life

🧷 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.

📚 One Book, One Day: How ADHD Helped Me Focus Posted in: Living Neurodivergent | Tags: ADHD, Focus, Reading, Self-Kindness, Lessons in Chemistry

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✨ Video below!

Yesterday, I picked up Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus.
Today, I’m already on page 347.
And yes—I’ll probably finish it before the sun goes down.

People often misunderstand ADHD as an inability to focus. But really?
It’s more like I focus with intensity. On one thing. For a while. And then I crash or shift.

For me, hyperfocus isn’t a flaw—it’s a part of my brain’s rhythm.
Sometimes, I dive in so deep I lose track of time.
Sometimes, it’s a book.
Other times, it’s painting, writing, researching, rearranging my plants, or pacing around thinking about feminism and the public education system.
(Or all of the above.)

And that’s okay. I’m learning not to apologize for how my brain works.
Instead, I want to celebrate it. Today it let me live inside a book.

💬 Watch this quick video where I reflect on what ADHD focus really feels like for me.

—

🧠 Reflection prompt:
When was the last time you got completely lost in something—in the best way?

👉 What Is Neurodivergence? (And Why You Should Know About It)

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Neurodivergence is a word you might hear tossed around more and more lately — but what does it actually mean? Is it just about autism? ADHD? Something else? Let’s break it down together.

1. What Neurodivergence Really Means:

Neurodivergence simply means that a person’s brain works differently from what’s considered “typical” (or “neurotypical”).
It’s not automatically good or bad — it’s just different.
And different isn’t wrong.

Neurodivergent people often experience the world, emotions, communication, and thinking patterns in ways that don’t line up with what society expects.

Some common forms of neurodivergence include:

  • Autism
  • ADHD
  • Dyslexia
  • Dyspraxia
  • Tourette’s
  • OCD (sometimes included, though it’s complex)
  • And many more

2. Why Neurodivergence Matters:

Because the world is mostly built for neurotypical brains, neurodivergent people are often misunderstood, shamed, or forced to “mask” who they are.
This can lead to:

  • Misdiagnosis (especially for women and marginalized groups)
  • Chronic exhaustion and burnout
  • Mental health struggles
  • Feeling like “something is wrong” when it isn’t

Understanding neurodivergence isn’t just for those of us who live it — it’s for everyone.
Because empathy, inclusion, and real acceptance start with knowing the truth.

3. Real Life Example:

Imagine you’re in a classroom where everyone learns best by listening to lectures — but you learn best by touching, moving, or building things.
The teacher says, “Sit still. Listen. Stop fidgeting.”
You start believing you’re broken.
But you’re not.
You just learn differently.
That’s neurodivergence in action.

4. Final Thoughts:

Neurodivergence isn’t a “problem” to be solved — it’s a beautiful, valid way of being human.
If you’ve ever felt “different” in ways you couldn’t explain…
If you’ve ever burned out trying to act “normal”…
If you’ve ever felt like you’re wired for a different rhythm of life…
You’re not alone.
You might just be neurodivergent. And that’s something to honor, not erase.

The Revolution Starts with Real Conversations

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Note:
Communication is such a powerful thing — when it’s real, when it’s clear, and when it comes from a place of respect. Today I’m sharing some thoughts about why speaking honestly, listening with care, and making sure we’re understood matters so much. A little communication can go a long way.

The other day, someone asked if I could help with something — but they didn’t really ask. They hinted at it. And I completely missed it. Later, when they finally said it clearly, I was like, “Ohhh, now I get it.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t care — it’s just that I need people to say things directly. And honestly? I think the world would be a better place if we were all just a little more clear with each other.

There’s something really powerful about true communication. Not just talking, but really connecting — where both people listen, both people share, and both people feel understood. When that happens, even the heavy things feel a little lighter. The world feels a little more manageable.

Good communication isn’t just about saying words. It’s about making sure what we say lands — that it reaches the other person in a way they can actually understand. We can’t expect people to read our minds. We have to say it out loud, clearly enough that the message doesn’t get lost somewhere between hoping and guessing.

For me, being autistic means I genuinely need straightforward communication. Hints and polite suggestions usually fly right past me. I need — and appreciate — when people just tell me plainly what they mean. Some people worry that being direct might sound harsh or bossy, but it’s really the opposite. Clear communication is one of the kindest gifts we can give each other. It builds trust. It eases anxiety. It makes space for real connection.

When we listen with care and speak with clarity, we make the world a little softer, a little safer, and a whole lot stronger. And that’s the kind of world I want to live in — one honest conversation at a time.

📅 April 25, 2020: A Day in the Life (According to My iPhone Memories)

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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.

Screenshot of a heartfelt text conversation between a person and their dad, expressing love, motivation, and support for getting healthier.

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.

A screenshot of a text conversation where one person expresses appreciation for a teacher's impact on their child's experience and suggests looping with them to the next grade.

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.

Screenshot of text message conversation discussing looping with a class, expressing care and support.

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.

Screenshot of a text message conversation discussing the need for hand sanitizer and tissues during the COVID-19 pandemic, expressing willingness to help.

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.

The last day of school waiting fr the buses (because we always had to wait for the damn buses because shortage of bus drivers) before we never returned because of the pandemic in 2020.
A screenshot of a group chat discussing school closures due to COVID-19, featuring messages from multiple participants expressing their thoughts and concerns.
Screenshot
Screenshot of a mobile phone displaying a notification about the Escambia County School District providing supplemental school meals from March 23 to 27, 2020. It lists participating schools and details about meal distribution timing and procedures.
Screenshot
A screenshot of a text chat between a student and a teacher expressing feelings of missing school during the pandemic.

This Is Me: Paint, Blinks, Likes, Ums, and All

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Hola!

This is video #2 that I’m posting. I’m not sure if I’ll keep track of the number of videos forever, but for now it feels right.

This is just me being me — on video — even though I’ve never really been a “video of myself talking” kind of person. (I had to do it for a couple of college assignments and I hated it. That’s pretty much the only time I remember having to video myself.)

This one’s a little messy. I say “um” and “like” a lot — I know. Honestly, I do use “like” way too much in real life, but it’s just a word I love and it’s part of how I talk. I’m not usually much of an “um-er,” though.

I only recorded this once and watched it once, because I’m trying not to overanalyze or turn it into something it’s not. I just want to show up as the realest version of myself that I can.

I blink too much, and to me, it’s obvious I’m still not totally comfortable doing this yet. But that’s just how it is when you’re doing something new and vulnerable — and I know it’ll get easier with time.

For the next few videos, I might try writing myself a little script so I can get my points across more clearly. But for this one, I wanted it to be 100% natural.

Also, after I watched it back, I noticed the black paint on my fingers. But I’m not going to go wash my hands and re-record just because my hands are messy. Honestly, having paint on me (and usually some dirt under my nails) is pretty much my natural state.

Sincerely,

Kayla Sue Warner

🔥 My Brain on Fire: ADHD Edition (Unmasking, One Post at a Time)

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“My Brain on Fire: ADHD Edition”
 🧠 An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Four

A person smiling while sitting on the floor, holding a paintbrush with their teeth and giving a thumbs-up, surrounded by art supplies and partially completed artwork.

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.

Screenshot of a computer screen displaying a questionnaire about lifestyle and health, with emphasis on distractibility. The text below describes the user's feelings of being overwhelmed by the 70-question ADD test.

🌾🌊 To the Wild Things That Know Me: Love for Northern Indiana and Northwest Pensacola

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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.

A person stands on a sandy beach near a body of water, with trees in the background and a bright blue sky. They are wearing a black jacket and shorts, making a playful gesture with their hands.
A person walking along a sandy trail surrounded by greenery and sunlight, casting a long shadow.

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

A person walking on a sidewalk near a street, wearing a gray sweatshirt and shorts, with a slight smile on their face. Trees and houses line the street, under a cloudy sky.
A serene sunrise view through a window, framed by bare trees, with the silhouette of a dog in the foreground.
A serene winter scene depicting bare trees against a pastel sky with a hint of moonlight, featuring stone pillars marking an entrance along a quiet pathway.
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Honestly, I’m Just Honest

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A person in a bathroom mirror taking a selfie. They are wearing a purple shirt and a black jacket, with sunglasses hanging from their shirt. The bathroom has beige tiles and a Gojo hand sanitizer dispenser visible on the wall.

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.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

–Honestly, Me

A person wearing sunglasses with the text 'I CAN LOVE ME BETTER THAN YOU CAN' reflecting on the lenses, smiling and resting their chin on their hand, in a casual indoor setting.

🧘‍♀️ “Meditation Isn’t Just for Monks (And Other Myths I Used to Believe)”

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“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.

You’re already doing it.