🪡 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.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the ways we leave pieces of ourselves behind, almost like traces in the sand. It’s something I’ve noticed in the way we express ourselves through fashion: it’s not just about clothes, but about who we are, how we show up in the world, and how we make our mark.
For me, fashion has always been a powerful form of self-expression. It’s not about following trends or conforming to someone else’s vision of what looks good. It’s about making choices that reflect you—whether that’s through bold colors, unique silhouettes, or even something as simple as how you mix pieces that feel like you.
Fashion as a Reflection of Identity What I’ve realized is that fashion isn’t just about looking good; it’s about feeling good in what you wear. It’s about how our clothes can be a direct extension of our identity, a mirror of our values, beliefs, and the way we want to be seen. When you wear something that aligns with who you are—whether it’s vintage, edgy, minimalist, or maximalist—it can spark a connection to your deeper self, and that’s when style becomes something far more profound. It becomes a way to prove you exist.
The Link Between Fashion and Self-Worth Fashion and self-worth are intertwined in a way that’s often underestimated. We live in a world where external validation often plays a large role in how we see ourselves. But I think fashion has the potential to flip that script. When we choose clothing that represents our unique preferences, our personalities, and our essence, we start to own our worth.
It’s not about dressing to please others; it’s about wearing what feels right for you—even when that means breaking the rules or ignoring what’s deemed “fashionable.” Self-expression through fashion allows us to take back control, to show the world exactly who we are without needing permission. And that, in turn, reinforces our sense of self-worth. When we express ourselves authentically, we declare that we matter—just as we are.
Authenticity Through Style At the heart of it all, fashion is a tool for authenticity. It’s a way to speak without words, to wear your story and your truth. We don’t need to constantly shout about who we are—our clothing can quietly tell the world. Whether we wear our favorite band tee or a vintage dress, whether we favor comfort over formality or boldness over neutrality, we’re expressing ourselves, asserting our place, and making a statement that we exist, and we deserve to be here.
In the end, fashion is not a surface-level choice. It’s an internal process that reflects how we feel about ourselves. When we make intentional choices about what we wear—choices that feel true to who we are—we assert our identity and let the world know that we have a presence that’s worth recognizing.
We don’t need to be loud or flashy to prove we exist. Sometimes, the simplest outfit can be the loudest declaration of all: Here I am.
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.
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.
A painting born from grief. The ache that doesn’t ask permission. The light that still lingers, even after. This is for the ones we lost. For the ones we’re still holding in our sky.
This isn’t part of a series. This is just one painting, made on one of those days when grief sat too heavy to name. So I let it swirl. I let it spill. I let it become stars.
This piece holds a quiet goodbye—one I’ve said a hundred times, in a hundred ways, and still somehow carry.
It’s for the ones we lost and the weight they left behind.
I painted, I wrote, and I shared—because maybe you’ve carried this kind of ache too.
💫 Mini Poem
Your Name Is Still in My Orbit: The Gravity of Goodbye
I painted the sky to forget, but your name kept appearing in the curve of every comet, in the hush between star pulses, in the light that refused to burn out.
Grief isn’t static—it spins. A quiet rotation around what once was.
Even the silence has a center of mass. Even memory has its own celestial pull.
And no matter how far I drift— your name is still in my orbit: the gravity of goodbye.
💭 Reflection Questions for the Reader
What emotion do you see in this galaxy?
If you could name a star after someone you’ve lost, who would it be?
What feeling has stayed in your orbit, even when you thought it had passed?
Have you ever felt the “gravity of goodbye”? How did it pull you?
What shape does your grief take—if you close your eyes, what color is it?
🕰️ The Timewalker: Part One – The Threads We Carry
This is the first part of a story I’ve been writing—about Wren, a young autistic and ADHD woman who can time travel with her black cat, Cat. She doesn’t change history with brute force—she changes it with empathy, insight, and by seeing what others miss. This is for anyone who’s ever felt too much, asked too many questions, or been told they don’t belong. You do. We always have.
Chapter One: The Crack in the Wall
Wren didn’t notice the crack until Cat meowed at it.
She was mid-scroll, knees pulled up to her chest, half-wrapped in a blanket burrito on her thrifted couch. Outside, the sky was sulking in that half-hearted spring way—too grey to be comforting, too cold to justify another hot chocolate. Cat, for his part, had been sitting by the back wall for a solid ten minutes, staring like it had personally offended him.
“Okay,” she muttered. “What existential threat have you found now?”
Cat flicked his tail once, slow and deliberate, and didn’t look at her.
Wren squinted at the wall. She’d lived in this studio apartment for three months now. The paint was peeling. The windows whined when the wind blew. The radiator was possessed. But the wall? The wall had never cracked before.
She stood, her joints stiff, and padded over in sock feet. The air near the wall felt colder. Not “the landlord forgot to insulate” cold—off cold. Like a breeze from a place that wasn’t here. She pressed her hand to the surface.
The crack was hair-thin but long, stretching like a jagged smile from the baseboard halfway up the plaster. Wren traced it with one finger. It thrummed faintly beneath her touch, like a heartbeat. Like it was… waiting.
Nope. Nope nope nope.
She stepped back. “Okay, no haunted apartment wall nonsense today.”
Cat meowed again, sharper this time.
Wren sighed. “You’re a menace.”
She scooped him up. He was heavier than he looked, all muscle and indignation. He immediately began to purr, but his eyes stayed fixed on the wall.
Wren had always noticed things other people didn’t.
The way certain lights buzzed so loudly she couldn’t think. The subtle shift in someone’s tone before they got annoyed. The patterns in ceiling tiles. The weight of words unsaid.
It wasn’t magic, exactly. Just her brain doing its own thing. A blessing and a curse, depending on the day.
Today, it mostly felt like a curse.
She’d been running on fumes for months before she finally crashed. Dropped out of her grad program. Stopped replying to texts. Moved back to her hometown because the rent was cheap and nobody asked questions.
Everyone said she was “too smart to burn out.” As if intelligence could somehow override sensory overload or social exhaustion. As if she hadn’t been masking since age five and it didn’t cost her everything.
The only one who didn’t expect anything from her was Cat. And possibly the wall.
That night, Wren couldn’t sleep.
She lay on her side, staring at the ceiling fan creak its slow, tired circles. Cat was curled at the foot of the bed, snoring in his own weird little way—like a tiny engine powering some ancient machine.
At 2:13 AM, she got up and padded to the wall again.
The crack was glowing.
Barely. Faint enough she might have missed it if not for the way the light danced—blue and silver, like moonlight on water.
She knelt. Reached out.
The moment her fingertips brushed the glow, the air shifted. Her room dissolved.
The couch, the radiator, the fan, the city outside—gone.
Replaced by warmth. Dust. Sunlight filtering through olive trees.
And a boy in a white tunic staring at her like she’d just fallen out of the sky.
Which, to be fair, she sort of had.
Chapter Two: Olive Branches and Open Mouths
The first thing Wren noticed was the heat.
It wasn’t the cloying humidity of Florida, or the stale radiators she grew up with—it was dry and golden, like sunlight had been ground into dust and sprinkled across the earth. The air smelled like dirt, thyme, and something floral she couldn’t name.
The second thing she noticed was that she was barefoot.
The grass was soft but scratchy. Too real. Too here. She looked down and realized her hoodie and leggings were still on her body, but the crack in the wall—the wall—was nowhere in sight.
And the boy in the tunic was still staring at her.
He looked about her age, maybe younger, with a face carved in curiosity and wide, stunned eyes. His tunic was off-white and belted at the waist. He held a clay jar in one hand, frozen mid-step.
“Uh,” Wren said. “Hi?”
The boy blinked. “You speak Greek?”
Wren blinked right back. “I—what?”
The words had slipped out of her mouth in her usual accent, but he had spoken something entirely different, and she had somehow… understood it. Not like she was translating, but like her brain had already sorted it before she could even question it.
“I—guess so?” she said.
He took a cautious step forward. “Are you a spirit?”
Wren blinked. “No. Just a girl. With a cat. Who is… not currently visible.”
Cat, of course, had disappeared.
Or had never come through the crack at all.
Her stomach flipped.
“Where am I?” she asked. “This isn’t Florida. This isn’t… this isn’t 2025.”
The boy tilted his head. “Twenty-what?”
Wren took a deep breath. The scent of olive trees hit her full force. She turned in a slow circle. Beyond the grove was a cluster of stone buildings, whitewashed and glowing in the late-afternoon light. Hills rose in the distance, dotted with cypress trees. A goat bleated somewhere nearby.
“I think,” she said softly, “I just time traveled.”
The boy dropped his jar.
It shattered on the ground.
They called him Thanos. Not like the purple guy, but short for Athanasios. He led her toward the village, cautiously, like she might disappear or smite him at any moment.
Wren was too overwhelmed to do anything but follow.
Her senses were on fire. The sound of sandals against the packed earth, the way the sky seemed wider, the chirping of insects—everything was so loud, so unfiltered. There was no air conditioning hum, no traffic, no glowing screens. Just… life.
And smells. Cooking fires. Wild herbs. Animal musk. Sweat.
Sensory overload threatened to swallow her whole.
“Breathe,” she whispered to herself. “In. Out. In. Out.”
Thanos looked over, concerned. “You’re not ill, are you?”
“No. Just… autistic.”
He frowned. “I do not know this word.”
Wren exhaled through her nose. “That makes two of us, honestly.”
The village was small—white buildings with flat roofs, narrow pathways, and pottery everywhere. People wore tunics, worked with their hands, and gave Wren many side-eyes as she passed.
A woman muttered something and made a gesture with her hands. A little girl pointed and laughed. A goat tried to eat Wren’s hoodie drawstring.
Thanos whispered, “They think you’re a nymph. Or a witch. Or Hermes in disguise.”
“Well,” Wren muttered, swatting the goat away, “Hermes does have great taste in shoes.”
“Who sent you?” he asked seriously. “The Oracle?”
“I don’t think anyone sent me. Unless Cat counts.”
Thanos stared.
Wren pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even know why I’m here, okay? One minute I was in my apartment, touching a weird crack in the wall, and the next I’m standing in an olive grove getting goat-nibbled.”
“I believe you,” he said. “Strange things happen in this land.”
They reached a house with wide stone steps and a columned entrance. “My father is a philosopher,” Thanos said. “He’ll want to speak with you.”
“Oh great,” Wren muttered. “A man with opinions.”
As she stepped into the cool interior, Wren paused. The house smelled like ink and parchment, and roasted garlic. A different kind of grounding.
The moment she entered, an older man looked up from a scroll. His eyes narrowed as he took her in—sweatpants, hoodie, messy bun, and all.
“Who,” he asked in a measured voice, “is this?”
“This is Wren,” Thanos said. “She fell from the sky.”
Wren opened her mouth. Closed it. Sighed. “Hi.”
The philosopher stood. “You are not from here.”
“Nope.”
“You wear strange clothing.”
“Comfy,” she said, tugging on her hoodie.
“You are alone?”
“…I lost my cat.”
There was a beat of silence.
And then the philosopher did something strange.
He smiled.
Chapter Three: The Quiet Ones
The philosopher’s name was Damon. His house smelled like intellect and olives.
Wren spent the next few days sleeping in a corner room with a woven mat, trying to make sense of the century she’d fallen into. Cat was still missing. Every morning, she scanned the hills and alleyways. Every night, she whispered into the warm, candlelit dark, “Find me, please.”
But she wasn’t idle.
She asked questions—more than most people thought proper—and she answered with precision, especially when Damon invited her to his gatherings with other thinkers.
At first, they humored her. Then they underestimated her. Then they realized she could run mental circles around them.
Wren had always thought in spiderwebs—a million threads spinning at once, connecting across time and space and seemingly unrelated things. In this world of orators and scholars, her fast, pattern-obsessed brain was suddenly not a liability but a superpower.
Still, the women never spoke.
They poured wine, prepared figs, swept thresholds.
One afternoon, Wren caught a girl named Myrine watching her.
She was maybe twelve, eyes like polished amber, and she flinched every time someone raised their voice. She barely spoke, and when she did, she whispered in rhymes under her breath.
Wren approached slowly, like she might a bird in the woods.
“You think in pictures too, don’t you?” Wren asked.
Myrine nodded so faintly it was like her head caught a breeze.
Wren knelt beside her. “Do you hate loud sounds?”
Another nod.
“Do you repeat things in your head when the world feels too big?”
This time, Myrine smiled. Not big. Just enough.
“You’re not broken,” Wren said gently. “You’re like me.”
They met in secret—Myrine and three other girls who never quite “fit.” One lined up pebbles along the edge of the courtyard and remembered everything. One hummed tunelessly and had eyes that darted everywhere, absorbing it all. One never made eye contact but painted wild, aching beauty in the dirt with a stick.
They had been called “difficult.” “Touched.” “Useless.”
Wren called them brilliant.
She told them they were ancient minds living in a world that didn’t know how to see them.
And they listened—rapt, wide-eyed, and lit from the inside.
Wren taught them how to name their needs. How to stim safely. How to use metaphors and speak in ways the world might understand. Not to conform—but to be heard.
The debate came on the fifth evening.
A philosopher named Nikandros—booming voice, broad shoulders, ego like Mount Olympus—declared that women were unfit for reason. “Emotion is their language. They do not possess the spine for truth,” he said, sipping wine like the world existed to applaud him.
Wren rose slowly.
She hadn’t planned to speak.
But rage was a kind of lightning, and she had long since stopped trying to contain it.
“If emotion disqualifies a person from truth,” she said, “then why do your men kill over insults and spill blood for pride?”
Laughter rippled across the room. Uneasy. Intrigued.
Damon, seated nearby, gave a single approving nod.
“You think yourself clever,” Nikandros said. “But cleverness is not wisdom.”
“No,” Wren agreed. “But noticing patterns is. And I see a pattern in who is allowed to speak, and who is told to pour the wine.”
A stunned hush.
Wren pressed forward.
“I’ve watched women listen more closely than any man here. I’ve seen young girls calculate silence like it’s currency. We have minds like rivers and memories like maps. We see what you miss because you dismiss it.”
Nikandros rose.
“Would you debate me, then?” he asked, half-mocking.
“I already am,” Wren said, and smiled.
They debated for hours. Rhetoric, logic, ethics.
Wren was relentless—her ADHD hyperfocus locked in, her autistic need for precision turned razor-sharp. She took every assumption and flipped it inside out like a garment.
When the crowd finally dispersed, it was with muttering, awe, and no clear victor.
But Nikandros sat down quietly.
And poured her the wine.
Later that night, as the sky bruised purple over the hills, Wren sat beneath a fig tree with Myrine and the others. They practiced words: “I prefer quiet.” “I need space.” “Please speak slower.”
Myrine asked, “Will girls like us ever be remembered?”
Wren looked out at the horizon.
“Maybe not by name,” she said softly. “But I think—maybe—they’ll remember the shift. Like something cracked open here, and the light changed.”
A sudden rustle behind her.
Wren turned—and there, trotting across the grass like he owned the timeline, was Cat.
“Mrrp,” he announced, tail high.
Wren let out a laugh that turned into a sob. She scooped him up and held him to her chest.
“You found me,” she whispered. “I knew you would.”
Cat headbutted her chin.
“Okay,” Wren said, wiping her face. “That’s enough emotional vulnerability for the day.”
Chapter Four: The Smell of Smoke and Salt
The wind changed first.
It swept in low and strange through the fig trees, curling at Wren’s ankles like invisible ribbon. The hairs on her arms stood up. Even Cat paused mid-paw-lick and blinked toward the hills like he heard something she couldn’t.
Wren stood slowly, narrowing her eyes at the horizon.
The world shimmered. Just slightly. Like a heat wave or a memory.
She looked at the girls, still laughing and etching patterns into the dirt.
A pang of ache tightened in her chest. She didn’t want to leave them. She hadn’t realized until now that she could.
But the tug in her ribs, the pulse in her temples—it was starting again. The same way it had before.
Time was shifting.
Calling her forward.
Cat leapt onto her shoulder like he knew what was coming.
“Tell your truths,” she whispered to Myrine. “Even if the world isn’t ready.”
Myrine nodded, solemn and glowing like she’d swallowed a little sun.
And then, in a blink—
The world fractured.
A sharp CRACK, like thunder pulled sideways. Air ripped open in front of her—a seam of light and wind and impossible sound—and Wren was lifted off her feet, not by force but by fate.
Cat yowled, claws digging into her hoodie.
There was no time to scream.
Only a flicker of images: ink-stained parchment, cobblestone streets, muskets in shadow, candles behind shuttered windows, and the smell—smoke and salt and something like revolution.
She landed hard.
On her side, in a narrow alleyway, pressed between two brick buildings that felt too close. The air was colder. Damp. And filled with sound—horse hooves, footsteps, men shouting about shipments, someone ringing a bell.
Cat launched from her shoulder, hissed at a passing rat, then casually started licking his paw like he hadn’t just been yeeted through a time-hole.
Wren groaned, sat up, and checked herself. No broken bones. Her brain was buzzing like a hive, though. The sensory input was intense—unfiltered, wild. A whole new century was crashing in.
She took a deep breath and looked around.
She was in a port town. Somewhere northern. The street signs were carved wood, and everyone was dressed in layers of wool, linen, and pride.
A boy nearby looked at her with wide eyes and dropped his basket of apples.
“Sorry,” Wren muttered, trying to act like she hadn’t just fallen out of a tear in the space-time continuum.
She stood up and adjusted her coat.
“I need to stop landing in eras where pants on women are a scandal,” she muttered.
Cat meowed in agreement.
As they wandered toward the noise of the town square, Wren caught fragments of conversations:
“…British troops settin’ up down by the wharf…” “…Governor’s tax again, it’s robbery…” “…Franklin says we need to organize…”
Wren’s heart sped up.
She wasn’t in just any moment.
She was in the thick of it—colonial America, right before the Revolution.
A time when everything was about to ignite.
And Wren, girl of patterns and paradox, had a front row seat.
She turned to Cat. “Alright, buddy. Let’s go accidentally change history—again.”
Cat blinked slowly, like he was the one keeping it all together.
They stepped into the square.
The scent of rebellion lingered in the air like smoke that hadn’t started rising yet.
Chapter Five: The Quiet Power of Eliza
The square was alive.
Voices overlapped in a symphony of tension: merchants haggling over taxed goods, young boys dodging carts with handmade pamphlets clutched in ink-stained hands, and soldiers on the edge of suspicion.
Wren kept her head low and her mouth shut. Observation first—always. That’s what made her a decent time traveler: she didn’t barge in with answers. She watched. She listened.
And she followed the thread of discomfort. That strange static that came when the world felt off—not just politically, but personally. That thread always led her to people who felt like her. People whose inner lives didn’t fit into the neat boxes history tried to fold them into.
Which is probably why she noticed her.
A woman in a slate-blue dress, standing slightly apart from the bustle, one hand pressed to her chest like she was holding in a breath. She wasn’t panicked. But her eyes… her eyes flicked across the crowd like she was scanning for patterns.
Like she saw too much—and didn’t know where to put it all.
Cat slinked ahead, tail high.
Wren followed.
When she got closer, she recognized her. From paintings. From letters she’d studied in her college history seminar, back when she was still trying to pass as “normal” and didn’t yet know her brain was wired differently.
Eliza Schuyler Hamilton.
Not yet the wife of Alexander. Still Eliza Schuyler. But already brilliant. Already overlooked.
Wren approached slowly. “Excuse me… are you alright?”
Eliza blinked, startled. “I—yes. I believe so. Just… too many voices at once. My sister says I feel everything too much.”
Wren smiled gently. “That’s not a flaw. It’s a skill—just not one this world knows how to use yet.”
Eliza tilted her head. “Do we know each other?”
“No,” Wren said carefully. “But maybe we should.”
Cat brushed against Eliza’s leg, purring softly. She knelt instinctively and stroked his fur with the kind of tenderness that made Wren’s throat tighten.
“You’re not from here, are you?” Eliza asked.
Wren’s lips twitched. “That obvious?”
“Not your accent. Your eyes. They look like they’ve seen something the rest of us haven’t yet.”
Wren took a breath. “I know what it feels like to be underestimated. To be too much and not enough at the same time. To hold so many ideas in your head it feels like you’ll crack open if you don’t let them out—but no one listens.”
Eliza stared at her.
Then slowly—slowly—she nodded.
“There is something I’ve been writing,” she said cautiously, “but my father believes it improper.”
“I’d love to read it,” Wren said. “Or hear it. Or help you finish it. Whatever you need.”
For the first time, Eliza smiled.
“Then perhaps we should talk.”
Over the next few days, Wren and Eliza met in secret corners of the garden or tucked behind shelves in her family’s expansive library. Eliza shared drafts of letters—sharp and articulate, questioning loyalty, liberty, and the roles women were expected to play in a revolution that barely saw them.
Wren encouraged her to keep writing.
They spoke of freedom—not just the country’s, but their own.
They even joked about Wren entering a public debate disguised as a young male scholar. “No one would expect a woman to argue Plato better than half the men in Boston,” Wren smirked.
“Especially not one with a cat on her shoulder,” Eliza teased.
Cat sneezed dramatically.
On the day of the debate—a gathering of men discussing “the moral implications of resistance”—Wren did exactly what she wasn’t supposed to do:
She showed up. Uninvited. Underdressed. Unapologetic.
And when a man half-drunk on brandy scoffed that women were too emotional to understand liberty, Wren rose from her seat, cleared her throat, and said:
“Then you haven’t been listening to the right women.”
And she spoke.
Not just for herself. Not just for Eliza. But for every woman who carried the revolution in her bones and was told to stay quiet.
And for once, the room listened.
Eliza, standing in the back, didn’t cheer.
She nodded. Like something had shifted.
And maybe it had.
That night, the portal returned—rising behind the Schuyler family’s stable like fog burning gold at the edges.
Eliza walked Wren there, quiet.
“I don’t know where you came from,” she said, “but you made me feel… possible.”
Wren swallowed the lump in her throat. “Promise me you’ll keep writing.”
“I will. Even if no one reads it now.”
“Someone will,” Wren whispered. “Someday.”
Cat meowed in farewell.
And then the air split open again—pulling them into the next story.
The next fire.
The next thread.
Chapter Six: Echoes in the Smoke
The portal spat Wren and Cat out into a storm of gray and silence.
Ash drifted on the wind like snow.
They landed hard, knees scraping against frozen soil. The air was thick with gunpowder and grief, the kind that clung to the bones of the earth long after the battles ended.
“Civil War,” Wren whispered, pulling her coat tighter. “Mid-war, maybe. Or just after.”
Cat pawed at a stray Union cap lying half-buried in the mud, then shook his fur out like he’d just stepped through a bad dream.
They walked.
No portal had ever felt quite like this—not just like a place, but a weight. Like the timeline was humming with pain, and history was bleeding through the cracks of itself.
Eventually, they reached a farmhouse. Crumbling at the edges, but not abandoned. Candles flickered in the window. Laundry hung limp on a crooked line.
Inside, Wren found her: an older Black woman with sharp eyes and a steadiness Wren felt all the way in her chest.
“Name’s Clara,” she said after a long pause. “You came through the woods like a ghost.”
“I’m… passing through,” Wren offered, not quite lying.
Clara didn’t press. She had the look of someone who’d seen stranger things than girls who didn’t quite fit into the year.
Clara was a teacher. A former enslaved woman who’d escaped to the North and had returned South after the Emancipation Proclamation to help build freedom from the ground up—one student at a time.
She kept a school in her sitting room, with salvaged desks and handmade chalkboards. She taught children to read and to question.
And she kept a trunk under her bed, filled with things she called important.
That’s where Wren found it.
A small, leather-bound book. Worn at the edges, pages softened by time and touch.
Not a journal.
A collection of letters.
Wren flipped one open and her breath caught.
The handwriting. The cadence. The questions.
Eliza.
The title read: “Reflections on Liberty, Womanhood, and the Hidden Cost of Revolution” – E.S.
Wren blinked back sudden tears.
“You know it?” Clara asked, curious but calm.
“She—she was a friend,” Wren said hoarsely.
Clara nodded. “Came into my hands through a Quaker family in Pennsylvania. One of the daughters was passing them around to women meeting in secret. I think her mother had gotten them from an abolitionist out of Boston. I only know this much: these words? They made me fight.”
Wren swallowed hard. “Can I read it?”
Clara gestured to a rocking chair. “All the time in the world, baby.”
That night, as thunder rolled in the distance and Cat curled on her lap, Wren read Eliza’s words like scripture. They weren’t just poetic—they were strategic. Arguments for equality, compassion, education. Questions about how the country could birth freedom while binding half its people.
And in one tucked-away note, Wren found this:
“If I cannot change history now, perhaps I can plant questions in the hearts of women who will.”
Wren closed the book and held it to her chest.
It was working. Eliza’s quiet fire had traveled from girl to girl, heart to heart, until it reached Clara. And now Wren.
And that changed everything.
The next morning, Clara asked Wren to speak to her students.
“They won’t understand where you came from,” she said, “but they’ll feel what you know.”
Wren took a deep breath. She talked about asking questions, about using your voice even when it shakes, about how people had always tried to write women and neurodivergent folks out of the story—but they were never really gone. They were the margin notes in history’s great manuscript. Waiting for someone to read them out loud.
The children listened. Wide-eyed. One girl—ten, maybe—sat straight-backed in the front row, fingers tapping her knees in a rhythm Wren recognized.
After, that same girl asked Wren if it was “bad to think different from everyone else.”
This time, it opened not with urgency, but with purpose.
Like it knew Wren had found something she needed.
As she stood in its glow, Clara pressed the book into her hands. “Take it. Maybe someone else needs to read it next.”
Wren hugged her. “They will.”
She stepped into the light, Cat following behind, tail brushing Clara’s skirts.
Time cracked open again.
And the echoes of Eliza’s words traveled forward—riding with Wren toward whatever came next.
Chapter Seven: Ink on the Walls
The portal dropped Wren and Cat into heat and stillness.
This time, they landed in a narrow alley, the smell of fried okra and train smoke in the air, the sound of gospel floating from a distant window. The sun bore down on a small southern town—Georgia, maybe Alabama. Wren could tell from the way people looked over their shoulders when walking past the “Whites Only” signs.
Cat leapt gracefully to a nearby windowsill and meowed, annoyed.
“I know, buddy,” Wren murmured. “We’re not welcome here.”
They slipped down side streets until they found it—a faded sign above a brick building: “The Magnolia School for Colored Girls – Founded 1892.”
Inside, everything was worn but shining with care. Fresh chalk on the board. A vase of wildflowers on the teacher’s desk. Sunlight slanting through gauzy curtains.
And standing in the middle of the room, fixing a stubborn map of Africa to the wall, was a woman in her thirties. Tall. Graceful. Eyes like flint.
She turned, startled. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Wren,” she said. “I’m… passing through.”
The woman didn’t ask how Wren got in. Just narrowed her eyes like she’d met a few mysteries in her life already.
“I’m Miss Lila Ashby. You here for the reading circle?”
Wren blinked. “The what?”
Lila smiled. “We meet after school. Read and write things we can’t say out loud in daylight.”
Wren felt that old tug in her chest. This was the person she came to meet.
That night, Lila invited Wren to stay for dinner. Collard greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread. Cat got his own saucer of milk, which he licked with exaggerated dignity.
After the meal, Lila pulled out a tattered envelope.
“I keep this with me,” she said. “Been passed down through women in my family for three generations.”
She unfolded the pages carefully.
Wren’s breath caught.
It was Eliza’s letter. The same one Clara had kept. But this one had notes in the margins. New thoughts. New fire.
Clara’s handwriting.
And below that, new lines. Slanted and graceful.
Lila’s.
“I don’t know who this Eliza was,” Lila said, voice soft but reverent, “but her words traveled like a song. Clara was my great-aunt. She taught my mother to read using this. My mother taught me.”
Wren looked up, stunned.
“She said the words would call out to the right women. The ones with questions.” Lila met Wren’s eyes. “They called to you, didn’t they?”
Wren nodded slowly. “They always do.”
That weekend, Wren sat in the back of the reading circle while girls aged ten to sixteen took turns reading passages from banned books. Some shared poems they’d written. One girl wrote about feeling like her mind was “a thousand bees and a thunderstorm,” and Wren nearly cried.
Afterward, Wren asked her about it.
“I don’t talk right. Not like the others. My teachers say I’m too loud, too fast.”
Wren knelt beside her. “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant.”
The girl smiled, just a flicker. “Miss Lila says that too.”
“Miss Lila’s right.”
That night, Lila confessed that she sometimes wondered if her resistance mattered.
“They close our schools. Burn our books. Treat us like shadows.” She clenched her fists. “What if nothing changes?”
Wren handed her a note. Just a scrap of paper, but on it she’d written:
“If I cannot change history now, perhaps I can plant questions in the hearts of women who will.”
Lila read it in silence. “Eliza.”
“She did change history. So did Clara. So are you.”
When the portal came, Wren felt it like a breath on her neck—soft but sure.
She hugged Lila, who whispered, “Take the letter. It belongs to the ones who carry it forward.”
Wren tucked it into her satchel beside Cat, who let out a satisfied purr.
As the light began to shimmer around them, Wren glanced back one last time.
Lila was already back at the blackboard, chalk in hand, writing a new question for her students.
“What would freedom look like if you wrote the rules?”
Chapter Nine: The Vote That Wasn’t Enough
The portal opened with the crackle of static and the scent of warm asphalt. Wren landed hard on the sidewalk, Cat tumbling beside her and letting out an indignant mrow as a car with tailfins whooshed past.
They were in the South again. This time: Selma, Alabama. 1965.
There were signs everywhere. Literal ones: “COLORED ENTRANCE,” “REGISTER TO VOTE HERE.” And invisible ones, too: tight shoulders, wary eyes, the heavy silence of a community waiting to be heard.
Cat stuck close this time, tail twitching.
Wren ducked into a small church with a crooked sign that read “Voter Education Project – Meeting Tonight.” Inside, people filled every pew. At the front stood a young woman in a plaid dress with hair pinned back and eyes like steel.
“Tonight we don’t talk about what we can’t do,” she was saying. “We talk about what we will. We will walk. We will write. We will vote. And we will not be moved.”
Her name was Ruthie Clare Ashby—a descendant of Lila Ashby, Wren realized with a quiet thrill. And in Ruthie’s hand, just like before, was the same envelope. A little more tattered. A little more powerful.
After the meeting, Ruthie caught Wren watching.
“You one of the volunteers from the North?” she asked.
Wren hesitated. “Something like that.”
Ruthie didn’t press. She just said, “We’re marching on Sunday. Selma to Montgomery. We’re tired of waiting for justice.”
That weekend, Wren walked beside Ruthie across the Edmund Pettus Bridge. The crowd was electric—hope and fear braided together. Cat peeked out from Wren’s satchel, ears twitching.
Wren kept pace with Ruthie, who carried a sign that read:
“We hold these truths…”
But just as they reached the crest of the bridge, the police came into view—lined up, mounted, unmoving.
Wren felt time tighten around her like a fist.
And then it happened.
The charge. The batons. The gas. People screaming, running, holding one another. Ruthie’s sign flying into the air like a bird with clipped wings.
Wren pulled Ruthie to the side, shielding her with her own body, Cat hissing fiercely from the bag.
When the smoke cleared, they were still standing. Bruised. Coughing. But standing.
That night, Ruthie showed Wren her version of the letter. She had copied the words of Eliza and Clara, added Lila’s teaching notes, and then something of her own:
“I march because someone marched for me before I was born. I speak because someone was silenced. I vote because someone was told they couldn’t. I will not stop.”
“I don’t know if it’ll change anything,” Ruthie said, her voice low, almost breaking. “People keep saying the vote is ours. But it’s not—not really. Not yet.”
Wren reached for her hand.
“It will be. You’re making it true.”
As the portal shimmered to life behind her, Wren turned back once more.
Ruthie stood tall in the doorway of the church, hands ink-stained from writing new flyers, a group of teenagers listening to her with the kind of rapt attention people once gave prophets.
Wren knew what came next—the Civil Rights Act, the Voting Rights Act, the years of struggle ahead.
But in this moment, she let herself believe in the power of small seeds. Because this chapter—the one about the vote that wasn’t quite enough—was still being written.
Chapter Ten: The Echo Chamber
The portal whooshed open behind an old TV repair shop, and Wren landed in a pile of garbage bags next to a neon sign that flickered “OPEN” even though it clearly wasn’t.
Cat leapt gracefully onto a rusted dumpster, tail swishing like an antenna.
Wren dusted herself off and looked around. Brick buildings. Synth-pop leaking from a boombox across the street. Teens in denim jackets and crimped hair laughing under a mural of Ronald Reagan.
The year was 1983, and America was buying what Reagan was selling: “Morning in America.” Optimism. Patriotism. And the slow, quiet erosion of everything people like Ruthie had fought for.
Wren found herself wandering through a public library—the kind with sun-yellowed carpeting and that faint, nostalgic book smell. Cat trailed her down the aisles.
She wasn’t sure what she was looking for until she spotted a zine rack in the corner, half-hidden by outdated encyclopedias.
One stapled pamphlet caught her eye: “We Remember Ruthie Ashby.”
She grabbed it, heart racing.
Inside: grainy photographs of Ruthie marching in Selma, teaching literacy classes, protesting the closure of voting access centers.
But also: a timeline. A note about her suspicious arrest in 1971. A quote scribbled in blue ink:
“Freedom isn’t free, and it doesn’t stay. You have to keep choosing it, every day.”
Wren’s heart ached. In the zine’s final pages was a name: Tasha, Ruthie’s niece, now leading a small grassroots coalition in a city riddled with “war on drugs” propaganda and broken mental health systems.
Wren tracked her down in a community center in D.C.
Tasha was in her thirties, wearing a “Silence = Death” pin and running a voter registration booth between a needle exchange clinic and a free meal line.
“You look like you read,” she said to Wren, raising an eyebrow.
“I try,” Wren replied.
Tasha snorted. “Then read this.” She shoved a flyer into Wren’s hand: MENTAL HEALTH RIGHTS ARE CIVIL RIGHTS.
Tasha had grown up reading her aunt Ruthie’s letters—just like Lila had read Clara’s, and Ruthie had studied Eliza’s.
Each generation passed down truth like contraband in a world that didn’t want it printed.
She told Wren about the cuts to public mental health programs, the closure of institutions with no community care to replace them, the stigma swallowing up neurodivergent people—especially poor and Black.
“We don’t get to have breakdowns,” Tasha said. “We get criminalized, or pathologized, or erased.”
Wren felt it in her bones—the aching familiarity of being misunderstood, too much, too sensitive, too different.
“You ever feel like the world wasn’t made for your kind of brain?” Wren asked.
Tasha nodded slowly. “Every damn day. But I’m here anyway.”
They stood together at a rally the next day, holding signs that read:
“Disability Rights Are Human Rights.” “Our Brains Deserve a Future.”
And beneath her breath, Wren whispered, “So do our hearts.”
Cat purred, rubbing against her leg.
Wren didn’t rewrite a law that day. She didn’t change the President’s mind or undo the damage done by greed disguised as greatness.
But she saw Tasha hand a flyer to a teenage girl who looked like she hadn’t spoken in weeks, and the girl smiled.
And that—that was something.
The portal began to hum again, its pull gentle but insistent.
Wren turned to Tasha. “What should I remember?”
Tasha smiled. “That we were here. And we kept going.”
Chapter Eleven: The Girl Who Always Asked Why
The portal opened not with a bang, but a hum—a kind of warmth that wrapped around Wren like her favorite blanket used to. She landed softly on a sunlit patch of carpet, the air filled with the scent of plastic dolls, peanut butter, and freshly mown grass.
It was 1997. And Wren was home.
Well… a home. Her childhood home, specifically. Cat gave a curious chirp and padded off through the kitchen like he belonged there.
Wren stood in the living room, blinking. VHS tapes lined the entertainment center. A lava lamp bubbled in the corner. A Lisa Frank notebook sat open on the coffee table—her own handwriting looping across the page in colorful gel pen:
“WHY does everyone say I’m bossy? I’m not bossy. I just KNOW STUFF.”
She wandered into the hallway and stopped cold.
There she was. Little Wren. Eight years old. Barefoot. Wearing a bright blue Tweedy Bird shirt and pacing in front of a corkboard with tacked-up drawings and index cards labeled things like “FROGS,” “WEIRD WORDS,” “HOW DO BRAINS WORK??”
She was muttering to herself, scripting conversations and flipping a fidgety plastic bracelet around her wrist. And she looked tired—the kind of tired that sits in your bones when the world doesn’t make sense and no one believes you when you say so.
Adult Wren swallowed the lump rising in her throat.
Cat brushed past Little Wren’s leg. The girl startled. Looked down.
“…Where did you come from?” she asked.
Cat blinked slowly and flopped over, purring like a tiny engine.
Little Wren giggled—sincerely—and for a moment, the air lightened.
Later that day, Wren watched her younger self sit at the kitchen table, frustrated as her mom tried to help with a worksheet. There was too much noise. The light buzzed overhead. The paper felt scratchy under her hand and the pencil was too loud on the page.
“No, no, NO,” Little Wren cried, covering her ears.
“I don’t understand why this is so hard for you,” her mom said.
Adult Wren whispered, “Because no one saw your wiring. But you were brilliant.”
That night, after bedtime, Wren slipped back into her childhood room and sat beside her younger self as she dreamt—still talking in her sleep, still asking questions no one ever really answered.
She left something behind before she went: A letter. Folded, aged, and laced with everything she wished someone had told her.
“You’re not broken. You’re building. You feel things deeply because you see deeply. Your brain isn’t wrong—it’s a lighthouse. Stay curious. You’re going to change the world just by surviving it.
Love, You.”
She placed it under the pillow. Cat gave her a knowing look.
The portal opened once more, and this time it shimmered like a memory that never really left.
Chapter Twelve: The Threads Between Us
The portal dropped Wren in the middle of a city park, not far from a small lake reflecting streaks of orange and pink. It was quiet. Familiar. She knew that bench. That tree. This was now.
Cat trotted ahead and leapt up onto a picnic table, tail flicking like punctuation.
Wren stood still. The world buzzed differently here—less dramatic than Ancient Greece or Civil War battlefields, but heavy in its own way. She’d just come from every version of the fight: for freedom, for visibility, for truth, for voice. And now she was standing in a world where the fight was quieter, sneakier, and still so far from over.
She sat down and pulled out the leather notebook she’d carried through every jump. Pages stuffed with names—Clara, Eliza, Ruthie, Tasha—and places—Athens, Virginia, Selma, Seneca Falls.
At the top of a fresh page, she wrote:
“We’ve always been here.”
Across the park, a little girl was melting down in front of a playground—screaming, overwhelmed, misunderstood. A parent looked around, embarrassed, whispering sharp instructions. Wren didn’t interfere. But she noticed.
A teenage boy sat alone on a bench, headphones in, drawing meticulous doodles into the corners of his math homework. Probably called lazy, maybe just lost. Wren saw him.
Nearby, a group of college students rallied with signs reading:
“Neurodivergent Not Broken.” “Mental Health Is a Right.” “We Are the Future, Too.”
Wren smiled.
Cat meowed loudly at a passing jogger and curled into Wren’s lap like a weighted blanket. She scratched behind his ears.
“I get it now,” she murmured. “Everywhere I went, there were people like me. Hidden. Dismissed. Fighting quietly.”
That night, Wren sat in her apartment surrounded by old books, protest pins, and sketches of portals she’d drawn half-asleep. Cat lay curled beside her notebook as she flipped through her memories.
She thought of Little Wren and the note under the pillow. She thought of Clara’s courage. Eliza’s words. Ruthie’s fire. Tasha’s grit.
And she thought of her own.
What if I’m meant to be the bridge? Not just between time periods… but between people. Between systems and voices. Between the past and the possible future.
She didn’t know how, not yet. But she knew this: she would not be erased. And she wouldn’t let others be, either.
The portal hadn’t opened again yet. But Wren didn’t mind. Maybe this time, she’d build one.
End of Part One: The Spark
The portal didn’t open again that night.
It didn’t need to.
Wren lay on her back, Cat purring on her chest, and stared at the ceiling as if it were a canvas. She had stories now—ones history never told quite right. She had questions to keep asking, and maybe even some answers to give.
She whispered to the stars outside her window:
“We’ve always existed. Now we begin to be seen.”
Somewhere in the future, a ripple started.
And Wren—neurodivergent, brilliant, imperfect Wren—was ready to make waves.
✨ End of Part One: The Threads We Carry
📣 Coming Soon: Part Two – The Reckoning and the Rise
Wren has seen what happens when stories are erased—and what happens when people carry them forward anyway. In Part Two, she’ll face resistance from those trying to rewrite history, glimpse possible futures, and begin creating a movement of her own.
💬 What part of Wren’s journey spoke to you?
Would you time travel if you could? Have you ever felt like the world wasn’t made for your kind of brain? Drop a comment, share this story, or just sit with it. Your voice matters. You always have.
Yes!! Thank you so much!
good for you! we should be able to disagree without bringing opinions about each other’s bodies into it!
Thank you for your feedback. I greatly appreciate it.
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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.
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
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.
When I worked receptionist at the Levin Papantonio Law firm.
“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” — Oscar Wilde
Easier said than done, right?
Honestly, though, I’ve always been pretty good at being myself. It’s one of the things people tend to compliment me on—my honesty, my quirks, the way I just kind of am who I am. No frills. No fake. Just me.
But being yourself only really works when you feel safe to do it. When the space around you doesn’t shrink or tighten every time you say something a little “too much” or move a little “too weird.” And unfortunately, not every space is like that. Some rooms are full of people who want you to shrink. Some rooms are full of people who only love the idea of you—until you act like yourself and it gets too real for them.
So yeah, I’ve had to mask. A lot. That’s what happens when you’re autistic in a world built for non-autistic people. I can’t just walk into every room and drop my full weirdness on the table like a deck of wild Uno cards. Especially not around people I don’t know well. There’s always that calculating moment—how much of me can I show here? Is it safe to be this honest? Will I be misunderstood again?
Spoiler alert: if I feel like I have to do that kind of math every time I open my mouth, I’m not going to stay in that space for long.
The People Who Tried to Change Me (And Why That Never Works)
I’ve had people try to change me. People who thought they were helping, maybe—like they had some kind of personality blueprint I was supposed to follow. But every time that’s happened, it’s been a disaster. For them, for me, for the relationship. It never lasts long, thank god.
There was a teacher I worked with at Warrington who really wanted me to act like her. She had this hardened, sarcastic, zero-fucks kind of vibe about everything and everyone. She handled stress with biting comments and eye rolls and expected me to do the same. But that just… wasn’t me. I cared too much. I felt everything. I couldn’t shut off my heart the way she could, and I didn’t want to. But teaching was so goddamn hard at Warrington, and I needed support, and for a while I tried to keep that friendship going—even though it chipped away at me.
When I inevitably did act like myself (because I can’t not be me for very long), she and another teacher would basically make fun of me. I don’t think they thought they were being mean, but it was that kind of snide judgment masked as “joking” that still stings. So I tried to find some middle ground, some version of myself they wouldn’t laugh at. That was even worse. It felt like holding in a sneeze that wanted to be a full-body earthquake. It was awful.
And then there was Panama City.
I went on a trip with two girlfriends who were, in a word, not my people. Negative energy central. They wanted me to act like them, like the things they liked, dress how they dressed, react to the world the way they did. Spoiler alert: it didn’t go well. I was miserable the entire time. So miserable, in fact, that I got absolutely obliterated one night and ended up peeing on the cement in the pool area while still in my bathing suit. I mean—was it classy? No. But was I the first person to ever do something like that in Panama City? Also no. Not even close. That whole city is one giant Spring Break-induced fever dream.
But of course, they judged me hard for it. They acted like I’d personally disgraced them in the town square. It was ridiculous. Honestly, if they’d just laughed with me and moved on, it would’ve been fine. But they weren’t those kind of people. And I wasn’t ever going to be their kind of person, no matter how hard I tried.
On My Best Days, I Sparkle
On my best days—the days I actually feel safe to be myself—I sparkle. Not literally (actually yes literally…I use glitter when I’m doing my art a lot and so there’s kind of always glitter on me and around me hehe), but in that way where people notice me because I’m glowing from the inside out.
I’m goofy. I’m bubbly. I’m singing nonsense songs I just made up two seconds ago. I talk out loud constantly—not always to anyone in particular, just because my brain is narrating or wondering or cracking jokes or making connections in real time. I smile at strangers. I compliment people’s shoes or hair or earrings just because I feel like it. I am, in a word, alive.
And I’m wearing the perfect outfit. That’s important. I’ve carefully curated it—not to impress anyone, but because it feels like me. It fits right, it moves right, and it says what I want to say without me needing to speak. Clothes, for me, are another language. And when I’m speaking it fluently, I feel powerful.
People sometimes assume that because I’m autistic, I must be shy or closed off or awkward all the time. And sure, sometimes I am awkward. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed or burnt out or need to disappear for a bit. But when I’m at my best, when the world isn’t trying to mute me or shove me into someone else’s mold, I am social, warm, and just so damn friendly. The kind of person who makes people feel like they matter, because I really do think they do.
And that’s who I really am. Not the quiet version. Not the masked version. Just me, in full technicolor.
It’s Not Always Easy, But It’s Always Worth It
Being yourself sounds like it should be the easiest thing in the world. But honestly? Sometimes it’s the hardest.
Because not every space welcomes you. Not every person knows what to do with someone who sings made-up songs and talks to herself in the cereal aisle. Not everyone appreciates outfits that were built to make you feel powerful instead of palatable. Some people want you to shrink, to be quieter, to tone it down.
And sometimes—especially when you’re neurodivergent—being yourself means constantly deciding how much of you the world can handle that day. It means carrying the weight of other people’s discomfort like it’s somehow your responsibility. It means holding your breath in rooms where you’re not sure if you’re “too much” or “not enough.”
But here’s the thing: every single time I’ve pushed through that fog and chosen to just be me, it’s been worth it. Maybe not in the moment. Maybe not in front of the wrong people. But in the long run? Every time I’ve honored who I am, even when it was messy or loud or vulnerable, it brought me closer to the kind of life I actually want.
The kind of life where I don’t have to perform. Where my weirdness isn’t just tolerated—it’s celebrated. Where I don’t have to trade authenticity for acceptance. Where the right people find me because I’m being real, not because I’m being convenient.
So yeah. Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. And frankly? You’re way too interesting to be anyone else anyway.
Making an outfit is oh so fun!FLOWERS AND RAINY DAYS!
“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.
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