I found myself googling something recently that made me smile: “Why am I so pedantic as an autistic person?”
Not because I was expecting a quick answer, but because I genuinely wanted to understand why I seem to notice things that other people either don’t see or don’t appear to find important.
It’s something I’ve become increasingly aware of over the years — not because people have often called me pedantic directly, but because I’m constantly weighing up whether to say something or keep it to myself. I worry that if I point something out, people will think I’m being picky, critical or trying to catch them out. That couldn’t be further from the truth, and yet I know that’s sometimes how it comes across.
Take a recent gym class, for example. The instructor had divided us into groups for a circuit, but almost immediately I realised the numbers didn’t work: one group was larger than the others, which meant somebody would be left without a TRX or a bench during two of the three training blocks. So I quietly mentioned it.
On another occasion, I noticed he hadn’t rotated the groups as planned, and that unless he changed things, we’d run out of time before everyone completed the workout. And then there was the day I found myself saying, almost apologetically, “You do realise this is a forty-five-minute session, not an hour?”
Each time, he thanked me. But I walked away wondering whether he secretly thought, Oh no… here she comes again.
The funny thing is, I’m not looking for mistakes. I’m certainly not sitting there hoping to find them. I just… notice. It often feels as though my brain is quietly running several steps ahead, spotting patterns, inconsistencies and potential problems before they’ve had a chance to unfold. By the time I say something, I’ve often already imagined what will happen if nobody does.
It turns out there may be a perfectly good explanation for this. Autistic brains are often exceptionally good at recognising patterns and noticing detail. Researchers have proposed several theories to explain why, but they all point towards something many autistic people recognise instinctively: rather than automatically filtering out the finer details in favour of the bigger picture, we tend to give those details equal weight. We notice when something doesn’t quite fit.
For me, it isn’t a conscious process. I’m not scanning a gym class looking for problems, or proofreading every leaflet in the hope of finding a typo. My brain simply seems to notice when something doesn’t quite add up — a spelling mistake in a document about to be published, a plan unlikely to work as intended, a practical problem that hasn’t yet become obvious to anyone else.
I’ve come to think of it rather like those “spot the difference” puzzles. Some people have to study the picture carefully before they see what’s different. Others notice it almost immediately. Neither approach is better than the other; they’re simply different ways of processing the same information.
The challenge isn’t really noticing. It’s deciding what to do with what I’ve noticed. If anyone ever referred to me as pedantic, what they probably wouldn’t see is the conversation that had already taken place inside my own head.
Very rarely do I point something out without first questioning whether I should. I usually ask myself whether it really matters, whether I’m overthinking it, whether I should simply leave it alone and let someone else notice instead. Years of worrying about being perceived as picky or critical have taught me to pause before I speak.
Sometimes I do leave it. But sometimes my brain simply won’t let it go — the inconsistency keeps tugging at my attention until it feels almost impossible to ignore. It’s a bit like having a tiny pebble in your shoe. You know you could keep walking, but it’s there, and your brain refuses to stop noticing it.
I think it’s because accuracy creates a sense of predictability. When things make sense — when they fit together logically and consistently — the world feels a little safer and easier to navigate. An obvious mistake, a plan that doesn’t quite work, or words that don’t accurately reflect what’s intended can feel like a loose thread my brain instinctively wants to tie off. It’s not about needing everything to be perfect; it’s about my brain wanting everything to make sense. The irony is that, by the time I’ve finally decided to say something, I’ve often spent far longer debating whether to mention it than the other person spends hearing it.
I’ve realised I don’t really need an answer to the question I typed into Google that day. I no longer spend much time wondering whether I’m “too pedantic”. Instead, I find myself wondering whether we’ve misunderstood what we’re seeing.
That doesn’t mean I should voice every observation that pops into my head. I’ve learned that accuracy and kindness can exist side by side, and that timing, context and delivery matter just as much as being right. There are still plenty of occasions when I catch myself halfway through a sentence and decide that this one can stay in my head. At other times, I decide it’s worth saying because, if I were in the other person’s position, I’d genuinely want someone to tell me. Understanding that has softened something in me.
For years, I worried that I was too picky, critical or just plain annoying. Now I see someone whose brain naturally notices patterns, inconsistencies and details that others may not. That doesn’t make me better than anyone else, and it certainly doesn’t mean I’m always right — I miss things, make mistakes and get things wrong too. It simply means my brain processes information differently, and understanding that has allowed me to stop apologising for the way it works.
I still smile when I think about that Google search, because I realised I’d been asking the wrong question all along. The real question was never “Why am I so pedantic?” It was “Why do I experience the world this way?”
And understanding the difference has been incredibly liberating. I didn’t find the answer I was expecting that day. Instead, I found something much more valuable: self-compassion.