Neurodivergence is a word you might hear tossed around more and more lately — but what does it actually mean? Is it just about autism? ADHD? Something else? Let’s break it down together.
1. What Neurodivergence Really Means:
Neurodivergence simply means that a person’s brain works differently from what’s considered “typical” (or “neurotypical”). It’s not automatically good or bad — it’s just different. And different isn’t wrong.
Neurodivergent people often experience the world, emotions, communication, and thinking patterns in ways that don’t line up with what society expects.
Some common forms of neurodivergence include:
Autism
ADHD
Dyslexia
Dyspraxia
Tourette’s
OCD (sometimes included, though it’s complex)
And many more
2. Why Neurodivergence Matters:
Because the world is mostly built for neurotypical brains, neurodivergent people are often misunderstood, shamed, or forced to “mask” who they are. This can lead to:
Misdiagnosis (especially for women and marginalized groups)
Chronic exhaustion and burnout
Mental health struggles
Feeling like “something is wrong” when it isn’t
Understanding neurodivergence isn’t just for those of us who live it — it’s for everyone. Because empathy, inclusion, and real acceptance start with knowing the truth.
3. Real Life Example:
Imagine you’re in a classroom where everyone learns best by listening to lectures — but you learn best by touching, moving, or building things. The teacher says, “Sit still. Listen. Stop fidgeting.” You start believing you’re broken. But you’re not. You just learn differently. That’s neurodivergence in action.
4. Final Thoughts:
Neurodivergence isn’t a “problem” to be solved — it’s a beautiful, valid way of being human. If you’ve ever felt “different” in ways you couldn’t explain… If you’ve ever burned out trying to act “normal”… If you’ve ever felt like you’re wired for a different rhythm of life… You’re not alone. You might just be neurodivergent. And that’s something to honor, not erase.
Note: Communication is such a powerful thing — when it’s real, when it’s clear, and when it comes from a place of respect. Today I’m sharing some thoughts about why speaking honestly, listening with care, and making sure we’re understood matters so much. A little communication can go a long way.
The other day, someone asked if I could help with something — but they didn’t really ask. They hinted at it. And I completely missed it. Later, when they finally said it clearly, I was like, “Ohhh, now I get it.” It wasn’t that I didn’t care — it’s just that I need people to say things directly. And honestly? I think the world would be a better place if we were all just a little more clear with each other.
There’s something really powerful about true communication. Not just talking, but really connecting — where both people listen, both people share, and both people feel understood. When that happens, even the heavy things feel a little lighter. The world feels a little more manageable.
Good communication isn’t just about saying words. It’s about making sure what we say lands — that it reaches the other person in a way they can actually understand. We can’t expect people to read our minds. We have to say it out loud, clearly enough that the message doesn’t get lost somewhere between hoping and guessing.
For me, being autistic means I genuinely need straightforward communication. Hints and polite suggestions usually fly right past me. I need — and appreciate — when people just tell me plainly what they mean. Some people worry that being direct might sound harsh or bossy, but it’s really the opposite. Clear communication is one of the kindest gifts we can give each other. It builds trust. It eases anxiety. It makes space for real connection.
When we listen with care and speak with clarity, we make the world a little softer, a little safer, and a whole lot stronger. And that’s the kind of world I want to live in — one honest conversation at a time.
This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.
This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)
This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.
I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.
I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.
For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.
Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.
I’ve shared a lot of words on this blog. But this time, I wanted to share my voice. My face. Me.
This video is the start of something new for me. It’s a little messy, a little scripty (I won’t lie), but it’s mine.
I’m not here to perform or perfect. I’m here to connect. To talk honestly about the things that matter—neurodivergence, burnout, healing, identity, feminism, softness, survival, joy.
If any of that resonates with you, welcome. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
When was the last time you let yourself show up imperfectly—and still called it brave?
I’d love to hear your answer in the comments, or just let it sit with you quietly.
🧠💔 A personal essay on autism, ADHD, self-harm, and the journey toward self-compassion
⚠️ Note to Readers
This post contains personal reflections on self-harm, mental health, masking, and neurodivergence. Please read with care and compassion. If you are struggling, know you are not alone—resources are listed at the end of this post. I’m sharing this in hopes that someone else might feel seen.
I Didn’t Know Why I Did It
I was 21 the first time I self-harmed. It was the night of my sorority’s spring formal—an event I had spent weeks planning as the Vice President of Event Planning for Pi Beta Phi. That role wasn’t one I wanted; I took it on out of guilt and obligation when the original officer stepped down for her own mental health. No one else was willing to step up, and I didn’t want our chapter to fall apart under pressure from national headquarters.
So I did what I’d always done: I took on too much. I wore the perfect face. I planned the perfect party. I made sure everyone else had the time of their lives—even though I was barely surviving mine.
After the event, I went out with my boyfriend and friends to celebrate. Everything seemed fine. But later, back in my boyfriend’s room at his fraternity house, something broke. I sat down on the floor and started crying—hard. Full-body, couldn’t-stop sobbing. And then I started scratching the back of my neck, my arms, my shoulders. I pulled at my hair in sharp, frantic handfuls. It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t attention-seeking. It was a release. It was a meltdown. I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what it was.
He pulled me into his arms and stopped me. And then I never spoke about it again.
The Perfection Trap
Looking back, it’s not surprising that it happened then. I was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I didn’t know how to name it, and I didn’t feel like I had permission to admit it. I was a “high-functioning” sorority girl with leadership roles and a big smile. I was the girl people could count on. And I believed that being good meant never showing pain.
So I didn’t.
I buried it. I kept moving forward. I acted like it had never happened—because that’s what perfection required of me.
The Part of the Story I Didn’t Know Yet
It would be years before I’d begin to understand that I’m autistic. That I have ADHD. That my brain has always processed the world more intensely than others. That I’d been masking—hiding my real self to fit in, to survive—for most of my life.
That night wasn’t random. That moment on the floor was my body and brain screaming out after months (maybe years) of chronic overstimulation, internalized pressure, and emotional dysregulation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was melting down in the only way my nervous system knew how to.
But without a diagnosis, without language, without community or support—I thought it was just me. I thought I had snapped. I thought I was broken.
Teaching Burned Me Out Again
The next time it happened, I was a teacher—three years into my career at a public elementary school in Florida. I was overworked, under-supported, and living on Diet Coke, potato chips, and 3 hours of sleep a night. I stayed late at school. I brought home papers to grade and lessons to plan. I gave everything I had to my students and had nothing left for myself.
One night, the scratching and hair-pulling came back. I remember the sting, the sharpness, the brief moment of stillness that followed. The next day, a fourth grader asked about the marks on the back of my neck. I wore my hair in a bun every day, so they were visible.
I lied. “Oh, it was my cat,” I said. She believed me. Of course she did.
But they didn’t look like cat scratches.
It Wasn’t for Attention. It Was to Survive.
Self-harm is so misunderstood. Especially in neurodivergent people.
It wasn’t about getting someone to notice me. It was about trying to regulate a body that had gone completely dysregulated. It was a way to feel when I felt nothing. Or to distract myself from feeling too much. It was my brain’s desperate attempt to cope with things I didn’t know how to express in words.
And even when I did try to speak, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to.
Now I Know Better. Now I Treat Myself Kinder.
Today, I know that autistic and ADHD people are more prone to self-harm. Not because we’re “crazy” or “unstable” but because our brains and bodies are wired to experience the world in intense, overwhelming ways. We are more likely to internalize shame. More likely to mask. More likely to burn out quietly.
I’m not immune now. But I have better coping tools. I’ve found gentler ways to let the feelings out—through art, poetry, walking in nature, meditation, painting galaxies and wildflowers. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning to listen to myself when the early signs show up.
And I’m not pretending to be perfect anymore.
A Letter to My Younger Self
Dear Me at 21,
You weren’t crazy. You weren’t too sensitive. You weren’t weak.
You were breaking under the weight of a world that never taught you how to live in your body. You were trying to carry everyone’s expectations without dropping your own. You were masking pain with smiles and success and silence.
And when you finally cracked, you thought that meant something was wrong with you.
But all it meant was this:
You were overwhelmed. You were hurting. And you needed help.
I see you now. And I love you fiercely.
You made it. And you’re still making it.
Love, The version of you who finally knows she never had to be perfect. The one who wears softness like armor now.
Healing Isn’t Linear—But I’m Not Hiding Anymore
Up until this past summer, the self-harm moments had become more frequent than ever. It scared me. It felt like I was back in that place again—on the floor, overwhelmed, and alone.
But this time was different.
Because this time, I finally had answers. I was diagnosed with autism. And instead of shame, I felt relief. I was getting the help I needed. My parents, my siblings, and my friends showed up for me with love and support. There was no judgment. No pretending. Just care. And that made all the difference.
I still have moments. The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. So many changes. So much processing. So much unraveling.
But I also have more tools now. I can talk about the hard stuff instead of hiding it. I can lean on my boyfriend and my family. I can say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’ve failed.
It still happens sometimes—but I don’t carry the shame anymore. I don’t keep it secret. And every time I speak it out loud, every time I let someone in, it loses a little more of its power over me.
I’m still working on it.
But the more I understand what’s really happening inside me—the sensory overload, the masking fatigue, the emotional spirals—the more I can show myself compassion. And the less alone I feel.
This post contains raw, vulnerable content about suicidal thoughts, self-harm, and deep emotional pain. It’s not meant to shock—it’s meant to tell the truth. If you are struggling, please know you are not alone. This is my way of surviving. If you choose to keep reading, thank you for holding this with care. If you’re someone who loves me, thank you for still being here.
📝 The Poem:
A Prayer I Shouldn’t Have to Say (for the girl who keeps waking up anyway)
Sometimes, I wish I could die. And I’m so fucking scared because the wish keeps growing— quietly, like mold in a room I forgot to check. It doesn’t scream. It waits.
I used to keep an ESPN article bookmarked— about a runner at Penn State who jumped off a parking garage. I reread it like scripture. Not because I wanted to be her, but because I already was. Just slower to the edge.
In college, I started researching methods. Not for shock value. For comfort. Like maybe if I knew enough it would be easier when the time came. Like maybe knowing gave me power over something.
While teaching, I locked myself in my bathroom at home more times than I’ll admit. Laid on the cold tile of classrooms after everyone left, wishing I wouldn’t get up.
Still now, I find rooms with doors I can close— not to shut people out, but to lie down and hope I’ll just stop.
Because facing it feels like drowning in daylight. Because trying feels like dragging my bones through broken glass just to smile at a meeting.
And I still pray— To God, To Goddess, To whatever might cradle the wreck of me—
Please, take me instead. Let my death do something useful. Spare someone better.
I know it would destroy my parents. They’ve already lost a child. They’d give anything to keep me. And that’s the catch— I want to leave, but I don’t want to hurt them. So I stay. Like a ghost with obligations.
If you’re listening, God, Goddess, anyone— make this life holy again. Make breath feel like more than survival. Make staying feel like something other than surrender.
Please, make it matter that I stayed.
And maybe— maybe there’s something waiting just past the next morning. A hand I haven’t held yet. A moment that doesn’t ache. A softness I’ll recognize as my own.
Maybe the staying isn’t the end of the story.
Maybe it’s the start of the healing.
📌 Note to Readers (end):
If this resonated with you because you’ve felt these same things—please, please stay. The world is heavy, but it’s not hopeless. You are not alone, and you are not beyond saving. I’m still here. You can be too.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out:
“My Brain on Fire: ADHD Edition” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Four
Some days, my brain feels like a wildfire. Everything is urgent. Everything is now. And somehow… I still forget to respond to that one text I opened three hours ago.
Living with ADHD means living inside a mind that’s constantly running laps. Thoughts sprinting. Emotions bursting. Ideas bouncing like pinballs while I’m just trying to find my keys, which are in the fridge. Again.
I have:
About 16 unfinished art projects (actually there’s too many to count I just made up the number 16 lol)
Three cups of half-drunk tea, 2 cans of half-drunk diet coke, and the glass of water I forgot to sip on
74 tabs open (but I know exactly what’s in each one)
A to-do list I rewrote four times and then lost every single one of them
Big dreams
No concept of time
And a habit of spiraling into research rabbit holes that end with me crying over a documentary about deep sea coral
I forget things constantly—but I remember things deeply. I can’t start tasks sometimes—but once I do, you might not hear from me for six hours because I’ve hyperfocused myself into a parallel universe.
It’s not just distractibility. It’s intensity. Of thought. Of feeling. Of motion.
People say ADHD is “just being hyper” or “bad at paying attention.” But no one talks about:
The guilt of always being behind
The panic of missing a deadline you meant to meet
The shame of being called lazy when your brain is actually sprinting at full speed toward everything except what you were supposed to do
The frustration of knowing what you need to do, but not being able to start
No one talks about how isolating it is to feel like you’re failing at basic tasks while also being brilliant in ways no one measures.
And it’s not all bad. There’s so much magic in the ADHD brain, too.
I can come up with ideas that make people pause and go, “Wait… that’s actually brilliant.” I can connect seemingly unrelated things like I’m weaving a constellation. I can love fiercely, create spontaneously, and dive into things with my whole heart. I can notice beauty in overlooked places. I can feel things big.
But none of that means it’s easy. And most days, I don’t want praise or pity. I just want understanding.
If my brain is on fire, I’m trying to learn how to stop yelling at the flames and start dancing with them. Some days I get burned. Some days I glow. But either way, it’s me. It’s all me.
And I’m not lazy. I’m just wired differently. And honestly? That fire fuels some beautiful things.
“Be Yourself, But Not Like That” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Three
“Be yourself,” they say. But only if it makes everyone else comfortable.
💬 The Double Bind
“You should just be yourself!”
Except when I try, it’s suddenly too much, too weird, too intense, too soft, too different. The social advice to “be yourself” often comes with invisible conditions — ones that feel impossible for someone like me to meet.
I’ve learned that the world doesn’t actually want authenticity. It wants a curated version of it — one that doesn’t disrupt the flow, question the vibe, or take up space in a way that makes people uncomfortable.
Especially if you’re autistic. Especially if you’re a woman.
🧍🏽♀️ The Teacher Friend
At Warrington, one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had, I had a teacher friend who told me I needed to stop caring so much. She wanted me to act like her — tougher, louder, colder. She said it would help me survive the chaos of our school. Maybe she meant well. Maybe she didn’t. I was too exhausted to know the difference.
The truth was, I needed support. Teaching was goddamn hard. I was pouring everything into those kids. But I couldn’t turn off who I was. I couldn’t fake being callous or detached. That’s not how I work — and it never has been.
When I did show up as myself, when my real personality inevitably bubbled through, she and another teacher would make fun of me. Little digs, little laughs. I started shrinking. Quieting. Second-guessing everything. I was still burning out, just more silently.
👗 The Panama City Girls Trip from Hell
Another time, I went on a trip to Panama City with two girlfriends who made me feel like I was failing some invisible test of womanhood. They wanted me to like the things they liked. Dress the way they dressed. React to the world how they did. I didn’t — I couldn’t. So I spent the trip trying to disappear.
I ended up getting so drunk one night that I peed on myself. I was trying so hard not to feel anything, to be someone else, to escape the absolute discomfort of not belonging.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be anyone but me — but I didn’t know how to be me without paying for it.
🔁 Repeat
This wasn’t a one-time thing. It’s been the pattern.
Be yourself — but not like that. Have emotions — but not those ones. Talk — but not too much. Don’t talk — but don’t be weird about it.
People want quirky, not clinical. Empathy, not shutdowns. Passion, but in moderation. And always — always — the kind of “different” they can laugh at but never be uncomfortable around.
🌱 What I Know Now
I know now that those friendships weren’t safe. They weren’t made for someone like me to exist in fully. But at the time, I thought I just had to try harder. Be better. Be cooler. Be quieter. Be… less.
But you know what?
I’m done with that. I’m done trying to be someone else’s idea of tolerable.
Because being myself — actually being myself — has cost me a lot. But it’s also brought me home.
To the right people. To real softness. To joy I don’t have to explain. To art and cats and poetry and long walks and all the weird, wonderful things that make me me.
“Burnout as a Lifestyle” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Three
Things That Have Burned Me Out, In No Particular Order:
Student teaching. And then actual teaching. And then quitting. And then going back. And then quitting again.
Staying late at school to make the classroom feel like a home, only to be told by administration that I needed to improve my “time management.”
Getting COVID and teaching through it. Teaching during BLM. Teaching after Hurricane Sally. Teaching during everything and nothing.
Working in schools where we were told to make magic out of trauma. Where we were told to teach kids how to regulate before they’d even been given enough food or safety or sleep.
Helping other people regulate their nervous systems while mine was on fire.
Every single professional development session about “self-care” while being given fewer resources and more students.
Learning to love my students deeply and having to say goodbye over and over again.
Law firms that said “we’re like a family” and then made me talk to 90 people a day while smiling through panic attacks.
Being autistic and masking for so long I forgot what I actually wanted and who I was doing all this for.
Pretending to be okay so convincingly that no one noticed when I wasn’t.
Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse. Sometimes it looks like showing up every day with a smile you carved out of your own skin. Sometimes it looks like organizing the fridge while dissociating. Sometimes it looks like daydreaming about an illness just bad enough to force a pause.
You don’t just have burnout. You become it. You become the shell that keeps moving. The autopilot. The expert in pretending.
The Aftermath
The emptiness after quitting. The way silence hums louder when you’re no longer useful to someone else.
Staring at walls, wondering who I am without a job to orbit around. Without a crisis to manage. Without a fire to throw myself into.
People asking, “So what’s next?” like I didn’t just crawl out of a burning building.
The shame spiral of rest. Of stillness. Of needing time and not being able to earn it.
Trying to “get better” fast enough to make the burnout worth it. To justify the collapse.
Grieving the person I had to be to survive. And also grieving the people who still expect me to be her.
Losing access to joy because everything feels like it could become a job again if I’m not careful.
Forgetting what it feels like to want something. Not just tolerate it. Not just endure it. Want it.
The aftermath is quiet, but it isn’t peaceful. It’s disorienting. Like waking up in a stranger’s house with no memory of how you got there. Like realizing you’ve been surviving on emergency mode for years, and now you can’t remember your own favorite color.
Recovery isn’t a glow-up. It’s crying because you finally feel safe enough to feel anything. It’s staring at a blank calendar and feeling your nervous system twitch with withdrawal. It’s learning to rest without bargaining. It’s mourning all the years you pushed through instead of pausing.
But here’s what I know now:
Burnout is not a personal failure. It’s not a weakness. It’s not proof that you weren’t strong enough.
It’s the body’s last attempt at protection. It’s your spirit throwing a wrench into the machine. It’s your soul saying: This is not sustainable. This is not love. This is not life.
So no, I don’t have a five-year plan. I don’t know what my next job title will be. But I do know I don’t want to live a life that requires me to be exhausted in order to feel valuable.
I want to live slowly. I want to rest without guilt. I want softness without scarcity. I want joy that isn’t mined from pain.
Maybe I won’t have a resume that makes sense. Maybe I’ll never climb a ladder. But I’m learning that surviving isn’t the same as living. And I’m tired of surviving.
I want to build a life where I don’t have to burn out to belong. Where I am allowed to be whole, even if I’m not productive. Where warmth isn’t a job requirement—it’s just who I am, freely given, finally kept.
Salt-N-Pepa were yelling truth through my headphones when this essay started writing itself in my head.
“If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight, it’s none of your business!”
I wasn’t just listening—I was lip-syncing, stomping around my home like a woman possessed. That song doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t play nice. It kicks down the door and makes space for a woman to say, I belong to no one but me.
And as I sang those words loud enough for the neighbors to hear, I realized: this is it. This is the whole damn point.
Women get practically nothing in this world—not full safety, not full respect, not equal rights. But if we don’t even get our own bodies? Then what do we have left?
I’m not totally hopeless. I wish I could say I believe the patriarchy will collapse in my lifetime, but I don’t know. Maybe it will—and if it does, I’ll probably cry and pee myself out of pure joy. But until then, I want to be crystal clear about one thing:
A woman’s body belongs to her. No one else.
Let me say it louder: I’m a grown-ass woman, and what I do with my body is none of your fucking business.
Objectified at Birth
From the moment we’re born, people start telling us who we are based on how we look.
“She’s so pretty.” “Look at those eyelashes!” “You’ve got a little heartbreaker on your hands!”
Compliments before we can walk, before we can speak—and they’re always about our appearance. Pretty. Cute. Beautiful.
Have you ever heard someone walk up to a baby boy and say, “He’s so handsome, he’s gonna break hearts”? Not really. Boys are strong. Boys are tough. Boys are smart. Girls are pretty.
And so it begins—this quiet but constant training that tells us our worth lives on the outside. That we are here to be looked at. That our bodies are not just our own, but for others to comment on, rate, touch, control.
By the time we’re old enough to notice, it’s everywhere. Dress codes. Street harassment. Politicians making choices about our reproductive rights. Our bodies have been claimed by everyone but us.
And that is terrifying. That is infuriating.
Silenced in Real Life
It’s not just politics. It’s not just headlines. It’s in my friend groups. Especially with my guy friends.
I try to speak—talked over. Try to share—told to shut the fuck up. Try to exist—mocked, ignored, laughed at.
And when I yell—because sometimes that’s the only way to be heard—I’m called dramatic. Crazy. “Too much.”
What am I even doing there, then? What’s the point of friendship if I’m just background noise?
I try to explain patriarchy. I try to talk about gender and fairness and equity. But I’m treated like I’m making it all up. Like I’m the problem. Like I’m speaking a language they’ve already decided not to understand.
It’s isolating. It’s exhausting. It’s one of the reasons I’ve wanted to die.
Not the only reason—but a big one. Because when the world constantly erases you, it’s hard to feel like you matter. Like you belong.
And then there’s the confusion. Am I here to be pretty or respected? Do I have to choose?
Add autism to the mix—undiagnosed until 32—and people still act like they know me better than I know myself. “You don’t seem autistic.” “Are you sure?” Yes. I’m fucking sure. I’ve spent years untangling this. I’m still learning. We all are. But people don’t even try.
And still—here I am. Saying it out loud anyway.
The Power They Can’t Take
For everything this world tries to strip from us—our voices, our safety, our sanity—it still hasn’t found a way to take the one thing that lives deep in our bones: our power.
It’s not the kind of power written into law. It’s older than that. Wilder. Quieter. Unshakeable.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
If reincarnation is real, I’d come back as a woman again. Every time.
Because even though this world tries to make it seem like being a woman is a disadvantage, there’s something we carry that can’t be touched. A generational fire. A knowing. A legacy.
I think of all the women who weren’t allowed to speak. Who weren’t allowed to choose. Who weren’t allowed to dream—and still, somehow, they survived.
They fought. They wrote. They whispered truths. They lit the path. And now I’m here—pissed off, alive, and writing this.
Sometimes I think about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and it all clicks. She holds the power of every girl before her. She fights because they fought. That’s what womanhood is to me.
Yes, I’m tired. Yes, I’m angry. But I am not alone.
Hope That’s Bigger Than Us
I don’t know if I’ll live to see the day women have full autonomy. But I hope someone does.
I hope some girl grows up in a world where her voice is not just tolerated, but expected. Where she doesn’t have to choose between being pretty and being respected. Where her body is hers and hers alone.
Where no one tells her she’s “too much” for daring to take up space.
Where she’s free to be loud. To be weird. To be whole.
That world may feel far away. But hope is power, too.
Sometimes it’s just the decision to keep going. To write. To scream. To speak anyway.
Because even if they don’t listen— We’re still here.
And I’ll keep blasting Salt-N-Pepa, stomping through my house, saying it as loud as I need to:
“It’s none of your business.”
My body. My rules. My life.
Try and take that from me—and see how loud I can be.
