Reflections

When Your Body Feels Everything: Autism, ADHD, and the Pain No One Sees

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This post was hard to write because it’s hard to explain—but I need to try.

A person walking on a sidewalk, wearing a gray sweatshirt, gray shorts, and sneakers, with a smile on their face. In the background, there are trees, a power line, and a residential area.

People often ask if I’m okay.

Usually, the answer is no—but not in the way they think. I’m not sick, not injured, not recovering from surgery or fighting off a cold. My body just… hurts. All the time. Not in a dramatic or even easily explainable way. Just in this persistent, buzzing, exhausting way that lives in my shoulders, my jaw, my stomach, my spine.

And no, it’s not “just anxiety.”
(Though sure, anxiety shows up too. It’s got VIP access at this point.)

What I’m trying to say is: I’m autistic. I have ADHD. And I carry pain—literal, physical pain—in my body almost every single day. It builds up in places I can’t always stretch out or rest away. I hold tension in my neck like I’m bracing for a crash that never happens. I clench my jaw until it aches. My back is a battlefield. And don’t even get me started on my digestive system.

But here’s the thing:
I didn’t get into a car accident. I didn’t pull something.
I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain.
I just am—sensitive.

Too Much, All the Time

Autistic and ADHD bodies often feel like they’re tuned to a different frequency. The world that others experience as background noise can feel like a full-blown rock concert in my nervous system.

Loud sounds? Tension.
Bright lights? Tension.
An unexpected comment, a small conflict, a passive-aggressive email? Yep, tension.

Even when something good happens—something exciting or beautiful—my body reacts. Because emotion, for me, is physical. Joy floods my chest. Grief sinks into my hips. Shame slithers into my stomach. I don’t just think or feel emotions—I store them. I wear them.

And that would be fine if my body were some kind of emotional Tupperware container. But it’s not. It leaks. It overflows. It breaks down.

My 20s Were a Blur of Pain

Through most of my 20s, I had terrible, unexplained pain—especially in my neck, shoulders, and traps. No injury, no diagnosis. Just a kind of constant body-scream no one else could hear.

Every time I brought it up to a doctor, they seemed confused. My nurse practitioner once offered me muscle relaxers, but I declined. I was already managing enough meds—ADHD, depression, anxiety—and didn’t want to add another layer.

I tried getting massages. They felt great in the moment, but the pain always came back. Same with chiropractors. I saw a couple, even committed to a full treatment plan. Each time, they’d say something like, “Have you been in a car accident recently?”
Nope. Never.

They couldn’t understand how my neck could carry that much stored trauma unless something had physically happened to me. But something had happened—just not in the way they expected. I’ve been living in a body that reacts to the world like it’s too much, too fast, too loud. Because for me, it is.

Yoga, stretching, and meditation help. They really do. But the relief is temporary, because the world doesn’t pause. The moment I reenter it—back into the bright lights, clashing sounds, sudden emotions, and social expectations—the pain starts crawling back in.

My ex-husband used to give me back massages, trying to help. He’d say it felt like bubble wrap back there—except not the kind you can pop. Just these crunchy, stuck little knots of tension. That’s what I carried. Still do.

Hypersensitivity Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s Neurological

There’s research out there that explains this better than I can. Studies show that autistic individuals often have increased sensitivity to pain, altered pain thresholds, and heightened interoception—meaning we feel internal sensations (like heartbeat, muscle tension, or digestive discomfort) more intensely.¹ ADHD adds its own chaos: constant scanning, restlessness, hyperawareness, and the never-ending effort to regulate.

And then there’s emotional pain, which doesn’t stay in my mind—it lives in my body. Especially when I’ve masked all day, ignored my own needs, or absorbed the feelings of everyone around me like a walking sponge.

When It’s Invisible, It’s Dismissed

This is what people don’t see when they ask if I’m okay.
They don’t see the full-body effort it takes to not fidget or cry or shut down in public. They don’t see the internal screaming when a light flickers or someone interrupts me four times in a row. They don’t see the pain that comes from trying to seem “normal.”

Because it’s not just the sensory overload—it’s the masking. It’s the people-pleasing. It’s the emotional labor of trying to be less “too much.”

I’m not saying all autistic or ADHD people experience pain like this—but I am saying many of us do. And I’m one of them.

So If You’re Reading This…

Maybe you’re one of those people who never understood why I cancel plans last-minute. Or why I seem so tired all the time. Or why I talk like I’m on fire, but move like I’m underwater. Maybe you’ve never realized how much pain a body can hold when the world keeps pushing too hard, too fast, too loud.

Or maybe you do know what I mean. Maybe your body hurts too, for reasons no one else sees or believes.

To you, I say: you’re not imagining it.
And you’re not alone.

We are bodies that feel too much in a world that demands we feel nothing. But our pain is real. And it matters.

A graphic summarizing the relationship between neurodivergence and chronic pain, highlighting how autistic individuals experience altered pain sensitivity and ADHD can increase physical tension and restlessness.

🧠 Research & Footnotes

  1. Autistic People and Pain Perception
    • Research shows altered pain thresholds and heightened pain responses in autistic individuals. Some report being more sensitive to certain types of pain, while others may under-report it due to interoception difficulties or alexithymia.
    • Source: Failla, M. D., et al. (2020). “Pain Perception in Autism Spectrum Disorder: A Review.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders.
  2. ADHD and Somatic Complaints
    • Individuals with ADHD are more likely to report chronic pain, headaches, and somatic symptoms, likely tied to nervous system dysregulation.
    • Source: Mikita, N., et al. (2015). “Somatic symptoms and their association with anxiety and depression in children and adolescents with ADHD.” European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry.
  3. Interoception and Emotional Pain
    • Neurodivergent individuals often experience interoception differently, which can lead to heightened awareness of internal pain and discomfort, and difficulty identifying or verbalizing these sensations.
    • Source: Quattrocki, E., & Friston, K. (2014). “Autism, oxytocin and interoception.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews.

Baseball Is the Sexiest Sport, and I’ll Die on This Hill

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An Essay by a Very Enthusiastic Heterosexual Woman

Let me start by saying I’m not here to argue. I’m here to declare. Baseball is the sexiest sport on Earth — especially to watch men play — and if you disagree, you’re wrong (but welcome to come sit by me so we can discuss in great detail over a hot dog and peanuts).

As a heterosexual woman who’s spent a fair amount of time admiring athletes in various uniforms, I can say with full confidence: nothing compares to baseball. I’m not talking about the rules or the stats — though if you’re into that, great — I’m talking about the vibe. The aesthetic. The simmer. Baseball is a slow burn. A stare across the bar. A deep exhale before a kiss. It’s forearms and eye contact and a uniform that does exactly what it needs to do.

Exhibit A: The Pants

Let’s just get this out of the way. Baseball pants are objectively perfect. Tight without being desperate. Fitted, but functional. Somehow both modest and revealing — they leave just enough to the imagination while still making their case loud and clear. You know what I mean. Baseball pants are poetry.

Exhibit B: The Rituals

Baseball is all about ritual. The stretches. The swings. The way they spit sunflower seeds with complete concentration. There’s something hypnotic about the rhythm of it all. The slow pace gives you time to really notice things. The way they adjust their gloves. The way they tap the bat. The way they nod to each other like, yeah, I got this. It’s a ballet of quiet confidence, and it’s magnetic.

Exhibit C: The Intensity

Baseball players have this brooding, smoldering energy. Not loud like football. Not flashy like basketball. It’s contained fire. That moment when a pitcher stares down a batter — the whole stadium holding its breath — that’s tension. That’s cinematic. That’s erotic. And don’t even get me started on the catcher crouching behind home plate like some kind of tactical prince.

Exhibit D: The Dugout

There’s nothing like watching men cheer each other on while covered in dirt and pine tar. The dugout is the sports version of a locker room, but it’s public. You get to see the inside jokes, the helmet hair, the slow-mo high-fives. The energy is intimate, primal, and weirdly tender. These are men who are very in touch with their bodies and their bro-love, and I, for one, am here for it.

Exhibit E: The Timeless Swagger

Baseball players carry themselves like they know they’re hot but they’re not trying too hard. They don’t need to. The game is slow. Strategic. There’s swagger in the walk-up to the plate. In the way they toss their bat like it’s an extension of their body. In the way they lean against the dugout railing like a Calvin Klein model who just hit a double.

I imagine this energy might also appeal to gay men — there’s something almost theatrical about baseball. The drama. The costumes. The campy confidence. But I’ll let the gay men speak for themselves. I’m just a woman watching the game with her eyes wide open and her priorities in place.

So the next time someone tells you baseball is boring, you tell them this:
You’re just not watching it right.

Author’s Note:
Listen, I know this essay is a little ridiculous. But it’s also not. Because I meant every word. Sometimes we overthink everything, and I just wanted to write something that made me laugh, made me feel something, and maybe made you feel something too (hopefully something baseball-related, but no judgment).

This was written with love, humor, and a genuine appreciation for the art of baseball — and yes, I do believe it’s an art. If you’re a fellow baseball admirer (or skeptic), I’d love to hear your thoughts. Let’s talk players, pants, or post-game snacks. I’m all ears — as long as they’re not covered by a batting helmet.

No Boots, Just Bars

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Truth in the Beat, Silence in the South
Unmasking, One Post at a Time

A person smiling and leaning over a balcony at night, with palm trees and a road visible below.
Hanging out the window during HANG OUT weekend

Let me start by saying this: I’m not here to shame people for what they enjoy. If you love country music, that’s cool. I’m not taking that away from you. But I am going to talk about why I don’t—and why hip hop and rap music have earned a permanent, sacred place in my heart.

Because for me, it’s not just about sound. It’s about story.
It’s about substance.
It’s about soul.

Rap and hip hop—at their best—are poetry in motion. They’re grit and survival and resistance wrapped in rhythm. They’re vulnerability and swagger and genius all rolled into one. There’s something electrifying about how an emcee can weave pain, power, humor, and truth into a single verse and still make you dance through it. The best hip hop artists don’t just perform—they testify. And I respect the hell out of that.

I didn’t grow up in a world that gave me hip hop. I had to find it. And when I did, it cracked something open in me. It gave voice to anger I didn’t know how to name. It let me feel things I was always taught to swallow. It made me curious. Made me bold. Made me think.

I know I come to this music as an outsider in some ways—as a white girl raised far from the culture and history that birthed it. But maybe that’s part of why I appreciate it so deeply. Because I know it was never made for me, and yet it still moves me, teaches me, and invites me in when I’m willing to listen.

When I watch a rap show—like I did this weekend with Wiz Khalifa, 2 Chainz, and Three 6 Mafia—I feel like I’m witnessing work. Real work. Artists who show up and give everything. Not just lyrics and beats but presence. Intention. Energy that fills the air and makes you feel alive. And that matters. That matters so much.

Now country music…
Sigh.

Country, to me, has always felt like the opposite. And yes—I’m generalizing. I know there are talented country artists out there with something real to say. But the overwhelming vibe of country music today? It’s sanitized. It’s cliché. It’s beer trucks, flag-waving, backroads, and girls in cutoff jeans. It’s often willfully ignorant of anything outside its comfort zone—and honestly, that’s what I find so off-putting.

Where hip hop confronts the world, country music too often retreats from it.
Where hip hop says “this is what I’ve lived through,” country says “let’s pretend none of that exists.”

And that doesn’t work for me.
Because I’ve seen too much.
I’ve felt too much.
I don’t want escapism that erases reality—I want music that wrestles with it.

Also, let’s be real: country music has long had a race problem. It’s a genre that has profited off the aesthetics of southern Black culture while erasing Black artists from its history. And don’t get me started on bro-country. (Actually, I already did get started in this post about Morgan Wallen, so feel free to catch up.)

And yet somehow, hip hop—a genre that’s constantly criticized, policed, and misunderstood—continues to evolve, continues to challenge, continues to show up for its people.

That’s why I love it. That’s why I respect it.
That’s why it moves me in ways no other genre does.

So yeah, you can keep your country radio. I’ll be over here, blasting Kendrick, Megan, Missy, J. Cole, Biggie, Nicki, and whoever else is telling the truth loud enough to wake the dead.

Back Down South: Sand, Segregation, and the Sounds That Stay With You

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Selfie of a woman in a bathroom mirror, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a tan tank top, and striped shorts, accessorized with a small red bag and a white scarf around her neck.

Unmasking, One Post at a Time

This weekend, I found myself back down in the Deep South—Pensacola, Florida to Gulf Shores, Alabama. Back in my old stomping grounds. The air was thick with salt and humidity, the kind that settles in your lungs and reminds you where you are. It was Hangout Weekend—aka the Sand in My Boots Festival—thanks to Morgan Wallen, who basically made Gulf Shores his little yeehaw kingdom for the week.

Now, I’m not sure if I’ve said this before (I’m sure I have said this before), but I hate Morgan Wallen. Hate might even be too soft. It’s a full-body, sensory-based rejection. Like opening a trash can that someone left raw shrimp in. Like finding a crusty plate someone abandoned in the sink days ago. He’s that kind of bad. My nervous system physically reacts. It’s just not safe for me to be exposed.

Of course, my boyfriend loves him. Go figure. White boy who loves bro country. (Not to be bitchy. Okay, maybe a little bitchy. But also, honest.) I do respect his right to like what he likes… in theory. It’s just hard to respect things that aren’t exactly deserving of respect. I’m working on it.

Despite the unfortunate headliner (Morgan Wallen himself), I did not go to that show. My boyfriend and his friend went—he’s a fan, and that’s his thing. I dipped out, respectfully and with grace (and with permission—not that I needed it, but I still like to be considerate). I knew I wouldn’t have a good time, and honestly, I’m glad I trusted my gut on that one. It just wasn’t for me—and that’s okay. We like different things sometimes. That’s part of life and relationships.

BUT, we did get to see something really incredible: Wiz Khalifa, 2 Chainz, and Three 6 Mafia. And let me just say—they delivered. I mean delivered. They didn’t coast, they didn’t half-ass it, they gave full energy, presence, and artistry in their sets. Honestly? I was proud of them. Not because I expected anything less, but because they exceeded everything. They made me feel joy. And gratitude. And awe.

And also, something else.

During every single one of those shows—surrounded by lights and beats and sweat—I kept looking around. And I couldn’t help but notice:
There were no Black people around me.
Not in the crowd.
Not enjoying the show.
Not vibing alongside me.

Except—of course—for the staff. The people scanning wristbands, wearing “Event Crew” t-shirts, working security. There were Black people working the festival. But not celebrating. Not dancing. Not being part of the crowd.

The audience? White. Nearly entirely.
The performers? Black. Legendary.
The power dynamic? Glaring.

And it hit me—again, because this is not new—that this is segregation. Not by law, but by design. By cost. By culture. By centuries of gatekeeping and coded messaging about who belongs where. This isn’t just a southern thing. But it’s especially sharp down here.

If I were Black, I wouldn’t want to go to this festival either. It’s expensive. It’s overwhelmingly country-coded. It probably doesn’t feel safe or welcoming. That’s not paranoia. That’s lived experience.

But damn, it’s wild to see some of the most talented Black artists pour their hearts into performances, giving everything, while standing in a sea of almost exclusively white faces. It’s a gut punch. It’s an unspoken truth humming underneath every bass drop and light show:
We love the music, but we’re still failing the people who created it.

This weekend was fun, yeah. It was sweaty and chaotic and full of that Southern mix of fried food, beach salt, and bad decisions. But it was also real.
It was complicated.
And it reminded me—again—how far we still have to go.

A group of three friends sitting together outdoors, smiling at the camera. Two men are in casual summer attire, one with a shirtless look and colorful shorts, while the woman on the right is wearing sunglasses and a white top. The background features a turquoise wall and wooden deck furniture.

Between Two Homes: A Love Letter to Pensacola

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A couple taking a selfie in a cozy kitchen setting, smiling and enjoying their time together.
Ready for the roadtrip!
A woman wearing sunglasses and a colorful striped sweater smiles at the camera, standing outside in Gulf Shores, Alabama, with trees and a parked car in the background.
We’re here!

I’m from Logansport, Indiana. But at 24—fresh out of college—I packed up my life and moved to Pensacola, Florida. What was supposed to be just the next chapter ended up becoming a whole damn book.

I lived there for eight years. Eight years of becoming, unraveling, rebuilding, and becoming again.

Pensacola is where I worked my first real “adult” job as an elementary school teacher (an adventure in every possible definition). It’s where I burned out, quit, went back, burned out again. It’s where I started thinking seriously about law school and studied for the LSAT while working at a few different law firms that showed me what life could look like on the other side of a classroom.

It’s where I made my second family. Lifelong friends. People who changed my life and kept me going. I lived so much life there.

And now, I’m back in Indiana. I’ve been home for a year—close to family, grounded in ways I didn’t know I needed. And I’m happy. Truly.

But I miss Pensacola.
Like, ache-in-my-chest miss it.

A group of three friends taking a selfie inside a car, smiling at the camera with sunglasses on. The car interior is visible, along with drinks in cup holders. A caption reads '30 minutes out!!'.
Almost there with my travel buddies, Mike and my boyfriend, Brooks

This week I’m on a short vacation in Gulf Shores, Alabama. It’s only 30 minutes from Pensacola, and the second I stepped out into the warm, humid air, it hit me. That Gulf breeze, the smell of saltwater—it’s like my soul recognized it before I did.

I’m planning to go back to Pensacola at least once—probably twice—while I’m here. The first trip is already set. I have a 3:30 hair appointment with Tasha, the only person I’ve let touch my hair since right before the pandemic. Even after moving away, I haven’t let anyone else near it. I saw her last summer when I came down to pack up my house on Main and E Street—a house I deeply loved.

So yeah. I’m making a whole day of it.
No alarm. Just vibes.

I’ll probably hit up one (or two, let’s be real) of my favorite downtown coffee shops. I might grab an açaí bowl from Bodacious Brew, go on long walks, maybe even walk by my old house at 615 South E Street. It’ll be bittersweet, no doubt.

Especially because—I kid you not—I accidentally had a bunch of packages shipped there recently. (Oops.)

A laptop and a sketchbook are placed on a grassy surface, accompanied by a striped blanket and a pen, with a flower pressed inside the sketchbook.
Clovers are my favorite flower

Two telescopes.
Some Anthropologie clothes I’d been so excited to wear on this trip.
All sent to my old address. But then something beautiful happened…

The woman who lives there now found me on Facebook.

She’s from Cuba, and we’ve been communicating using a translator app. She’s so kind. She told me her family is new to the U.S. and they’ve just moved in. We’ve made a plan for me to come pick up my things, and honestly, I’m really looking forward to meeting her. It feels like a full-circle moment in some strange, magical way.

The kicker? She messaged me the same day I left for this trip. The timing? Wild.

Close-up of a knee with two small stones placed on it, one heart-shaped and the other oval, next to an open sketchbook with pens lying on top and a painted background featuring sun and abstract designs.
A moment of my entertainment/technology for the trip down

And while Gulf Shores is nice, it’s not quite Pensacola. It’s more touristy, less diverse, a little too polished around the edges. But the air? The air still feels like home. It wraps around me like a memory.

I’ve cried a little already, not gonna lie. I miss Pensacola so much.
But I’m also grateful—for both places. For everything they gave me.

I wish I could live in both at once.
But for now, I’ll settle for a visit, some sunshine, and a fresh haircut.

Pensacola, I’ll see you soon. I still love you.

A woman and a man sitting on a red wooden bench, both smiling at the camera. The woman is wearing a multicolored striped sweater and the man is dressed in a white shirt and beige shorts. There are palm trees in the background.
A woman smiling while perched on a tree branch, wearing a colorful striped sweater and shorts, with a waterway and a house visible in the background.

Tags: Pensacola, Homecoming, Travel, Reflections, Moving, Life After Teaching, Gratitude, Friendship, Second Home, Hairdresser Loyalty, Small Moments, Big Feelings

If you’ve ever felt caught between two places you love, I’d love to hear your story. Drop a comment or send me a message. 💛

Being a Democrat (But I Might Not Always Be One)By Kayla Sue Warner

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A woman wearing a red Alabama cap and sunglasses, smiling in the Cass County Courthouse, Logansport, IN, with a caption that says 'Time to vote!' and American flags.

Let me be clear: I call myself a Democrat. Right now. That doesn’t mean I always will.

Because honestly? I don’t pledge allegiance to a political party. I pledge allegiance to people. To truth. To what’s good and honest and actually makes life better for all of us. Let me say that again—ALL PEOPLE. Not just the wealthy. Not just straight white men. Not just whoever screams the loudest or fundraises the most. All people.

Right now, the Democratic Party lines up more with my values than the Republican Party does—by a mile. But I’m not a blind loyalist. I believe in calling out the hypocrisy, corruption, or cowardice wherever it shows up. And yes, that includes the left.

A close-up of a wrist wearing a bracelet that spells 'VOTE' with colorful beads, against a background of a green sweater.

The Republican Party Today: A Cult of Trump

Let’s not dance around it. The modern-day GOP has become less of a political party and more of a personality cult. They follow Donald Trump with such blind loyalty it’s terrifying. The man has been indicted on 88 criminal counts [NYT, April 2024], including trying to overturn a democratic election. He was recorded bragging about sexually assaulting women. He mocked a disabled reporter on national television. And somehow, that’s still not a dealbreaker for his base.

Republicans in Congress regularly echo his lies, deny election results, and block legislation that would help real people. They’ve fought against reproductive rights, LGBTQ+ protections, gun reform, climate action, education funding, and fair voting access. In some states, they’re banning books and threatening teachers. It’s giving fascism.

And yet, the GOP base follows. Not because it makes sense. But because it’s about loyalty to the leader, not loyalty to truth.

A man speaks into a microphone at an outdoor event, with a banner behind him that reads 'A New Voice for Florida's First.' Another person stands nearby, and tables are set up in the foreground.

Why I Identify with Democrats (For Now)

Democrats aren’t perfect. Far from it. But they’re the ones generally pushing for:

  • LGBTQ+ equality
  • Reproductive freedom
  • Racial justice
  • Climate action
  • Gun safety laws
  • Expanding health care access (affordable, available, and fair health care for all people)
  • Protecting voting rights (affordable, available, and fair education for all people)
  • Investing in public education
Two children in a classroom setting, one wearing a historical costume with a shimmering gold gown and the other dressed as a historical figure in a blue and white outfit, both posing for the camera.

Those are human rights issues. And I care deeply about them.

That said, the Democratic Party is not immune to criticism. Corporate money still influences too much. Messaging is often weak or out of touch. And at times, they act more interested in being “civil” than being brave. I get frustrated when they don’t fight harder. When they compromise too soon. When they forget who they’re supposed to be fighting for. The party has a long history of letting down marginalized groups too, including how they handled (or didn’t handle) mass incarceration and welfare reform in the 90s.

A group of children playing together on a playground, smiling and enjoying their time outdoors.
Some of the people who I fight for <3

What I Really Am: A Person Who Gives a Shit

At the end of the day, I’m not here for parties. I’m here for people. I want leaders who are honest, principled, and committed to building a more just, compassionate world. If the Republican Party actually did that someday, I’d consider switching. If a new major party emerged and fought for everyone with integrity, I’d be on board.

But let’s be real: we’re stuck in a two-party system. And one of those parties is openly trying to dismantle democracy.

So for now, I vote Democrat. I support policies that uplift communities, protect freedoms, and push for equity. But I will never be a party loyalist. I’ll always be someone who asks, “Is this making the world better for all people?”

Let me repeat that one more time. ALL PEOPLE.

Because I’m an American. I love this country—its people, its messy beauty, its potential. I believe we can do better. But only if we stop worshipping parties and start demanding better from them.

Country first. People first. Always.

A woman wearing a maroon Alabama visor and athletic attire is sipping from an iced drink through a blue straw while seated outside the Cass County Courthouse in Logansport, Indiana.
It should be federally legal and everyone agrees on that!
An elderly woman wearing sunglasses and a red jacket sits at a table outdoors, looking thoughtfully into the distance, with trees and other people in the background.

💭 Unmasking: The Struggle of Being Myself

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Unmasking, One Post at a Time

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Specifically about unmasking my autism. And while I’ve had some positive experiences with it, I’ve come to realize that the negative experiences still outweigh the positive ones. And that makes me really sad. It’s hard, honestly, because I don’t know what else to do or who else to be. I can’t be anything but myself, and sometimes it feels like that’s just too much for people to handle.

I know I’ve gotten some positive responses—people have been understanding, kind, and validating—but still, the negativity lingers. And that’s tough. It’s like a heavy weight in my chest. When my mom was sharing her experiences with unmasking, I couldn’t really respond in the way I wanted to. I wasn’t sure how to say it, but I’ve been feeling like my own experience of unmasking has been harder.

A person sitting on a bathroom toilet, holding a small white dog and a bundle of flowers, with a smile on their face. The bathroom features green walls and a vanity with toiletries in the background.

For me, it’s not just about letting go of the mask. It’s about trying to explain the way I move through the world. I feel like I need to explain why I do certain things, like singing loudly to myself or having the song “Jingle Bells” stuck in my head 24/7. Or why I sometimes talk out loud to myself, the animals, or even inanimate objects around me. These are stims. If you don’t know what stimming is, I suggest you look it up. It’s a way of self-regulating, a form of expression. It’s something that helps me feel grounded. But it’s also something that makes me feel like I have to explain myself to others.

A person smiling while posing next to vibrant green leaves and clusters of white flowers in a natural setting.
Mmmmmm smells so good.

Here’s the thing: I can talk to animals or inanimate objects with ease, but when it comes to talking to people? That’s when I freeze. That’s when it gets too weird. It’s like my brain can’t quite make the connection, and then the pressure of social expectations just hits me. So, I just keep it inside. I don’t feel free to express myself the way I want to. And that’s painful—not just mentally, but physically too. Holding in stims isn’t just hard emotionally; it hurts in my body, and it’s depressing. It’s exhausting to try to be something I’m not.

A close-up view of a flowering strawberry plant with a white bloom and green leaves emerging from dark soil in a pot.

I’ve spent so much of my life masking my true self because I thought it would make things easier. But it hasn’t. Not really. And now, as I’m unmasking, I’m faced with all these conflicting feelings. The sadness of wanting to be myself, but also feeling like I have to explain why I am the way I am. It’s like trying to explain the air I breathe or the way my heart beats. It’s me. It’s who I am. It’s autism. It’s ADHD. It’s my brain. It’s my body. Take it or leave it.

A smiling person holding a dandelion flower in a backyard with cloudy skies and a white fence in the background.

But sometimes, when I’m still caught in the moments of doubt, I wonder: what would it be like to just be free? Free from the expectations, the need for explanations, the weight of others’ judgment. It feels so far out of reach some days. But I hold on to the hope that one day, the world will be a little more understanding and a lot less demanding of conformity.

Smiling person in a yellow jacket sitting by a riverbank, with a laptop in front, surrounded by lush greenery and a cloudy sky.

So yeah, I’m unmasking. And it’s a process. A painful, raw, beautiful process. And I’m doing it for me.

A close-up selfie of a person with long hair, wearing a bright yellow jacket and a colorful striped sweater, standing outdoors with a wooden structure in the background under a cloudy sky.

Title: Hyperfocused on Gardening: A Neurodivergent Spin on a Joyful Day of Planting

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A black cat sitting inside a gardening planter on a patio, with additional empty pots nearby.

Today was one of those days where everything just clicked, and I got completely lost in something. I mean, I was hyperfocused—like, buzzing with excitement. My whole body was practically tingling with joy as I worked my way through this gardening project. If you’ve ever felt so into something that your entire body is just lit up, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

A person potting new plants on a wooden deck, with a black cat nearby. The individual is wearing a red floral top and white shorts, holding a gardening tool. A container for planting is visible in the foreground.
Me & Frodo during the potting process (which I’ll have to redo, but that’s OK!)

For a while now, I’ve wanted to grow a garden—not just flowers in pots, but something I could eat. Something I could snack on, something healthy. My first thought was strawberries. I’d love to grow them and just pop them in my mouth right from the garden. But, as it turns out, they were a little too expensive for my budget today (they were $30, which is way out of my price range). I’ll definitely be getting them eventually, but today wasn’t the day for strawberries.

Person taking a selfie in a mirror wearing a white shirt with paint splatters and a visor, sticking out their tongue and showing a playful expression.

As I walked through the garden center, I started thinking about what I could grow within my budget. That’s when I spotted cucumber plants, and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. Cucumbers! They’re perfect for snacking, and I could totally make pickles someday. And at $4.56, they were a great fit for my budget. So, I grabbed one.

Then I saw it. Lavender. Oh, lavender. It was $5.37, and I had to have it. I debated for a second but knew I couldn’t leave without it. I was about to stop there, but THEN, when the cashier rang me up, I found out both the cucumber and lavender were on sale for $3.33 each. I couldn’t resist—so I ran back and grabbed a cantaloupe plant I had also been eyeing. It was my third choice, but at that price, it was totally meant to be!

A person sitting on a patio with potted plants, a black cat nearby, and a dog lying on the grass in a backyard setting.
HEY! 😀

I was so stoked, I couldn’t wait to get home and start planting. Now, I’m not a pro, but I had enough of an idea of what I was doing. I potted the plants into the containers I had on hand, but here’s the thing—after a little more research, I realized that I’ll definitely need bigger pots. So, that fun repotting session? That’s coming either tonight or tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, though, because I’m excited to give them the space they need to grow.

Overgrown catnip plant and soil in a backyard with a white fence in the background.
A rustic wooden planter box sitting on grass, with a plain background.

And, of course, I also found out that cucumbers and cantaloupe need trellises, which sent me into another hyperfocused spin. I started Googling how to make trellises, and then I was texting my dad about any random pieces of wood he has in his garage (he has a ton, believe me). The idea of building my own trellis has me pretty hyped, and I can’t wait to see how that turns out.

The other part of my day that really lit me up was working with my hands to clear out the overgrown catnip plant in the backyard. I grabbed my cutters, started pulling out weeds, and getting all dirty in the soil was just so satisfying. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy using a hoe until today. It kind of felt like swinging a softball bat, but in a really productive way. So, I got a little workout in too (no complaints there). My muscles are definitely feeling it, and I think I’ll be sore tomorrow, but it was totally worth it.

By the end of the day, I had cucumber, cantaloupe, and lavender plants sitting in their new pots (for now). The backyard looks a million times better with the catnip cleared out. And honestly? It was so much fun. I was so into it that I forgot time even existed. This whole gardening thing? It’s turned into one of my “special interests,” and I think it’s a perfect example of how my neurodivergent mind works. When something captures my attention, it grabs hold of me fully. And today, gardening was that thing.

If you’re wondering what “special interests” are, they’re basically things that autistic people get really into. It’s not just a passing fascination, either. Special interests can bring so much joy and motivation. For me, gardening (and my house plants) has become a major part of that. It’s one of those things that makes me feel energized and alive in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

Anyway, today was a reminder that it’s okay to get lost in something that excites you, even if you don’t have everything figured out. Sometimes, it’s about the joy of doing something right then and there, just because. And hey, if you haven’t tried gardening yet, I highly recommend it. It’s grounding, it’s thrilling, and it’s incredibly satisfying.

Thanks for reading! Drop a comment if you’ve had any hyperfocused moments (or gardening wins). I’d love to hear about it!

🧷 Closet Full of Stories: Styled Like Me

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🪡 The Art of Dressing Myself: Fashion as My First Form of Art

Before the canvases, before the poetry, before the essays—I was already making art.
I just didn’t realize it yet.

It started with an outfit.

Putting together clothes has always been my way of expressing who I am—without needing to explain it. To me, curating the right look is like painting a picture: color, shape, mood, contrast, comfort, boldness, softness. And the canvas is me.

Over the years, so many people—friends, strangers, even my therapist and a woman in HR at a law firm—told me I had a unique, interesting, stylish fashion sense. That I should be a fashion curator, or an influencer. I always shrugged it off. I didn’t think of it as a talent. I just thought I liked what I liked.

But now I realize—that is the talent.
Having a personal sense of beauty. Knowing what makes you feel like you.
Not just following trends, but trusting your eye, your body, your voice.

And so, I’m finally honoring that.

This new section of my blog is for the artists who don’t always call themselves artists. The ones who express themselves through textures, layers, thrifted magic, oversized jackets, statement boots, a favorite pair of pants that feel like home. It’s for anyone who’s ever felt more like themselves just by wearing the right thing. It’s for anyone who’s ever been told they “have a look” and didn’t know how to take it.

It’s for the neurodivergent kids who communicate through aesthetics before words.
It’s for the adults still rediscovering their reflection.

This isn’t about being trendy (although sometimes trend and truth collide).
This is about style. Your style. The kind that makes you feel real, alive, and a little bit braver.

Yes, I still wear outfits that flop sometimes. And honestly? I kind of love that too.

Welcome to my fashion fling. Let’s dress like we mean it.

💔 Laughing Until It Hurts: Why Being One of the Guys Isn’t What It Seems

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This one’s been sitting heavy on my chest for a while. For most of my life, I’ve found myself in rooms full of guys—joking with them, laughing with them, feeling like I belonged. But lately, I’ve started noticing the cracks in that comfort. This essay is about what it’s like being the only girl in the group, how easy that role can feel… until it doesn’t. It’s about misogyny hiding under the surface, the cost of calling it out, and the strange grief that comes with realizing not every friendship was what you thought it was. If you’ve ever been “the cool girl,” I hope this resonates.

I’ve been the only girl in a group of guys more times than I can count.

It’s not always intentional. It just… happens. It’s like wherever I go, I gravitate toward guys. And for most of my life, especially as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that easier in a lot of ways. Simpler, sometimes. Less socially exhausting. More straightforward. There’s a kind of casualness in guy groups that can feel like a relief—especially when you’ve spent your life being hyper-aware of every social cue, every shift in tone, every invisible expectation in a room.

That doesn’t mean I don’t love my girlfriends. I do. Fiercely. The bonds I share with the women in my life are sacred—layered with honesty, softness, truth-telling, deep care. They hold space for things that guys often… don’t. Or can’t. Or won’t.

But still, I keep finding myself surrounded by guys. And until recently, I didn’t question that much.

Now, I do.

Because the ease I used to feel? It’s started to morph into something heavier. I’ve started to notice what I didn’t before—because I didn’t have the language or maybe the clarity to name it. I didn’t notice how much I was tolerating. How much I was excusing. How much I was shrinking myself to keep the peace or stay “cool” or not make things awkward.

When you’re the only girl, and the guys feel safe enough to really talk around you, you start to hear it all. The jokes. The comments. The assumptions. The way they talk about women when they think no one is holding them accountable. And sometimes it’s subtle—like a breeze that leaves a bruise you don’t notice until later. Other times it’s just blatant. Disrespectful. Gross. Dehumanizing.

But you laugh.
Or you don’t say anything.
Or you say it softly, with a little “haha” at the end so it doesn’t feel like you’re that girl—you know, the buzzkill feminist.

And here’s the thing: lately, I have been that girl. I’ve started calling them out. Naming it. Saying, “Hey, that’s not okay,” or “You don’t get to talk about women like that,” or “This isn’t funny.” And the backlash? It’s real. The pushback is intense. I get told to stop. They flat out deny it. Or laugh louder. Or say I’m ruining the vibe. They hate you for breaking the illusion. They hate you for not playing along.

And here’s the real gut punch: even when they respect you, you’re not exempt from the way they treat women. Because that’s the system. That’s patriarchy. You might be the “cool girl” to them, the one who’s “not like other girls,” but you’re still a girl. And eventually, you’ll feel it.

It also wasn’t until just this past year—after several people finally said it out loud to me, and I finally let myself believe it—that I realized something else: most of these guys wouldn’t have even tried to be friends with me if they didn’t find me attractive. And that truth? That wrecked me. Because it’s like, wait—so we’re not even really friends? You’re just sticking around because I’m pretty enough to look at?

It makes me question everything.

It makes me question every friendship I thought was real.
It makes me scared to just be myself—bubbly, kind, open, warm—around new guys, because what if they’re not seeing me, they’re just seeing someone they want something from?
What if they’re not even listening, they’re just waiting for a moment to turn friendship into something else?

That fear lives in me now. And I hate it. Because that warmth and friendliness? That’s just who I am. I like people. I love making new friends. I believe in being real and showing up fully. But now it feels dangerous.

I think I used to believe that if I could just be one of them—blend in, adapt, understand their world—I’d be safer. Or maybe even more powerful. I didn’t realize that sometimes, being the only girl in the group just means being the only one absorbing the full emotional weight of everything said and unsaid.

I’m tired of laughing things off. Of translating misogyny into banter. Of pretending it doesn’t hurt when they talk about women like objects and then look at me like I should be grateful they “respect me.”

There’s a toxicity that builds up—not always loud, not always cruel, but heavy. Quiet. Constant. And I’ve finally started to feel it in my bones.

I don’t have all the answers. I’m not saying I’m done having guy friends. But I’m also not going to keep pretending that being surrounded by men doesn’t come with its own kind of cost. I want my friendships to be honest. Accountable. Kind. And that includes calling shit out, not just keeping the peace.Because I deserve to be seen.
Not just accepted.
Not just “tolerated because I’m hot.”
Seen. For real.

friendship, gender dynamics, feminism, emotional labor, patriarchy, neurodivergence, authenticity