“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” — Oscar Wilde

Easier said than done, right?

Honestly, though, I’ve always been pretty good at being myself. It’s one of the things people tend to compliment me on—my honesty, my quirks, the way I just kind of am who I am. No frills. No fake. Just me.

But being yourself only really works when you feel safe to do it. When the space around you doesn’t shrink or tighten every time you say something a little “too much” or move a little “too weird.” And unfortunately, not every space is like that. Some rooms are full of people who want you to shrink. Some rooms are full of people who only love the idea of you—until you act like yourself and it gets too real for them.

So yeah, I’ve had to mask. A lot. That’s what happens when you’re autistic in a world built for non-autistic people. I can’t just walk into every room and drop my full weirdness on the table like a deck of wild Uno cards. Especially not around people I don’t know well. There’s always that calculating moment—how much of me can I show here? Is it safe to be this honest? Will I be misunderstood again?

Spoiler alert: if I feel like I have to do that kind of math every time I open my mouth, I’m not going to stay in that space for long.

The People Who Tried to Change Me (And Why That Never Works)

I’ve had people try to change me. People who thought they were helping, maybe—like they had some kind of personality blueprint I was supposed to follow. But every time that’s happened, it’s been a disaster. For them, for me, for the relationship. It never lasts long, thank god.

There was a teacher I worked with at Warrington who really wanted me to act like her. She had this hardened, sarcastic, zero-fucks kind of vibe about everything and everyone. She handled stress with biting comments and eye rolls and expected me to do the same. But that just… wasn’t me. I cared too much. I felt everything. I couldn’t shut off my heart the way she could, and I didn’t want to. But teaching was so goddamn hard at Warrington, and I needed support, and for a while I tried to keep that friendship going—even though it chipped away at me.

When I inevitably did act like myself (because I can’t not be me for very long), she and another teacher would basically make fun of me. I don’t think they thought they were being mean, but it was that kind of snide judgment masked as “joking” that still stings. So I tried to find some middle ground, some version of myself they wouldn’t laugh at. That was even worse. It felt like holding in a sneeze that wanted to be a full-body earthquake. It was awful.

And then there was Panama City.

I went on a trip with two girlfriends who were, in a word, not my people. Negative energy central. They wanted me to act like them, like the things they liked, dress how they dressed, react to the world the way they did. Spoiler alert: it didn’t go well. I was miserable the entire time. So miserable, in fact, that I got absolutely obliterated one night and ended up peeing on the cement in the pool area while still in my bathing suit. I mean—was it classy? No. But was I the first person to ever do something like that in Panama City? Also no. Not even close. That whole city is one giant Spring Break-induced fever dream.

But of course, they judged me hard for it. They acted like I’d personally disgraced them in the town square. It was ridiculous. Honestly, if they’d just laughed with me and moved on, it would’ve been fine. But they weren’t those kind of people. And I wasn’t ever going to be their kind of person, no matter how hard I tried.

On My Best Days, I Sparkle

On my best days—the days I actually feel safe to be myself—I sparkle. Not literally (actually yes literally…I use glitter when I’m doing my art a lot and so there’s kind of always glitter on me and around me hehe), but in that way where people notice me because I’m glowing from the inside out.

I’m goofy. I’m bubbly. I’m singing nonsense songs I just made up two seconds ago. I talk out loud constantly—not always to anyone in particular, just because my brain is narrating or wondering or cracking jokes or making connections in real time. I smile at strangers. I compliment people’s shoes or hair or earrings just because I feel like it. I am, in a word, alive.

And I’m wearing the perfect outfit. That’s important. I’ve carefully curated it—not to impress anyone, but because it feels like me. It fits right, it moves right, and it says what I want to say without me needing to speak. Clothes, for me, are another language. And when I’m speaking it fluently, I feel powerful.

People sometimes assume that because I’m autistic, I must be shy or closed off or awkward all the time. And sure, sometimes I am awkward. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed or burnt out or need to disappear for a bit. But when I’m at my best, when the world isn’t trying to mute me or shove me into someone else’s mold, I am social, warm, and just so damn friendly. The kind of person who makes people feel like they matter, because I really do think they do.

And that’s who I really am. Not the quiet version. Not the masked version. Just me, in full technicolor.

It’s Not Always Easy, But It’s Always Worth It

Being yourself sounds like it should be the easiest thing in the world. But honestly? Sometimes it’s the hardest.

Because not every space welcomes you. Not every person knows what to do with someone who sings made-up songs and talks to herself in the cereal aisle. Not everyone appreciates outfits that were built to make you feel powerful instead of palatable. Some people want you to shrink, to be quieter, to tone it down.

And sometimes—especially when you’re neurodivergent—being yourself means constantly deciding how much of you the world can handle that day. It means carrying the weight of other people’s discomfort like it’s somehow your responsibility. It means holding your breath in rooms where you’re not sure if you’re “too much” or “not enough.”

But here’s the thing: every single time I’ve pushed through that fog and chosen to just be me, it’s been worth it. Maybe not in the moment. Maybe not in front of the wrong people. But in the long run? Every time I’ve honored who I am, even when it was messy or loud or vulnerable, it brought me closer to the kind of life I actually want.

The kind of life where I don’t have to perform.
Where my weirdness isn’t just tolerated—it’s celebrated.
Where I don’t have to trade authenticity for acceptance.
Where the right people find me because I’m being real, not because I’m being convenient.

So yeah. Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. And frankly? You’re way too interesting to be anyone else anyway.