As part of our World Autism Acceptance Month campaign to see autistic people as individuals, not stereotypes, we’re interviewing people to show how varied and rich the autistic community is. Like Margot, a fine-dining chef.

Cheffing might not be the first autism-friendly career you'd think of, but for Margot, it has been a lifeline. She found her voice through cooking. Here, she shares a little about her journey and how cheffing works well with her autistic brain.

Margot's story contains references to eating disorders and domestic abuse. Please read with care.

I've always felt cooking was an outlet for me. Even when I was younger, I would take myself to the kitchen to cook. I could make an iced cake, or a really good cottage pie, and people were happy with me. It was something I didn't get criticised for. The food did the talking, so I didn't have to.

As a child, I had an incredibly restricted palate. I had my safe foods, which I stuck to. Being able to cook for myself was helpful because if nobody else wanted pancakes three times a day, every day, I could make them myself.

I was always the awkward child, the naughty child. There wasn’t much understanding of autism in women in the 70’s in Ireland, so I thought I was the problem. I struggled with overwhelming feelings of anxiety and shame.

As a teenager, my mental health difficulties continued. Eating was something I had some control over, and I developed anorexia. On my fifteenth birthday, I was hospitalised. I remember my parents leaving and the nurse shutting the door to my room. It dawned on me that there wasn’t a handle on my side of the door. I was locked in. I stayed there for a year. Recovery was tough. If you're neurodivergent, hospital food is hell on earth. Everything is covered in thick, glutinous sauces.

My mum was a typical Irish Mum. Everything had to be perfect. The house could be burning down, but if you haven't got your makeup on, you couldn’t leave yet. I was the biggest fly in the ointment. I knew I had to escape, so I took myself to Cork for cookery school. I didn’t realise it would turn into my career. I just wanted to get away from my mother.

I enrolled in a three-month chef’s course at a special cookery school called Ballymaloe. It was on this wonderful organic farm where you knew where every mouthful of food came from. I became absorbed.

I found the course tough. I struggled to cope with the classroom environment and big groups. I can’t handle the texture of shellfish, but I had to taste it to check the seasoning. At the end of an exhausting day, I would walk down to the beach or around the glass houses. I’d feed the pigs or sit with the chickens. That gave me time to decompress.

I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. This was something I could do. Nobody was going to ask me what I got in my exams. I was as good as the meal I put in front of you.

For most of my career, I didn’t realise I was autistic. But I now know there are several reasons cheffing works well for my autistic brain.

Restaurant kitchens are highly structured. If you are doing the dinner service, you'll come at 4 pm, and there will be a list outlining exactly what you need to do. At 6 pm, tickets start coming in, and the last order is at 9 pm.

There's a set number of tasks that everybody's supposed to do. You don't deviate from that. You might step in and help if somebody gets into trouble. But in general, you're all in your lane.

It's a direct situation. There are no niceties; people ask for exactly what they need. In a good kitchen, everyone is equal and treated with respect. As an autistic person, I notice that huge sense of fairness. I learned very early that the pot washer is probably the most important person in the kitchen. They keep things running.

Contrary to popular belief, a good professional kitchen isn’t noisy with lots of shouting. Someone might say, ‘I'm firing the mains’, or the front of house staff will come in saying, ‘Clearing table 12.’ Other than that, we work in silence. You need to be quiet to hear the food.

Like any job, there's always going to be bits that are difficult and challenging. You grin and bear it where you can. To this day, I hate preparing fresh squid. If you get a whole squid, it's incredibly slim and you're trying to get the sinew off while trying not to burst the ink sack. Before, I would have bitten into a prawn or eaten a mussel, which I hated. Now, I taste the sauce instead. I've given myself that permission. When I ran my own kitchen, I had more ownership of the menu, so I wouldn’t include shellfish or squid.

I managed my sensory differences by wearing gloves, especially when handling raw meat. To me, gloves are essential. When others washed their hands, I would wash my gloves.

The best feeling is turning off the noisy extractor fan at the end of a service. If they weren’t so practical, I wouldn’t use one.

After my course and cheffing in Ballymaloe’s Michelin-starred restaurant, I worked in a few different places in Cork and Dublin. Then, my ex-husband and I moved to England and set up a pub. It was exhausting and was the last thing I imagined doing. But it probably saved my life.

My ex-husband was abusive, and work gave me a network of people. It also gave me a voice; I could speak through my food.

Slowly but surely, the restaurant side of the pub got busier and busier, which meant that I had to spend less time with my ex-husband. That meant safety.

I was always confident in the kitchen. I knew what I was doing, and I knew I could do it well. It was my space that nobody could take away from me, whatever was happening in the rest of my life. But it was exhausting. I'm not sure how much longer I could have lasted.

After a difficult divorce, a restraining order and a painful court case, I knew I needed to slow down. I became a private chef for a family. It was probably the perfect role for an autistic chef; I didn’t have to deal with many other people.

I needed time to heal, so my world became very small. I lived in the family’s coach house and would walk across the grounds to work (the family had three kitchens, so I could always work alone), and I would spend my spare time with my dog, Badger. I barely saw anyone. Having that time to cocoon and isolate made me stronger. When I started to emerge from that bubble, I had more resources, which I didn't realise I'd managed to replenish.

I found out I was autistic three years ago. My cousin wrote me a letter, telling me her daughter had been diagnosed, and how she reminded my cousin of me. The penny dropped.

The first year after my autism diagnosis, I thought: ‘I've ticked that box. I'm autistic. Let’s move on’. But in the last 18 months, the sheer weight of what I've dealt with started to catch up.

At the ripe old age of 50, I’ve been diagnosed with a functional neurological disorder. I started falling a lot. I've broken my nose a couple of times in the last year. Physically, that has stopped me. You can't be in a kitchen if you suddenly lose the ability to stand.

I miss feeding people. In the next few months, I’d like to return to work as a private chef, cooking for holiday groups or parties. But first, I’ll allow myself time to rest.

I want to tell my story to show people that, despite what feels like everything thrown against you, you can find a way through. There is a way. It's finding the right people and celebrating the little wins. And most importantly, it’s OK to have days where you can’t get off the sofa and all you want to eat is pancakes or have carrot cake for breakfast. Be gentle with yourself.