fit what others seemed to want or need. I mirrored, I mimicked, I copied and pasted behaviors in order to blend in—and it worked, but it left me feeling hollow.

I still remember our grade 5 yearbook project. Each student in the class was given a “label” by the group—some kind of identity marker to represent who they were. I was named “the smartest girl.” That was it. That was my thing. And I remember feeling devastated.

Because what I really wanted—the titles I secretly longed for—went to other girls. One was named “the prettiest.” Another, “the most popular.” And I remember aching with envy. Not because I thought I deserved those titles, but because they symbolized a kind of belonging I never quite figured out. Being liked. Being chosen. Being effortlessly included.

But I wasn’t that girl. I was the smart one. The overachiever. The one with good grades and carefully written projects and tidy handwriting.

So, I leaned into what I knew I could be—exceptional. If I couldn’t be the girl everyone gravitated toward at recess, maybe I could be the girl they remembered for being impressive. Maybe if I just kept doing more, learning more, achieving more… maybe then I’d finally feel like I was enough.

That pattern followed me.

And then came high school.

The transition was hard—much harder than I expected. I wasn’t going to the local high school with most of my grade school friends. I was attending a different high school, one known for its academic reputation. I took the city bus with the only other person I knew.

What had once felt like my area of confidence—school, achievement—suddenly felt shaky. The social dynamics had shifted. Everything felt more social than academic, and I struggled to find my place. I couldn’t rely on my “smarts” the same way I always had. I was exhausted. I still worked hard, harder than ever, but the grades didn’t come as easily. I felt lost, disoriented. Out of my element.

So, I shifted.

If academic achievement wasn’t going to anchor me the way it used to, maybe social belonging could. I turned to sports and socializing. I became the athletic girl who was on most of the school teams- as a starter of course. I became, in many ways, a “party girl.” I had a whole bunch of friends, filled my weekends, leaned into being fun, spontaneous, and carefree.

My party girl persona followed me to university. I wanted more than anything to find my place—my people. I played varsity volleyball in my first year, but I didn’t continue with it. My focus was strongly aligned with building a social world, creating a sense of belonging where I could be seen for who I was.

I didn’t do well academically, in my undergrad. I was incredibly hard on myself in those years. I carried a lot of shame. I felt ungrounded in my relationships too. There were so many small wounds—what I now recognize as micro-traumas—from years of being misunderstood, overlooked, or treated like too much.

While I didn’t have language for it at the time, looking back, I would say I was burning out. It was a deep, dark place. I barely knew myself.

The chase for enoughness has been a constant thread in my life—the relentless pull toward the next thing, the next idea, the next project, or the next version of myself that might finally feel complete. It’s an ogoing effort to prove my worth, justify my space, and finally earn the right to rest.

I learned early that I needed to be exceptional in order to be acceptable.

Being prepared, achieving more, and over-functioning provided a sense of safety.

Even now, I still hear that whisper: Keep going. Do more. Be better.
I acknowledge it but it doesn’t drive me. It’s there. That’s all.

Today, I respond differently. With self-acceptance. With steadiness. With self-compassion.
I did it. I am here. I am enough.

Not because of the letters after my name, but because through the work of my PhD—and the healing it unearthed—I came into a deeper understanding of myself. A sense of home within.

Today, I’m letting this be a moment of arrival.

Not a launch pad. Not a teaser for the next thing. Just a pause. A celebration. A breath.

Because the truth is—I’ve always been enough. And, so have you xo