mental-health

🌾🌊 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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🧘‍♀️ “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.

Be Yourself, But Not Like That (Unmasking, One Post at a Time)

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“Be Yourself, But Not Like That”
 🧠 An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry Three


“Be yourself,” they say. But only if it makes everyone else comfortable.

A woman wearing a yellow raincoat stands outdoors with her hair blowing in the wind, against a cloudy sky and a water backdrop.

💬 The Double Bind

“You should just be yourself!”

Except when I try, it’s suddenly too much, too weird, too intense, too soft, too different. The social advice to “be yourself” often comes with invisible conditions — ones that feel impossible for someone like me to meet.

I’ve learned that the world doesn’t actually want authenticity. It wants a curated version of it — one that doesn’t disrupt the flow, question the vibe, or take up space in a way that makes people uncomfortable.

Especially if you’re autistic. Especially if you’re a woman.

🧍🏽‍♀️ The Teacher Friend

At Warrington, one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever had, I had a teacher friend who told me I needed to stop caring so much. She wanted me to act like her — tougher, louder, colder. She said it would help me survive the chaos of our school. Maybe she meant well. Maybe she didn’t. I was too exhausted to know the difference.

The truth was, I needed support. Teaching was goddamn hard. I was pouring everything into those kids. But I couldn’t turn off who I was. I couldn’t fake being callous or detached. That’s not how I work — and it never has been.

When I did show up as myself, when my real personality inevitably bubbled through, she and another teacher would make fun of me. Little digs, little laughs. I started shrinking. Quieting. Second-guessing everything. I was still burning out, just more silently.

👗 The Panama City Girls Trip from Hell

Another time, I went on a trip to Panama City with two girlfriends who made me feel like I was failing some invisible test of womanhood. They wanted me to like the things they liked. Dress the way they dressed. React to the world how they did. I didn’t — I couldn’t. So I spent the trip trying to disappear.

I ended up getting so drunk one night that I peed on myself. I was trying so hard not to feel anything, to be someone else, to escape the absolute discomfort of not belonging.

I wanted to go home. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to be anyone but me — but I didn’t know how to be me without paying for it.

🔁 Repeat

This wasn’t a one-time thing. It’s been the pattern.

Be yourself — but not like that.
Have emotions — but not those ones.
Talk — but not too much.
Don’t talk — but don’t be weird about it.

People want quirky, not clinical. Empathy, not shutdowns. Passion, but in moderation. And always — always — the kind of “different” they can laugh at but never be uncomfortable around.

🌱 What I Know Now

I know now that those friendships weren’t safe. They weren’t made for someone like me to exist in fully. But at the time, I thought I just had to try harder. Be better. Be cooler. Be quieter. Be… less.

But you know what?

I’m done with that. I’m done trying to be someone else’s idea of tolerable.

Because being myself — actually being myself — has cost me a lot. But it’s also brought me home.

To the right people.
To real softness.
To joy I don’t have to explain.
To art and cats and poetry and long walks and all the weird, wonderful things that make me me.

A woman wearing headphones and a blue beanie is holding a twig with small green buds, smiling slightly at the camera.

Everyone Else Is Already Taken

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A joyful bride wearing a lace wedding dress and veil, smiling brightly in a well-lit room with a plush white carpet and elegant decor.
A person taking a selfie in front of a portrait of a man wearing sunglasses, with animated flames at the edges of the image.
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.

A person stands in front of a mirror, smiling and striking a playful pose. They are wearing a chic plaid blazer over a black top, paired with vibrant orange polka dot pants and black ankle boots. A colorful bag hangs across their body.
Making an outfit is oh so fun!
A person holding a large bunch of white and pink flowers while standing outdoors on a cloudy day.
FLOWERS AND RAINY DAYS!

🎭 Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired) (Unmasking, One Post at a Time)

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“Masking 101 (And Why I’m Tired)”
 🧠 An essay from Unmasking, One Post at a Time — Entry One

Before I knew I was autistic or ADHD, I just thought I was working really hard at being a person.

Turns out, I was masking.

Masking is when you hide or camouflage parts of yourself so you can pass as “normal.”
It’s mimicking facial expressions, tone of voice, posture.
It’s copying how other people laugh or how they make eye contact.
It’s forcing yourself to suppress stimming.
It’s scripting conversations in your head before they happen.
It’s smiling when you want to scream.
It’s laughing when you’re confused.
It’s staying quiet when you’re overwhelmed.
It’s pretending you’re fine so no one thinks you’re difficult.

I’ve done it for so long, I used to think that was my personality.

When you’re autistic or ADHD—especially if you were socialized as a girl or assigned female at birth—masking becomes second nature.
We’re taught to be accommodating. Quiet. “Not too much.”
So we make ourselves smaller. We mirror people. We blend in until we disappear.

And sometimes we’re praised for it.

“She’s so mature for her age.”
“You’re so adaptable.”
“You always seem so calm.”

Calm? No. Just dissociating professionally.
Adaptable? Maybe. But at what cost?

Masking isn’t just exhausting. It’s identity-erasing.

I’ve walked out of social situations completely unsure who I was.
I’ve said “yes” when I meant “no,” just because it felt easier.
I’ve been praised for being chill when I was actually melting down inside.

People didn’t see my burnout—they saw “grace under pressure.”
People didn’t hear my sensory overwhelm—they heard “sensitivity.”
People didn’t notice my panic—they saw “perfectionism.”

Masking works… until it doesn’t.
And when it breaks down, it looks like depression. Anxiety. Burnout. Shutdown. Rage.
It looks like “what’s wrong with me?”
It looks like “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

And honestly? That’s where I was when I started unmasking.

Unmasking is not always peaceful.
Sometimes it’s letting people see you stim or cry or say something awkward.
Sometimes it’s choosing not to go to a thing—even if people expect you to.
Sometimes it’s saying “no” and feeling that old panic rise up… and doing it anyway.

It’s slow. It’s scary. It’s freeing.

I’m still tired.
But now it’s the kind of tired that comes from becoming, not disappearing.

If you’re masking, and you’re tired too—
you’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
And you’re allowed to rest.

🌀

“Unseen, Unheard” – a fictional horror story based on true events

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Unseen, Unheard

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of sexual assault, trauma, and psychological horror. Reader discretion is advised.

[Intro]

“Unseen, Unheard” is a psychological horror story that explores the haunting and often invisible trauma of sexual assault. Told through the journal entries of Sam, a young woman struggling with the aftermath of an assault and the supernatural forces that seem to follow her, this story weaves together the horrors of both real and imagined threats. It’s a journey into a mind trying to find peace, yet plagued by the shadows of the past.

Journal Entry 1

Date: January 15, 2014

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know if this is even real. But I can’t get it out of my head.
It happened right after winter break, at the party at Scotty G’s house. I had felt safe there—everyone was laughing, music blasting, a familiar crowd of frat boys. He had always been so kind to me, joking around like we were friends. But that night? That night was different. I was laying on the couch, just resting my eyes. The world was fading in and out. Maybe I had too much to drink? Or maybe I didn’t drink enough?
And then I felt it. His hand. No. His finger. It slid in, without warning. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to make it real.

Journal Entry 2

Date: January 18, 2014

It’s like there’s a shadow following me everywhere. It’s not just in my head anymore.
I can’t look at Scotty G without seeing his smile, his grin, as if nothing happened. He still thinks we’re friends. He still invites me to hang out. He doesn’t know that I can’t stand being near him. I can’t look at his face without remembering the way he touched me when I wasn’t even awake.
I should’ve screamed. I should’ve fought back. Why didn’t I?

Journal Entry 3

Date: February 2, 2014

I keep hearing whispers. I don’t know where they’re coming from.
It’s like the walls are alive, like they know what happened. Every time I pass by them, I hear my name—soft, like a wind blowing through the trees. But no one else hears it. No one else knows.
The worst part is, I can’t get away from it. I feel like I’m suffocating. He’s everywhere. And it’s not just him anymore. It’s something darker, something older. The house, the room, the air—it all feels wrong.

Journal Entry 4

Date: March 1, 2014

I’ve stopped going to parties. I’ve stopped seeing people. The whispers are getting louder.
It’s like there’s something in the house now. At night, I hear it. Something scratching at the walls. It’s not Scotty G anymore. It’s… something else. Something angry.
I can’t sleep. I can’t think. And when I try, the darkness swallows me whole.

Journal Entry 5

Date: March 15, 2014

I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t know if what I’m seeing is real.
The house—the one I thought was my refuge—is now full of shadows. Figures I can’t make out. No one else can see them.
I keep hearing it. That voice. It’s him. I know it is. It calls me by name, softly at first, then louder. It’s as though he’s calling me to him, beckoning me to return. But I won’t. I can’t.

Journal Entry 6

Date: April 2, 2014

I saw him again. Scotty G. He smiled at me. I almost ran, but then I heard it. The whispers, louder than ever, telling me I had to stay, I had to face him.
I don’t know what to do. Every part of me wants to run, but I can’t seem to move.
The shadows are growing. The whispers are becoming screams.
I’m starting to think that maybe I’ll never be free of this. Maybe I’ll always be trapped here. In this house. With him.

Journal Entry 7

Date: March 18, 2024 (10 years later)

I’ve been hearing the whispers again. But this time, they’re different.
I don’t know if it’s the house, or the city, or just me, but I can feel it closing in.
I think he’s here. I think Scotty G is here, still with me. I still don’t know why he did it, why he took that piece of me, but now I’m realizing—maybe I wasn’t supposed to know. Maybe this was always going to happen.
I can’t escape the feeling that I’m already dead. That I’m just going through the motions, waiting to disappear completely.

Journal Entry 8

Date: March 22, 2024

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
The shadows are so much worse now. I feel them pressing against me when I walk, hear them creeping when I lie in bed at night. They’re not just whispers anymore—they’re… screams.
I’m afraid I’ll never leave this place.
And what scares me the most? I think I’ve stopped caring.

Final Journal Entry
Date: March 23, 2024

I can feel it, right behind me, getting closer. The whispers, the shadows—they’re all around me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.
The truth is, I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to keep fighting. I think I’ve decided.
There’s only one way to make it stop. Only one way to escape.
And I’m almost ready to do it.

[End of Story]

Closing Thoughts

This story is deeply personal and not an easy one to share. It’s meant to shed light on the lingering effects of trauma, and how it can follow you in ways that others can’t see. If you or someone you know has experienced something similar, please reach out. You don’t have to go through it alone.

Warmth Isn’t a Job Title (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

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“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.

When I grow Up (Professionally Confused Since 1992)

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Welcome to the first post in a new series I’m calling “Notes from the In-Between – Professionally Confused Since 1992.” This is for anyone who’s ever felt like they missed the memo on how to be a grown-up, or who’s quietly questioning what it means to live a meaningful life in a world that keeps asking for more. It’s part essay, part therapy, part “is it just me?”—and it starts here.

“When I Grow Up”
 An essay from Professionally Confused Since 1992 — Entry One

I’m 32 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

Honestly, I thought I would have figured it out by now. I’ve worked hard, done all the “right” things. I’ve been responsible, driven, passionate. I’ve done the soul-searching, I’ve tried the jobs, I’ve paid the dues. But here I am, three decades and some change into this thing called life, and I’m still staring into the void every time someone asks me that classic question: So, what do you do?

The answer? Depends on the year. Or the season. Or the mental health status.

What I do know is this: I love helping people feel seen. Heard. Safe. That’s the through-line in everything I’ve ever done, even when I couldn’t put words to it.

When I was a teacher, I poured myself into my students—into their joy and their pain, into the trust I built with their families, into the hope that maybe, even just for a moment, school could be a place where they felt like they mattered. I brought that same energy to my colleagues, checking in on them when no one else did, trying to be the person who noticed the quiet unraveling under the surface.

In college and even now as an alum, my sorority became another place where I could quietly show up for people. Be the one who listened. The one who stayed up late on the porch swing or texted a check-in after a hard week. I never really needed a title for it—it’s just who I am.

Then came law firms. The first was big and chaotic, but I worked in intake, which meant I was the very first voice people heard when they called. Most of them were distraught—navigating some of the worst days of their lives—and somehow I became a soft place to land. I knew how to listen. I knew how to stay calm when they couldn’t. I knew how to make people feel safe enough to tell a stranger about something deeply personal. At the second firm, which was smaller, I got to go even deeper—speaking to people multiple times, following their stories as they unfolded, being someone they could trust and return to.

I’ve had people call me a “ball of sunshine.” Warm. Calming. Safe. I don’t always see myself that way, but I know I carry that intention with me wherever I go.

And yet—despite all that heart, all that effort—I keep hitting the same wall. It’s like I’m pouring water into a bucket with a slow leak. No matter how meaningful the connections, no matter how good I am at the job, I leave feeling depleted. Like what I do is ultimately…pointless. Or maybe not pointless, but unsustainable. Like no matter how much love I bring to the work, capitalism wrings it out of me until I’m a husk of a human Googling things like how to quit everything and become a forest witch.

I’ve worked since I was 14. Part-time jobs, full-time jobs, all-the-time jobs. I’ve smiled through shifts and swallowed my panic attacks and burned myself out over and over and over. And the older I get, the more I realize how little “work” actually means to me anymore—at least in the traditional, paycheck-equals-purpose kind of way. I don’t want to climb any ladders. I don’t want to hustle for a title that makes me sound impressive but leaves me empty.

I don’t know what I want to be. I just know I don’t want to be this exhausted, this disillusioned, this detached from my own aliveness.

Maybe the better question isn’t “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Maybe it’s “What kind of life do you want to build?” One where rest isn’t earned. One where presence matters more than productivity. One where my warmth isn’t commodified, and connection isn’t a customer service skill.

So no, I don’t have an answer. But I do have hope. I have a deep well of care. I have a longing for something slower, something softer, something real. Maybe I’m not lost—maybe I’m just refusing to settle for a version of adulthood that doesn’t fit me. Maybe not knowing is a form of resistance.

Or maybe I’ll open a sandwich shop that only plays The Rolling Stones and Kendrick Lamar on vinyl. Honestly, that sounds pretty good too.

Next up in the series: “Warmth Isn’t a Job Title”—a piece about what happens when your greatest strength is being the emotional support human in every room, and how hard it is to sustain that in a system that doesn’t value care work. Spoiler: it’s a little bit rage, a little bit softness, and a whole lot of truth.

🌀 “Both, Not Either”

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I used to think I had to pick one.

ADHD or autism. Scattered or structured. Too much or too rigid.
I’ve spent so long trying to make sense of the contradictions in me.

I talk a lot—but I miss social cues.
I crave novelty—but cling to routine like a lifeline.
I hyperfocus—but I forget to eat.
I feel everything—but can’t always name what I’m feeling.

I thought those tensions meant I was broken. That something didn’t add up.
But it turns out I’m not a puzzle with missing pieces—I’m just both.

I’m autistic. I’m ADHD.
Both, not either.

The world doesn’t really know what to do with people like me.
Especially when you’re a woman—or raised as one.
Especially when you learned early on that being “too much” meant being too loud, too sensitive, too weird, too intense, too curious, too emotional, too different.

So I masked. Hard.
I made myself smaller in some places and shinier in others.
I excelled, so people wouldn’t look too closely.
I adapted so well they called me “resilient,” even when I was barely holding it together.

There’s grief in unmasking. In realizing how much of your personality was survival.

But there’s also something else.
Something softer.

There’s relief in seeing myself clearly for the first time.
There’s power in naming it: ADHD and autism.
There’s beauty in building a life that doesn’t punish me for the way my brain works.

Some days, it’s still hard.
I lose track of time. I miss appointments. I get overwhelmed by noise or plans or expectations.
I say the wrong thing. Or nothing at all.

But I also notice the little things. I love intensely. I create like my life depends on it.
I see patterns. I care deeply. I remember everything that ever mattered.

And I wouldn’t trade that for being “normal.”

I don’t have a bow to tie this up with.

But I do know this:
I’m done trying to split myself in half to make other people comfortable.
I’m both. All the time.
And I’m finally learning to be okay with that.