“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.
Some places raise you. Some places catch you when you fall. And if you’re lucky, you get to carry both in your heart forever.
Dear Northern Indiana and Northwest Pensacola,
I’ve lived between your breaths—one crisp and cornfield-sweet, the other warm and briny with salt and pine. I know your moods like my own. I’ve memorized the way the sky folds down at dusk in both places, different colors, same comfort.
Northern Indiana, You raised me in quiet meadows and long stretches of farmland. Your trees stood like sentinels, and your silence taught me how to listen. I still dream of the way snow falls here—thick, hushed, and holy—and how the wind cuts so clean it feels like starting over. Your fields are empty but never lonely. Your sunsets stretch for miles, soft and slow, like they’re in no rush to leave.
You were my first lesson in stillness. In patience. In how beauty can look plain at first—until you stay long enough to notice the wildflowers on the roadside, the frost patterns on a February window, the way the stars show off on clear nights. You taught me how to pay attention.
I’m back here now—home again in the place that built me. And I love it more than I ever did before. Maybe I had to leave to see you clearly. Maybe I had to grow up to realize you were never as small or quiet as I thought. You are rich with memory and meaning. You are peace and place.
And then there’s you, Northwest Pensacola. You who welcomed me later, when my heart was tired and hungry for warmth. You gave me open skies and Spanish moss, sandy trails and birds that sound like laughter. You gave me Gulf breezes that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could exhale again.
Your live oaks wrapped me in their long arms. Your wetlands whispered secrets I’d forgotten how to hear. Your thunderstorms rolled in like a mood, quick and loud and then gone, like my own grief.
You’ve held me in hard seasons, offered me orchids blooming from trees and herons tiptoeing through water. You showed me how wildness and softness can live in the same breath.
I long for you often. I miss the air, the light, the sound of frogs after dark. I can’t wait to come back—to walk your trails, breathe you in, let you remind me of who I was when you held me. Pensacola, I’ll visit as many times as I can. Always.
I carry you both in me— Indiana’s steady hush and Pensacola’s lush chaos. You are my anchors and my wings. My deep roots and my soft landings. My before and my becoming.
Thank you for the way you’ve healed me without needing words. For the spaces you gave me to walk, to cry, to breathe, to begin again.
With all my love, A grateful wanderer between two worlds
People tell me I’m honest like it’s a surprise. Like I’ve just blurted out a confession or a truth they weren’t expecting — and they either nod with admiration or laugh like I’ve just told the world’s driest joke.
And I guess the truth is: I don’t know how to be any other way.
I’ve never had the energy for pretending. Not for long, anyway. It’s like my brain doesn’t know how to hold two versions of the truth at once — the real one and the one people might want to hear. So, I say the real one. Gently, if I can. But still, I say it.
And sometimes, I’m too honest — especially about myself. I’ll share something raw or vulnerable, thinking I’m just being open, and then I’ll get that awkward silence or a half-smile followed by, “Maybe you shouldn’t have said that.” People have told me it wasn’t the right time or place. That it made them uncomfortable. And I get it — kind of. But also, I don’t.
Because I wasn’t trying to make anyone uncomfortable. I was just telling the truth. I didn’t know better. I wasn’t trying to shock or overshare. I just don’t feel like I have much to hide. So it’s hard when other people act like I should. Like honesty about yourself is something to be rationed or kept behind glass.
When that happens, I feel this particular type of shame — like I broke some invisible social rule I didn’t know existed. And I hate that feeling. It makes me want to disappear and never say anything again. But I always do say something again. Because that’s how I process the world — honestly, openly, and usually without a filter.
One moment about honesty that has really stuck with me happened during one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I was teaching at St. Paul’s Catholic School in Pensacola, and I knew I wasn’t mentally well enough to keep doing my job at the capacity my students deserved. I brought that truth to my principal — a wonderful, wonderful woman whom I deeply admire — and one thing she said to me was: “It’s good that you’re being honest with yourself.”
And that really stayed with me. It reminded me how powerful self-honesty can be — how freeing it is to speak the truth out loud, especially when it hurts.
But I’m still not sure what level of honesty is appropriate around other people. Is there a line? Or is it okay to just be honest, period — and let other people sit with the discomfort of the truth? Because otherwise, I’m the one sitting there, uncomfortable, holding it in. And I don’t think that’s fair either.
What’s especially wild is that usually, it’s the people who are big “MAGA” Trump supporters who’ve told me I should tone it down. To watch what I say. To keep certain things to myself. And those same people are the first to say, “I just love how honest Trump is,” like that somehow makes the things he says okay.
They’re not okay. Not even close. Not even a little. In fact, a lot of what he says is freaky — like in a scary, very very scary way. But sure, let’s police honesty when it’s soft and vulnerable and real… and praise it when it’s cruel and loud and dangerous. Makes total sense.
Sometimes I wonder if “honesty is the best policy” actually means anything. People usually say it when they’re not being honest at all — or when they’re about to say something that is true but also kind of mean. I try not to do that.
I really believe in gentle honesty. Telling the truth with care. Being real without being reckless. Being warm even when the words are hard.
Still, people laugh. They say I’m funny — usually right after I’ve said something deeply true without meaning it to be a punchline. I’ve decided I’m okay with that. If my honesty makes people laugh and think at the same time, that’s not the worst thing.
So yeah. I’m honest. Not because it’s a strategy. Not because it’s brave. Just because it’s me.
“You don’t need a quiet mind to meditate. You just need a moment. That’s enough.”
Let me guess: You’ve heard about meditation. You’ve maybe even downloaded an app once. You tried sitting still for three minutes, got annoyed at your own thoughts, and decided, “Yeah, no. This isn’t for me.”
Same. Until it was.
I used to think meditation was only for people who drank green juice, went to Bali on silent retreats, or lived in mountain caves. I didn’t think it was for someone like me—messy-minded, overthinking, overstimulated me.
But then life got heavy. And loud. And fast. And my brain got tired of always being “on.” So I sat down one day, hit play on a five-minute guided meditation, and tried again. This time, I let it be awkward. I let my thoughts wander. I didn’t try to “clear my mind.” I just… breathed. And wow.
✨ So Why Should You Try Meditation?
Even if you’re skeptical. Even if you’re fidgety. Even if you “don’t have time.” Here’s why:
🧠 1. Your Brain Will Thank You
Meditation improves focus, memory, and emotional regulation. It literally changes your brain. Like, MRI-scan-level changes. More gray matter in areas linked to learning and memory. Less activity in the amygdala (hello, stress reduction). Science says so.
🫀 2. Your Body Will Too
Lower blood pressure. Reduced cortisol levels. Better sleep. Fewer headaches. Less muscle tension. It’s like giving your nervous system a spa day—no appointment needed.
💥 3. It Teaches You How to Pause
Instead of reacting to every annoying thing or spiraling into panic, you learn to take a breath. A beat. A moment. That’s powerful stuff, especially in a world that loves to rush.
💬 4. You Don’t Have to “Do It Right”
There’s no perfect posture or empty mind requirement. You can lie down. You can fidget. You can have thoughts. Meditation isn’t about shutting your brain off—it’s about noticing what’s going on in there, gently and curiously.
🪷 My Personal Practice (a.k.a. Realistic, Lazy-Girl Meditation)
Some days I sit cross-legged and light a candle. Other days I meditate while walking, doing dishes, or lying flat on my back in bed. Sometimes it’s 15 minutes. Sometimes it’s 90 seconds. All of it counts. The win is in showing up, not in doing it “perfectly.”
Still Not Convinced?
That’s okay. You don’t have to become a zen master overnight. But what if you just gave it 3 minutes today? Close your eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. That’s it.
“Resume of A Soft Person” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Four
2–3 minutes
Objective To continue being human in systems that confuse urgency with value. To create warmth, clarity, and connection—even when it’s not on the job description. To survive with integrity intact.
Experience
Human First, Everything Else Second All Workplaces, All the Time 2008–Present
De-escalated adults and children without ever raising my voice.
Built trust with people in distress, over the phone and across classrooms.
Learned how to stay calm when everything else was unraveling.
Treated coworkers, clients, and students like people, not tasks.
Earned the kind of compliments that don’t go on performance reviews, but stick with you for life.
Intake Whisperer Law Firm #1 & #2 2021–2023
First voice people heard when their life had just cracked open.
Listened without judgment, and translated chaos into coherent facts.
Created space for people to tell hard truths without flinching.
Balanced compassion with boundaries in every conversation.
Helped students feel seen, even when the system didn’t.
Co-regulated through meltdowns and Monday mornings.
Built community, even when support was hard to come by.
Knew when a kid needed a break, not a punishment.
Skills
Reading a room faster than reading an email.
Leading with kindness while holding firm boundaries.
Keeping it together when nobody else is.
Writing messages that say what people need to hear, not just what they expect.
Making people feel safe enough to be real.
Education
Bachelor of Soft Power, Minor in Burnout Informal but Intensive Training 2006–Present
Graduated with honors in giving a damn.
Capstone Project: “How to Be the Strong One Without Going Numb.”
Thesis in progress: “How to Keep Showing Up Without Disappearing.”
References
People who remember how I made them feel.
Students who still check in years later.
Coworkers who could breathe easier knowing I was on the clock.
My nervous system, now learning that rest is allowed.
Me, finally starting to believe that I am enough.
Narrative Outro In the end, this resume isn’t a list of jobs or titles—it’s a testament to a way of being that refuses to let the world define my worth. It’s a quiet declaration that softness and strength can coexist, that caring deeply isn’t a flaw but a form of resilience. Every line here is a reminder that even amidst systems built to drain us, the simple act of showing up with openness and authenticity can rewrite the rules. I’m not chasing accolades—I’m cultivating a life that values being human over endless productivity.
This is Chapter One of my new novel-in-progress, Petals from Her Mouth, a psychological horror story about girlhood, perfection, rebellion, and remembering the version of yourself they tried to erase. I’ll be publishing chapters here as I go. Thank you for reading and for walking with Romy.
“I think I’m falling apart, but beautifully.” — Petals from Her Mouth
Chapter One: The Perfect Girl™
Romy smiled because that was the rule. Not the written one, not the kind on a sign—but the kind you learn in your bones, the kind carved in classroom corners and whispered into your scalp while your hair is being neatly brushed back behind your ears.
Smile. Sit straight. Use the right tone.
She sat in Behavioral Harmony, third row from the front. Her hands were folded on the desk. Palms dry. Nails clean. Uniform ironed. She’d triple-checked everything before she left the house.
Still, the instructor—Miss Grant—lingered too long when she passed Romy’s desk.
“Eyes forward, Miss S.”
Romy’s gaze snapped back to the front of the room. A screen glowed there: soft pink with white cursive text, a daily mantra.
“My feelings are not more important than my presence.”
Everyone repeated it together.
“My feelings are not more important than my presence.”
Romy’s voice caught in her throat.
She coughed. Something fluttered up.
She clamped a hand over her mouth.
It was just a breath. Just air. Just nerves. That’s what she told herself.
But when she pulled her hand away, there it was: A single petal.
Pale pink. Soft. Sitting in her palm like a secret.
She closed her fist around it before anyone saw.
After class, she threw it in the trash.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not her mom. Not her dad. Not even Ivy—not yet.
Because how do you explain something like that?
How do you tell someone, “I think I’m falling apart, but beautifully?”
Later, in therapy, Ms. Voss would ask if she was experiencing “creative ideation,” and Romy would lie and say no.
Because it wasn’t imagination.
And the petals wouldn’t stop.
The therapy room smelled like lavender and static.
Everything was beige—the walls, the chairs, the lamp that gave off light but no warmth. Only the couch cushions broke the monotony, a soft coral pink, the color of diluted blood.
Romy sat down without being asked. She already knew the script.
Ms. Voss appeared from behind her glass desk with her usual notepad and her smile—plastic-perfect, default setting.
“Before we begin, Romy, would you like to take a breath together?”
“I’m already breathing,” Romy said flatly.
Ms. Voss didn’t flinch. She just made a small mark on her pad.
☒ Level One Resistance – Passive Tone.
“Let’s start with your emotional check-in. On a scale from one to compliant, how are you feeling today?”
Romy said nothing.
She thought of the petal in the trash bin. The way it had floated down like it didn’t belong to gravity. The way it had felt like hers, even though it came from nowhere.
“Romy?”
“I guess I’m feeling a little… fractured.”
Another mark.
☒ Word Choice: Unstable Metaphor – Flag for Re-Eval Monitor.
“What does ‘fractured’ mean to you?”
Romy looked past Ms. Voss, to the mirror on the far wall. It was supposed to be one-way. But Romy always saw something else in it.
A flash of herself with no mouth. A twitch she didn’t make. A version of her that stayed still when she moved.
She blinked. It was gone.
“It means I don’t know who I’m supposed to be right now,” she said finally. “But I know I’m not doing it right.”
Ms. Voss smiled again. Wrote another note.
“Self-awareness is a great first step.”
“That’s not what I—” Romy stopped.
She didn’t finish the sentence. What would be the point?
Every word she gave them would be dissected, categorized, weaponized. And anyway, she was starting to feel it again—that shift in her throat. The tickle of something too soft to be swallowed.
“You’ve been flagged for a sleep scan tonight,” Ms. Voss added casually. “It’s standard, just a dream monitor. Nothing invasive.”
Romy’s stomach turned.
“Okay,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“We’re so proud of your progress,” Ms. Voss said.
Then she reached into her drawer and pulled out a small pink sticker.
“Wear this tonight. It helps the scan calibrate. And Romy?”
“Yes?”
“Make sure your dreams are… appropriate.”
That night, Romy stared at the sticker in her hand. It looked like a heart. It pulsed once in her palm.
Slowly, she peeled it open.
And stuck it to her skin.
Her mom didn’t ask about the sticker.
She saw it, though—Romy caught the flicker in her eyes when she changed into pajamas and the pink heart glowed faintly on her shoulder.
But her mom didn’t say a word.
Instead, she handed Romy a mug of tea—chamomile, honey, vanilla. The same blend she made every Sunday night, the one she called reset tea.
“It’s extra sweet tonight,” her mom said, brushing a strand of hair from Romy’s face. “I had a feeling you needed it.”
Romy tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
They sat together on the edge of her bed, legs curled beneath them, the silence soft and full of breathing.
Juno jumped up and made herself a loaf between them, purring like a motor under a quilt.
“I remember when they first started doing these scans,” her mom said suddenly. “Said they were for emotional wellness. Said they’d help girls sleep better.”
“Did they help you?”
Her mom hesitated. Then she shook her head.
“They helped me pretend. Until I couldn’t anymore.”
She didn’t say anything else. Just reached for Romy’s hand and squeezed.
Romy leaned into her shoulder and breathed in the smell of safety—lavender, lemon, and something like memory.
Later, when the lights were out and the house had gone still, Romy opened her journal and wrote one line:
“I don’t want my dreams to be appropriate.”
Then she closed the book.
And closed her eyes.
And waited for sleep to take her somewhere it wasn’t supposed to.
Note to Readers: This post is both a love letter to Easter and a reckoning with what we choose to forget. I say it all with love—and a little laughter.
There’s something undeniably beautiful about Easter. The spring light. The pastel dresses. The kids wobbling through the grass with baskets bigger than their bodies. And the tables—full of ham, deviled eggs, that one jello salad someone insists on bringing every year.
I grew up Catholic, going to church every Sunday, no questions asked. And even though I don’t really go to mass anymore, I still consider myself mostly Catholic. The kind that still whispers Hail Marys when I’m anxious, still tears up when I hear “Be Not Afraid,” still feels something ancient and grounding during Easter.
And also—the kind of Catholic who remembers the year my younger cousin Emily farted out loud during Easter mass and everyone around us (except the very serious usher) started shaking with silent laughter. I swear that memory is burned into my soul more than any homily. And honestly? That might be my favorite Easter moment ever.
But this year, between bites of chocolate eggs and the smell of baked ham, I found myself thinking about the real reason for Easter: Jesus.
Not the white-robed, blue-eyed version from American paintings. But the real Jesus. The historical man. A Middle Eastern Jewish man born in Bethlehem, raised in Nazareth—modern-day Palestine. A brown-skinned refugee who practiced Judaism and fled violence with his family when he was just a child. An outsider. A radical.
And it hit me: If Jesus lived today, would he even be allowed into this country?
Would he be stopped at the border? Flagged by TSA? Labeled a threat because of where he’s from or what his name sounds like? Would he be deported under Trump’s immigration policies?
Would the very people who say his name the loudest slam the door in his face?
It’s not a question of politics. It’s a question of truth.
Jesus would likely be on the wrong side of every system built to exclude. He wasn’t a Roman citizen. He didn’t hold power. He challenged authority. He flipped tables. He wept for the suffering. He welcomed the ones no one else would. He hung out with the poor, the sick, the criminalized, the outcast. If we really look at his story, it’s a story of resistance—and of radical love.
And that makes me wonder: Have we forgotten who we’re celebrating?
This isn’t about guilt. It’s about remembrance. About asking ourselves how we treat the strangers, refugees, and the marginalized today. About how we worship a man who was once all of those things—and whether we’re living like we actually believe him.
So yeah. I still love Easter. I still laugh thinking about Emily’s legendary church fart. And I still believe in resurrection.
But resurrection isn’t just about what happened to Jesus. It’s also about what we allow to happen through us.
And I hope that as we celebrate Easter, we don’t just sit comfortably in our churches and our family dinners—but ask ourselves who Jesus would be today, and whether we’d make room at the table for him.
There’s something about waking up to rain that makes everything feel slower—softer, even. The sound of it tapping on the windows, the sky pulling a blanket of gray over the world like it’s telling us all to just pause for a second. On sunny days, there’s a kind of pressure to be out, to be social, to do something that looks like a movie montage. But on rainy mornings? The rules change.
I stayed in bed longer this morning, just listening. No sun blaring through the blinds, no rush. It felt like permission to move gently. No hurry to perform, no obligation to “make the most” of the day.
There’s this underrated magic in rainy days: you don’t have to be chipper or charming. You can be thoughtful, or tired, or quiet. You can wear socks that don’t match and eat soup for breakfast. You can listen to sad songs and not explain why. You can cry a little and it feels like the world is crying with you—or better, for you.
And honestly? Some of my favorite walks happen on rainy days. Not the freezing, torrential kind—but those mild, steady-rain days that feel like the world’s been muffled. I have a select rotation of rain jackets and boots (yes, there’s a system), and something about putting them on feels like an intentional little ritual. It makes stepping outside in the rain feel like a choice, not a chore. Like I’m part of the weather instead of avoiding it.
Rainy days feel like a reset. Like a soft space in between the hustle. They let you rest without guilt. Create without pressure. Breathe without performance.
So yeah, I’m kind of a fan. Not of storms or floods or dramatic weather events—just the plain, slow, steady kind of rain. The kind that hushes the world for a bit. The kind that reminds you that sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing at all. Or maybe just go for a walk in your favorite raincoat.
There’s a Pacers playoff game today—and I’m not going. But my heart is still right there at Gainbridge Fieldhouse.
My boyfriend, his best friend, and his best friend’s mom (who honestly deserves honorary superfan status) are going to Game 1 today, and I’m so excited for them I could burst. It’s not just a basketball game—it’s one of those moments. A core memory in the making. The kind of thing that lives in your bones forever.
They’ve been Pacers fans forever—cheering through the highs, the lows, the weird rebuilding years. They’ve been yelling at the TV, celebrating buzzer beaters, and cursing refs with real passion. They care about this team in the way that makes you care too, even if you didn’t grow up with it.
And today they’re there. In it. Surrounded by the energy, the fans, the lights, the buzz of playoff basketball in Indiana. I can already picture the texts I’ll get, the group selfies in front of the court, the recap of every play that made them lose their minds. I love that for them.
Sports are funny like that. They pull people together, give you a reason to scream in unison, believe in something, feel big feelings about grown men in jerseys. And honestly? That kind of joy is rare. When you find it, you hold onto it.
So today, I’m cheering from afar. Not just for the Pacers, but for the people I love having the time of their lives. Let’s go, Pacers. Let’s go, memories.
“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.
