On April 25, 2020, I didn’t know my phone would save these messages or that they’d still mean so much to me years later. But today they popped up in my photo memories—and I remembered the love, the grief, the trying, the tenderness. These weren’t grand moments. They were just human ones. Small threads in the fabric of that strange, heartbreaking, beautiful time.
1. A Text From My Dad
“When I first saw you I knew I wanted to do my best.”
I cried rereading that. I probably cried when he sent it too. My dad has always been steady, loving, present. I was trying to get back into running then, and he was trying to get healthier. We were both finding motivation in each other.
I said I never wanted to disappoint him.
I still don’t.
2. A Message From a Student’s Parent
“You’re all she ever talks about.”
This one split my heart wide open when I first read it. That year, I had an incredible group of kids—smart, wild, kind, messy, magical. We were sent home early because of the pandemic, and I never got to say a proper goodbye.
But this message reminded me that the goodbye didn’t erase the impact.
They remembered. I did too.
3. A Dream I Was Afraid to Ask For
I had this idea: what if I could loop with my class to 5th grade?
I knew them. I loved them. I believed I could help them in ways that a brand-new teacher might not be able to right away. I wrote out my case in a long green text, half-apologizing for even thinking out loud.
But my assistant principal (a badass motherfuckin’ woman who I deeply admire and respect btw) replied with warmth and support:
“I love that you are thinking outside the box!!”
Maybe I didn’t feel so silly for wanting something bold after all. And soon after texting her about it I went ahead and sent a text and a screenshot to my principal. Anyways, I got to loop with my kids from 4th to 5th grade. One of the hardest but also most beautiful years of my life and I will never forget it.
4. A Small Offer That Mattered
Even during COVID lockdowns, I was trying to help however I could. One of my student’s family needed hand sanitizer and tissues, and I said yes.
Simple. Small. Kind.
It reminded me that even when the world feels overwhelming, I still have the ability to make someone’s day a little easier.
April 25, 2020, wasn’t a milestone day. But it was a human one. A day full of care, connection, hope, and longing. A day where I was a daughter, a teacher, a friend, a helper.
And I think that’s worth remembering.
Here are some more random photos from around that time. This first one was the last day of school before we never came back because of the covid19 pandemic in 2020. This is a 4th grade student of mine at the time, whom I loved so much, and his little 1st grade sister.
Pharos Tribune January “Healthy Selfie” Contest Winner!
This week, someone offered me a job I might’ve once dreamed of. Teaching yoga at a studio I love, invited by someone I deeply admire, in a space that already feels like home to my nervous system.
And my immediate reaction? Joy. Gratitude. Excitement. …And then: panic.
Not because I don’t want it. Not because it isn’t the right fit. But because it has the word job attached to it. And somewhere along the line, that word started to mean danger.
I finished my yoga teacher training last year. Back when I was still teaching kindergarten, still trying to survive the endless hamster wheel of work and burnout and pretending to be okay. Back then, yoga teacher training was supposed to be a side gig. A way to earn a little extra money. A way to stretch myself—literally and metaphorically.
I finished the training. I got certified. And then…I didn’t do anything with it.
Not because I didn’t want to. But because every time I thought about actually teaching a class—standing at the front of a room, being the person people looked to—I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
The idea of starting something new, of being responsible for other people again, of even just existing in a professional way again after everything I’d been through… It felt too big. Too close to the wounds that hadn’t fully healed. Too easy to fall back into old patterns of people-pleasing, self-abandoning, overextending.
So I just…sat on it. Held the certification in my hands but never used it. Told myself I wasn’t ready. Told myself maybe one day, when I wasn’t so scared.
And then this week, Natasha—one of my favorite instructors, someone whose voice and presence have made my own nervous system exhale more times than I can count—asked if I would like to teach.
Not an application. Not an audition. Just an invitation. Gentle. Genuine. Safe.
And even then—especially then—my stomach dropped.
I lost sleep over it. Not because anything was wrong. Not because Natasha had said anything scary or pressured me in any way. But because my body doesn’t know the difference yet.
It’s still wired to treat anything labeled “work” or “job” like a threat. It’s still holding onto the memory of late nights crying in classrooms, panic attacks in staff bathrooms, smiling through gritted teeth on law firm calls, pretending to be okay so convincingly that even I forgot I wasn’t.
When Natasha asked to meet up the next day to talk, I wanted to say yes immediately. I wanted to be the brave, excited version of me that lives somewhere inside.
But instead, I felt my whole system start to short-circuit. Tight chest. Racing mind. Restless sleep that never really came.
By Monday night, I knew I couldn’t do it. Not because I didn’t want to teach. But because I was already spinning so hard that the thought of one more step—one more commitment—felt like it might shatter me.
So I messaged her and asked if we could meet a different day. And of course—because she is who she is—she responded with understanding, with softness, with complete acceptance.
No pressure. No urgency. Just kindness.
And still, part of me felt silly. Ashamed. Like—Why am I like this? Why am I working myself into a panic over something that feels, in every logical way, like a gift?
But healing isn’t logical. Trauma isn’t logical.
It lives in the body long after the mind understands. It flares up even when the danger is gone.
This job—if you can even call it that—feels like the exact kind of opportunity my nervous system has been craving.
It’s not about hierarchy. It’s not about performance. It’s not about squeezing myself into a role that erases who I am.
It’s about embodiment. Presence. Breath. It’s about guiding others in something that has helped me feel safe in my own body again.
And still, it scares me.
Because for so long, “work” meant abandoning myself. It meant pushing through when I needed to rest. Smiling when I was breaking. Holding it together so everyone else could fall apart.
But this—this is different. This doesn’t require me to become someone else. It asks me to come exactly as I am.
And that’s why it feels terrifying. Because I’ve never had a job that made space for my wholeness. Only the parts of me that were useful. Productive. Palatable.
So I’m learning not to run. Not to back away from the thing that feels good just because I don’t know how to trust it yet. Not to dismiss something just because it doesn’t activate my survival mode.
I want to say yes. Slowly. Gently. With all of me. Not from fear, but from freedom.
Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not rushing into the fire again. But tiptoeing toward the warmth, just to see if it’s safe.
Note from the Author: This post is not legal advice. It’s a reflection from someone who deeply loves public education and has watched far too many great teachers disappear from Florida classrooms. I’m writing this because silence isn’t working. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to make some noise.
I. The Absurdity of Illegality: You Can’t Strike, But You Also Can’t Stay
In Florida, it’s illegal for public employees—including teachers—to go on strike. If they do, they risk everything: their licenses, their pensions, their jobs, their futures. The state doesn’t just discourage strikes—it threatens to annihilate you for even trying.
And yet, here’s the irony: What is the state going to do? Fire them all?
Florida is already in a full-blown teacher shortage crisis. Walk into almost any public school and you’ll find long-term subs teaching out-of-field, exhausted educators doubling up classes, and students quietly slipping through the cracks. Qualified teachers are vanishing. College graduates are steering clear of education degrees. Veteran teachers are leaving in droves.
So, really—what power does the state even have left to threaten?
You can’t scare someone into silence when they’re already crawling toward the exit.
II. This Isn’t Just About Pay (But Also… the Pay)
Let’s talk money. Florida ranks dead last in average teacher salaries. 50th. Not 49th. Not hovering around average. Fifty. The bottom. The end of the line. The state’s starting pay looks decent on paper, but that’s part of the trick: it’s a flash-in-the-pan bonus to attract new hires while experienced teachers remain underpaid and disrespected.
Meanwhile, the cost of living in cities like Miami, Tampa, and Orlando is skyrocketing. Teachers can’t afford to live in the communities they serve. Many work second jobs. Some donate blood for grocery money. This isn’t hyperbole—it’s the reality.
And yet when teachers advocate for better pay, they’re told to be “grateful” or accused of being political.
III. A Profession Crumbling From the Inside
Florida classrooms have become battlegrounds. Not just because of underfunding and overcrowding, but because of the political environment manufactured to punish teachers.
Educators face laws like the “Don’t Say Gay” bill and the “Stop WOKE Act,” both of which censor curriculum and stifle professional autonomy. Teachers are being told what they can’t say, can’t read, can’t teach—even when those things are rooted in truth, history, and compassion.
Textbooks are being banned. Libraries are being stripped. Teachers are being investigated simply for having inclusive materials or acknowledging systemic racism.
You cannot expect teachers to remain silent when the very soul of education is being gutted.
IV. Union Power Under Attack
Florida’s legislature has gone after unions with a scalpel and a sledgehammer. New laws ban automatic union dues deductions and require unions to maintain higher membership levels to remain certified—moves clearly designed to destroy them.
The attack on the United Teachers of Dade, one of the largest local unions in the country, is just the beginning. This is not about accountability. It’s about control. It’s about fear.
But unions aren’t just bureaucracies—they’re lifelines. They’re the only protection most educators have left. And if that’s taken away too, what other option do teachers have but to walk out?
V. Public Opinion Is On the Side of Teachers
The truth is, people get it. A recent poll found that 72% of Floridians support the right of teachers to strike—even though it’s currently illegal. Why? Because even parents, students, and voters can see that things are falling apart.
Teachers don’t strike to hurt kids. They strike because the system is already hurting them.
Strikes are not abandonment. They are resistance.
VI. What Happens If They Do Strike?
Let’s imagine it. A mass teacher strike in Florida.
What’s the state going to do—fire every single teacher? Lock them all up? Replace them with who? Substitutes are already maxed out. The pipeline is dry. And parents? They’ll flood school board meetings in a rage when classrooms are closed—not at the teachers, but at the state that let things fall this far.
There’s a quiet power in mass refusal.
And when it’s all gone too far—when you’ve exhausted every channel, every plea, every sleepless night—maybe refusing to keep playing the game is the only real move left.
VII. The Point Isn’t Just Protest—It’s Preservation
Florida teachers aren’t asking for luxury. They’re asking for livable wages, classroom autonomy, books on the shelves, respect for their expertise, and the freedom to teach truth.
If striking is illegal, so be it. It was illegal once before, in 1968, and yet thousands of Florida teachers walked out. They changed history. They forced the state’s hand. And they earned what they deserved.
Maybe it’s time again.
Final Words
To Florida teachers: You are not alone. You are not selfish. You are not wrong for wanting more—for your students, your profession, and yourself.
To lawmakers: If you’re afraid of a strike, maybe you should ask yourselves why.
To everyone else: If you love your public schools, stand with the people who make them run. They might be walking out, but it’s only because they’ve been left behind for far too long.
🧠💔 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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired)” 🧠An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry One
Before I knew I was autistic or ADHD, I just thought I was working really hard at being a person.
Turns out, I was masking.
Masking is when you hide or camouflage parts of yourself so you can pass as “normal.” It’s mimicking facial expressions, tone of voice, posture. It’s copying how other people laugh or how they make eye contact. It’s forcing yourself to suppress stimming. It’s scripting conversations in your head before they happen. It’s smiling when you want to scream. It’s laughing when you’re confused. It’s staying quiet when you’re overwhelmed. It’s pretending you’re fine so no one thinks you’re difficult.
I’ve done it for so long, I used to think that was my personality.
When you’re autistic or ADHD—especially if you were socialized as a girl or assigned female at birth—masking becomes second nature. We’re taught to be accommodating. Quiet. “Not too much.” So we make ourselves smaller. We mirror people. We blend in until we disappear.
And sometimes we’re praised for it.
“She’s so mature for her age.” “You’re so adaptable.” “You always seem so calm.”
Calm? No. Just dissociating professionally. Adaptable? Maybe. But at what cost?
Masking isn’t just exhausting. It’s identity-erasing.
I’ve walked out of social situations completely unsure who I was. I’ve said “yes” when I meant “no,” just because it felt easier. I’ve been praised for being chill when I was actually melting down inside.
People didn’t see my burnout—they saw “grace under pressure.” People didn’t hear my sensory overwhelm—they heard “sensitivity.” People didn’t notice my panic—they saw “perfectionism.”
Masking works… until it doesn’t. And when it breaks down, it looks like depression. Anxiety. Burnout. Shutdown. Rage. It looks like “what’s wrong with me?” It looks like “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
And honestly? That’s where I was when I started unmasking.
Unmasking is not always peaceful. Sometimes it’s letting people see you stim or cry or say something awkward. Sometimes it’s choosing not to go to a thing—even if people expect you to. Sometimes it’s saying “no” and feeling that old panic rise up… and doing it anyway.
It’s slow. It’s scary. It’s freeing.
I’m still tired. But now it’s the kind of tired that comes from becoming, not disappearing.
If you’re masking, and you’re tired too— you’re not alone. You’re not broken. And you’re allowed to rest.
“Warmth Isn’t a Job Title” An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry Two
People always tell me I’m warm. That I’m “such a light.” That I make people feel seen. I’ve been called sunshine in every workspace I’ve ever entered—schools, sorority houses, law firms, even part-time jobs I barely lasted in. It’s said with affection, usually. Admiration, even. Like it’s a gift I bring into the world. And sometimes, it feels like one.
But it’s also something I’ve learned to weaponize against myself.
Warmth became my strongest asset—and my greatest liability. Because it kept getting me hired, but never saved me from burning out.
When I was a teacher, I was the one who made kids feel safe. The one they ran to when their parents were in jail or they’d had nightmares or just needed a snack and someone to notice they were hungry. I was the one my coworkers vented to. The one who stayed after meetings to talk through things, who remembered birthdays, who made people feel like they mattered. And I did mean it. I do mean it. But warmth doesn’t protect you when the roof of your school is literally torn open and your classroom is flooded and no one seems to care that you’re drowning too.
After Hurricane Sally, a piece of metal was hanging off the building, swinging in the breeze. I made a joke one morning—something like, “Maybe it’ll finally come loose and decapitate me, and I won’t have to go inside.” Everyone laughed. So did I. But I wasn’t really joking.
I didn’t cry in my car. Not once. That’s not really how it shows up for me. I’m autistic, and my relationship with emotions is complicated. I didn’t sob or scream or punch the steering wheel. I just drove. Every day. Over the same bridge. Past the same water.
And almost every morning, I thought about veering off.
Not dramatically. Not emotionally. Just…logically. Like my brain offering a clean escape hatch I couldn’t stop noticing. If I just angled the wheel slightly to the right, maybe I wouldn’t have to do this anymore. Maybe I wouldn’t have to go back into that building with the flickering lights and the flooded carpets and the trauma pouring out of kids too small to carry it. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pretend to be okay.
Because that’s the thing about being warm: people expect it from you constantly. When you’re the “light,” there’s no room to flicker. When you’re the one who makes everyone else feel safe, no one stops to ask if you are.
So I kept going. I kept showing up. I kept being the warm, glowing presence people had come to rely on. I smiled. I made bulletin boards. I remembered everyone’s favorite personal things and their personal home lives. I played music and danced around the classroom and made my students laugh even when I felt like I was disappearing inside myself.
And it worked. That’s what’s so messed up—it worked. I was dying inside, and people just kept telling me how bright I was.
Later, when I wasn’t teaching anymore, the settings changed but the script didn’t. I worked at two different law firms—one big, one small—and in both places, I was the first voice people heard when they called for help. I worked intake, which meant I talked to people on some of their worst days. Car accidents. Medical trauma. Deaths of loved ones. Insurance nightmares. And just like in the classroom, I became good at making people feel safe. Like they could trust me. Like they could exhale.
People opened up to me quickly. I think they could tell I’d listen. That I actually cared. That I wasn’t in a rush to push them through a checklist and onto the next call. I asked follow-up questions. I remembered names. I let people be human with me.
And again—it worked. People praised my “people skills.” My empathy. My warmth. My magic touch on the phone. And again, I was glad to help. I wanted to be good at something that mattered.
But warmth is exhausting when it’s always flowing outward and never back in. You can’t keep handing people pieces of yourself and expect not to go hollow eventually. I was the “bright spot” on every team. The calm voice in chaos. The one people came to when they were upset, even if they outranked me. Especially then.
And I think what hurts the most is… it did matter. It always mattered to someone. But it never felt like enough to matter to the system. Not to capitalism. Not to the structure that chews people up and spits them out as long as the metrics are met.
I could be a ball of sunshine, but the sun doesn’t get PTO. The sun doesn’t get to quit. The sun just rises again—every morning, even when it’s burning out.
I’ve been working since I was 14. Babysitting. Retail. Food service. Odd jobs. Customer service. Admin work. Teaching. Law firms. You name it, I’ve probably done it or something close. At some point, it stopped being a way to grow and just became a way to survive.
And the longer I did it, the more I started to feel like my entire personality was a resume skill. Organized. Compassionate. Adaptable. Emotionally intelligent. A team player. A people person. A fast learner. A warm presence.
Which is to say: marketable. Not whole. Not really me.
Because no matter how many jobs I did, no matter how good I was at them, they never seemed to lead anywhere. Or maybe they did—but the “somewhere” was just more of the same: burnout, detachment, fleeting praise, and the slow erosion of my inner world. The truth is, I don’t want to spend my life being someone else’s good idea of a helpful person while quietly fantasizing about escape.
I don’t want to be so damn useful that I forget I’m also a person.
And maybe that’s the part I’m still grieving: how many years I spent thinking that being good at work would make me feel like I had a purpose. Like I had a path. Like I was building something that would eventually feel worth it.
But mostly, it just made me tired. And confused. And so, so alone.
It’s taken me a long time to realize that burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s often just the natural outcome of being deeply human in systems that reward detachment.
And I’ve always been deeply human, even when I couldn’t name it. Even when I didn’t cry in the car or melt down at work or fall apart in the ways people expect. I just kept going, quietly breaking down in ways no one could see. But that’s starting to change. I’m learning to notice the cracks before everything caves in.
I’m also learning that being warm isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s not a “soft skill” on a resume or a trait to downplay so I seem more professional. It’s a kind of wisdom. A strength. A way of moving through the world that brings connection, not just productivity. And while it’s been used against me—extracted, expected, taken for granted—it’s still mine.
I don’t know what my next job will be, or if I’ll ever have a “career” in the traditional sense. But I’m not chasing titles anymore. I’m chasing alignment. Sustainability. Reciprocity. Joy.
I don’t want to be the sun that never gets to rest. I want to be a candlelit intentionally—glowing gently in the spaces where it feels good to be seen, and safe enough to dim. Because warmth isn’t a job title. But it might be the most honest part of who I am.
