There’s so much violence—out there and inside of me. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living in a war zone, both in the world and in my own head. This is a poem about that kind of pain, but it’s also about choosing not to stay in it forever. About cracking the concrete. About saying no.
Tired of Tragic
Tired of tragic— inside and outside of me.
Always some kind of war.
Bombs detonating in my skull.
Shrapnel slicing through my thoughts. Smoke flooding my lungs. Sirens howling— but no one comes.
I pick the metal out of my own head. I stitch the bleeding with shaking hands.
It never stops.
There are landmines buried inside of me.
There are landmines buried in the streets out there.
Bombs blowing out other people’s brains over there— in the places we’ve agreed not to look.
Will it ever end? No.
This world was built to devour itself.
But that does not mean I have to kneel to it.
I refuse to wear tragedy like a uniform. I refuse to swallow it like a daily pill. I refuse to keep folding myself into it— like I was born to explode.
There is still color in this gray, burning battlefield.
There is still softness when the bombs go quiet.
And I do not have to bleed to prove I’m alive.
I am tired of being tragic.
I am done.
I choose something else.
Like a flower cracking the concrete on purpose— its roots breaking the sidewalk wide open.
This post was hard to write because it’s hard to explain—but I need to try.
People often ask if I’m okay.
Usually, the answer is no—but not in the way they think. I’m not sick, not injured, not recovering from surgery or fighting off a cold. My body just… hurts. All the time. Not in a dramatic or even easily explainable way. Just in this persistent, buzzing, exhausting way that lives in my shoulders, my jaw, my stomach, my spine.
And no, it’s not “just anxiety.” (Though sure, anxiety shows up too. It’s got VIP access at this point.)
What I’m trying to say is: I’m autistic. I have ADHD. And I carry pain—literal, physical pain—in my body almost every single day. It builds up in places I can’t always stretch out or rest away. I hold tension in my neck like I’m bracing for a crash that never happens. I clench my jaw until it aches. My back is a battlefield. And don’t even get me started on my digestive system.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t get into a car accident. I didn’t pull something. I didn’t do anything to deserve this pain. I just am—sensitive.
Too Much, All the Time
Autistic and ADHD bodies often feel like they’re tuned to a different frequency. The world that others experience as background noise can feel like a full-blown rock concert in my nervous system.
Loud sounds? Tension. Bright lights? Tension. An unexpected comment, a small conflict, a passive-aggressive email? Yep, tension.
Even when something good happens—something exciting or beautiful—my body reacts. Because emotion, for me, is physical. Joy floods my chest. Grief sinks into my hips. Shame slithers into my stomach. I don’t just think or feel emotions—I store them. I wear them.
And that would be fine if my body were some kind of emotional Tupperware container. But it’s not. It leaks. It overflows. It breaks down.
My 20s Were a Blur of Pain
Through most of my 20s, I had terrible, unexplained pain—especially in my neck, shoulders, and traps. No injury, no diagnosis. Just a kind of constant body-scream no one else could hear.
Every time I brought it up to a doctor, they seemed confused. My nurse practitioner once offered me muscle relaxers, but I declined. I was already managing enough meds—ADHD, depression, anxiety—and didn’t want to add another layer.
I tried getting massages. They felt great in the moment, but the pain always came back. Same with chiropractors. I saw a couple, even committed to a full treatment plan. Each time, they’d say something like, “Have you been in a car accident recently?” Nope. Never.
They couldn’t understand how my neck could carry that much stored trauma unless something had physically happened to me. But something had happened—just not in the way they expected. I’ve been living in a body that reacts to the world like it’s too much, too fast, too loud. Because for me, it is.
Yoga, stretching, and meditation help. They really do. But the relief is temporary, because the world doesn’t pause. The moment I reenter it—back into the bright lights, clashing sounds, sudden emotions, and social expectations—the pain starts crawling back in.
My ex-husband used to give me back massages, trying to help. He’d say it felt like bubble wrap back there—except not the kind you can pop. Just these crunchy, stuck little knots of tension. That’s what I carried. Still do.
Hypersensitivity Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s Neurological
There’s research out there that explains this better than I can. Studies show that autistic individuals often have increased sensitivity to pain, altered pain thresholds, and heightened interoception—meaning we feel internal sensations (like heartbeat, muscle tension, or digestive discomfort) more intensely.¹ ADHD adds its own chaos: constant scanning, restlessness, hyperawareness, and the never-ending effort to regulate.
And then there’s emotional pain, which doesn’t stay in my mind—it lives in my body. Especially when I’ve masked all day, ignored my own needs, or absorbed the feelings of everyone around me like a walking sponge.
When It’s Invisible, It’s Dismissed
This is what people don’t see when they ask if I’m okay. They don’t see the full-body effort it takes to not fidget or cry or shut down in public. They don’t see the internal screaming when a light flickers or someone interrupts me four times in a row. They don’t see the pain that comes from trying to seem “normal.”
Because it’s not just the sensory overload—it’s the masking. It’s the people-pleasing. It’s the emotional labor of trying to be less “too much.”
I’m not saying all autistic or ADHD people experience pain like this—but I am saying many of us do. And I’m one of them.
So If You’re Reading This…
Maybe you’re one of those people who never understood why I cancel plans last-minute. Or why I seem so tired all the time. Or why I talk like I’m on fire, but move like I’m underwater. Maybe you’ve never realized how much pain a body can hold when the world keeps pushing too hard, too fast, too loud.
Or maybe you do know what I mean. Maybe your body hurts too, for reasons no one else sees or believes.
To you, I say: you’re not imagining it. And you’re not alone.
We are bodies that feel too much in a world that demands we feel nothing. But our pain is real. And it matters.
🧠 Research & Footnotes
Autistic People and Pain Perception
Research shows altered pain thresholds and heightened pain responses in autistic individuals. Some report being more sensitive to certain types of pain, while others may under-report it due to interoception difficulties or alexithymia.
Source: Failla, M. D., et al. (2020). “Pain Perception in Autism Spectrum Disorder: A Review.” Journal of Autism and Developmental Disorders.
ADHD and Somatic Complaints
Individuals with ADHD are more likely to report chronic pain, headaches, and somatic symptoms, likely tied to nervous system dysregulation.
Source: Mikita, N., et al. (2015). “Somatic symptoms and their association with anxiety and depression in children and adolescents with ADHD.” European Child & Adolescent Psychiatry.
Interoception and Emotional Pain
Neurodivergent individuals often experience interoception differently, which can lead to heightened awareness of internal pain and discomfort, and difficulty identifying or verbalizing these sensations.
Source: Quattrocki, E., & Friston, K. (2014). “Autism, oxytocin and interoception.” Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews.
Today was one of those days where everything just clicked, and I got completely lost in something. I mean, I was hyperfocused—like, buzzing with excitement. My whole body was practically tingling with joy as I worked my way through this gardening project. If you’ve ever felt so into something that your entire body is just lit up, you’ll know exactly what I mean.
Me & Frodo during the potting process (which I’ll have to redo, but that’s OK!)
For a while now, I’ve wanted to grow a garden—not just flowers in pots, but something I could eat. Something I could snack on, something healthy. My first thought was strawberries. I’d love to grow them and just pop them in my mouth right from the garden. But, as it turns out, they were a little too expensive for my budget today (they were $30, which is way out of my price range). I’ll definitely be getting them eventually, but today wasn’t the day for strawberries.
As I walked through the garden center, I started thinking about what I could grow within my budget. That’s when I spotted cucumber plants, and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. Cucumbers! They’re perfect for snacking, and I could totally make pickles someday. And at $4.56, they were a great fit for my budget. So, I grabbed one.
Then I saw it. Lavender. Oh, lavender. It was $5.37, and I had to have it. I debated for a second but knew I couldn’t leave without it. I was about to stop there, but THEN, when the cashier rang me up, I found out both the cucumber and lavender were on sale for $3.33 each. I couldn’t resist—so I ran back and grabbed a cantaloupe plant I had also been eyeing. It was my third choice, but at that price, it was totally meant to be!
HEY! 😀
I was so stoked, I couldn’t wait to get home and start planting. Now, I’m not a pro, but I had enough of an idea of what I was doing. I potted the plants into the containers I had on hand, but here’s the thing—after a little more research, I realized that I’ll definitely need bigger pots. So, that fun repotting session? That’s coming either tonight or tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, though, because I’m excited to give them the space they need to grow.
And, of course, I also found out that cucumbers and cantaloupe need trellises, which sent me into another hyperfocused spin. I started Googling how to make trellises, and then I was texting my dad about any random pieces of wood he has in his garage (he has a ton, believe me). The idea of building my own trellis has me pretty hyped, and I can’t wait to see how that turns out.
The other part of my day that really lit me up was working with my hands to clear out the overgrown catnip plant in the backyard. I grabbed my cutters, started pulling out weeds, and getting all dirty in the soil was just so satisfying. I didn’t realize how much I’d enjoy using a hoe until today. It kind of felt like swinging a softball bat, but in a really productive way. So, I got a little workout in too (no complaints there). My muscles are definitely feeling it, and I think I’ll be sore tomorrow, but it was totally worth it.
By the end of the day, I had cucumber, cantaloupe, and lavender plants sitting in their new pots (for now). The backyard looks a million times better with the catnip cleared out. And honestly? It was so much fun. I was so into it that I forgot time even existed. This whole gardening thing? It’s turned into one of my “special interests,” and I think it’s a perfect example of how my neurodivergent mind works. When something captures my attention, it grabs hold of me fully. And today, gardening was that thing.
If you’re wondering what “special interests” are, they’re basically things that autistic people get really into. It’s not just a passing fascination, either. Special interests can bring so much joy and motivation. For me, gardening (and my house plants) has become a major part of that. It’s one of those things that makes me feel energized and alive in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it yourself.
Anyway, today was a reminder that it’s okay to get lost in something that excites you, even if you don’t have everything figured out. Sometimes, it’s about the joy of doing something right then and there, just because. And hey, if you haven’t tried gardening yet, I highly recommend it. It’s grounding, it’s thrilling, and it’s incredibly satisfying.
Thanks for reading! Drop a comment if you’ve had any hyperfocused moments (or gardening wins). I’d love to hear about it!
🪡 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.
This one’s been sitting heavy on my chest for a while. For most of my life, I’ve found myself in rooms full of guys—joking with them, laughing with them, feeling like I belonged. But lately, I’ve started noticing the cracks in that comfort. This essay is about what it’s like being the only girl in the group, how easy that role can feel… until it doesn’t. It’s about misogyny hiding under the surface, the cost of calling it out, and the strange grief that comes with realizing not every friendship was what you thought it was. If you’ve ever been “the cool girl,” I hope this resonates.
I’ve been the only girl in a group of guys more times than I can count.
It’s not always intentional. It just… happens. It’s like wherever I go, I gravitate toward guys. And for most of my life, especially as I’ve gotten older, I’ve found that easier in a lot of ways. Simpler, sometimes. Less socially exhausting. More straightforward. There’s a kind of casualness in guy groups that can feel like a relief—especially when you’ve spent your life being hyper-aware of every social cue, every shift in tone, every invisible expectation in a room.
That doesn’t mean I don’t love my girlfriends. I do. Fiercely. The bonds I share with the women in my life are sacred—layered with honesty, softness, truth-telling, deep care. They hold space for things that guys often… don’t. Or can’t. Or won’t.
But still, I keep finding myself surrounded by guys. And until recently, I didn’t question that much.
Now, I do.
Because the ease I used to feel? It’s started to morph into something heavier. I’ve started to notice what I didn’t before—because I didn’t have the language or maybe the clarity to name it. I didn’t notice how much I was tolerating. How much I was excusing. How much I was shrinking myself to keep the peace or stay “cool” or not make things awkward.
When you’re the only girl, and the guys feel safe enough to really talk around you, you start to hear it all. The jokes. The comments. The assumptions. The way they talk about women when they think no one is holding them accountable. And sometimes it’s subtle—like a breeze that leaves a bruise you don’t notice until later. Other times it’s just blatant. Disrespectful. Gross. Dehumanizing.
But you laugh. Or you don’t say anything. Or you say it softly, with a little “haha” at the end so it doesn’t feel like you’re that girl—you know, the buzzkill feminist.
And here’s the thing: lately, I have been that girl. I’ve started calling them out. Naming it. Saying, “Hey, that’s not okay,” or “You don’t get to talk about women like that,” or “This isn’t funny.” And the backlash? It’s real. The pushback is intense. I get told to stop. They flat out deny it. Or laugh louder. Or say I’m ruining the vibe. They hate you for breaking the illusion. They hate you for not playing along.
And here’s the real gut punch: even when they respect you, you’re not exempt from the way they treat women. Because that’s the system. That’s patriarchy. You might be the “cool girl” to them, the one who’s “not like other girls,” but you’re still a girl. And eventually, you’ll feel it.
It also wasn’t until just this past year—after several people finally said it out loud to me, and I finally let myself believe it—that I realized something else: most of these guys wouldn’t have even tried to be friends with me if they didn’t find me attractive. And that truth? That wrecked me. Because it’s like, wait—so we’re not even really friends? You’re just sticking around because I’m pretty enough to look at?
It makes me question everything.
It makes me question every friendship I thought was real. It makes me scared to just be myself—bubbly, kind, open, warm—around new guys, because what if they’re not seeing me, they’re just seeing someone they want something from? What if they’re not even listening, they’re just waiting for a moment to turn friendship into something else?
That fear lives in me now. And I hate it. Because that warmth and friendliness? That’s just who I am. I like people. I love making new friends. I believe in being real and showing up fully. But now it feels dangerous.
I think I used to believe that if I could just be one of them—blend in, adapt, understand their world—I’d be safer. Or maybe even more powerful. I didn’t realize that sometimes, being the only girl in the group just means being the only one absorbing the full emotional weight of everything said and unsaid.
I’m tired of laughing things off. Of translating misogyny into banter. Of pretending it doesn’t hurt when they talk about women like objects and then look at me like I should be grateful they “respect me.”
There’s a toxicity that builds up—not always loud, not always cruel, but heavy. Quiet. Constant. And I’ve finally started to feel it in my bones.
I don’t have all the answers. I’m not saying I’m done having guy friends. But I’m also not going to keep pretending that being surrounded by men doesn’t come with its own kind of cost. I want my friendships to be honest. Accountable. Kind. And that includes calling shit out, not just keeping the peace.Because I deserve to be seen. Not just accepted. Not just “tolerated because I’m hot.” Seen. For real.
Yesterday, I picked up Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus. Today, I’m already on page 347. And yes—I’ll probably finish it before the sun goes down.
People often misunderstand ADHD as an inability to focus. But really? It’s more like I focus with intensity. On one thing. For a while. And then I crash or shift.
For me, hyperfocus isn’t a flaw—it’s a part of my brain’s rhythm. Sometimes, I dive in so deep I lose track of time. Sometimes, it’s a book. Other times, it’s painting, writing, researching, rearranging my plants, or pacing around thinking about feminism and the public education system. (Or all of the above.)
And that’s okay. I’m learning not to apologize for how my brain works. Instead, I want to celebrate it. Today it let me live inside a book.
💬 Watch this quick video where I reflect on what ADHD focus really feels like for me.
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🧠 Reflection prompt: When was the last time you got completely lost in something—in the best way?
I didn’t set out to start a blog. I didn’t even set out to “be a writer.” I just needed a place to survive.
For most of the past year, I was holding myself together with painting, poetry, long walks, and a lot of hope I wasn’t sure I even believed in. Healing was slow and messy. It still is.
Then about a month ago, something cracked open in me. Kind of like that scene in Forrest Gump — he just starts running one day and doesn’t stop. That’s what happened to me. Except instead of running across America, I started writing. And I couldn’t stop.
I started writing memoirs about my life — the real, raw parts of growing up autistic and neurodivergent and not knowing it. I started writing fictional stories where the main characters were like me — neurodivergent women who didn’t have to apologize for being different.
At first, I wasn’t thinking about anyone else reading it. I wasn’t trying to be brave. I was trying to stay alive.
Most of what I’ve written still isn’t on this blog. It lives in notebooks, Word docs, saved drafts. It lives inside of me.
But somewhere along the way — after sharing bits and pieces with my family and a few close friends — my mom looked at me and said, “I think you should share this. It’s important.”
And for once, I believed her.
Because here’s what I’ve realized: People are going to judge me and misunderstand me no matter what. Especially because I’m neurodivergent. Especially because I move through the world differently.
For most of my life, I thought if I just stayed small enough, quiet enough, “normal” enough, I could avoid that pain. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. They judged me anyway. They misunderstood me anyway. And I just stayed silent and let it eat me alive from the inside.
I’m not doing that anymore.
This blog is me taking my voice back. It’s me standing up and saying: If you’re going to misunderstand me, fine — but it won’t be because I hid. It won’t be because I stayed silent. It won’t be because I let fear win.
Sharing my writing started as an act of survival. Now it’s also an act of rebellion. It’s an act of love — for myself, for my community, for anyone who’s ever been made to feel like their voice doesn’t matter.
The beautiful part? The surprise I didn’t even see coming? My words have actually helped people. They’ve made people feel seen. They’ve made people cry, and laugh, and think. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted: To make the world a little softer. A little freer. A little more human.
I also realized I can’t just tell my story without telling the bigger story too. Neurodiversity matters. Representation matters. Advocacy matters.
Most people don’t even know what “neurodivergent” means. Most people have a cartoon version of autism or ADHD in their heads that hurts real people every single day. And I’m tired of being silent about that too.
This blog is my small way of pushing back against a world that doesn’t want to listen — and creating a new space where maybe, just maybe, someone will.
It’s also about education. It’s about fighting for teachers, students, and schools that are being crushed under systems that don’t care about them. I left teaching as a career because it was killing me — but I didn’t leave it as a passion. And now that I’m standing on the outside, breathing again, I feel like it’s my responsibility to use whatever strength I have left to fight for the people still inside.
Education is a human right. Neurodivergent people deserve to be understood, not “fixed.” Mental health isn’t optional. Workers deserve better than barely surviving in broken systems. Women deserve autonomy over their bodies and their lives. We all deserve better.
This blog isn’t big. It’s not loud. But it’s mine. And it’s honest. And it’s full of heart.
If it helps even one person feel seen — if it plants even one seed for change — then it’s worth it.
Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening.
I’m just getting started. 💛
👉 If you’re new here, feel free to explore my essays, reflections, and stories. I’m so grateful you’re here. 🌼
Neurodivergence is a word you might hear tossed around more and more lately — but what does it actually mean? Is it just about autism? ADHD? Something else? Let’s break it down together.
1. What Neurodivergence Really Means:
Neurodivergence simply means that a person’s brain works differently from what’s considered “typical” (or “neurotypical”). It’s not automatically good or bad — it’s just different. And different isn’t wrong.
Neurodivergent people often experience the world, emotions, communication, and thinking patterns in ways that don’t line up with what society expects.
Some common forms of neurodivergence include:
Autism
ADHD
Dyslexia
Dyspraxia
Tourette’s
OCD (sometimes included, though it’s complex)
And many more
2. Why Neurodivergence Matters:
Because the world is mostly built for neurotypical brains, neurodivergent people are often misunderstood, shamed, or forced to “mask” who they are. This can lead to:
Misdiagnosis (especially for women and marginalized groups)
Chronic exhaustion and burnout
Mental health struggles
Feeling like “something is wrong” when it isn’t
Understanding neurodivergence isn’t just for those of us who live it — it’s for everyone. Because empathy, inclusion, and real acceptance start with knowing the truth.
3. Real Life Example:
Imagine you’re in a classroom where everyone learns best by listening to lectures — but you learn best by touching, moving, or building things. The teacher says, “Sit still. Listen. Stop fidgeting.” You start believing you’re broken. But you’re not. You just learn differently. That’s neurodivergence in action.
4. Final Thoughts:
Neurodivergence isn’t a “problem” to be solved — it’s a beautiful, valid way of being human. If you’ve ever felt “different” in ways you couldn’t explain… If you’ve ever burned out trying to act “normal”… If you’ve ever felt like you’re wired for a different rhythm of life… You’re not alone. You might just be neurodivergent. And that’s something to honor, not erase.
🧠💔 A personal essay on autism, ADHD, self-harm, and the journey toward self-compassion
⚠️ Note to Readers
This post contains personal reflections on self-harm, mental health, masking, and neurodivergence. Please read with care and compassion. If you are struggling, know you are not alone—resources are listed at the end of this post. I’m sharing this in hopes that someone else might feel seen.
I Didn’t Know Why I Did It
I was 21 the first time I self-harmed. It was the night of my sorority’s spring formal—an event I had spent weeks planning as the Vice President of Event Planning for Pi Beta Phi. That role wasn’t one I wanted; I took it on out of guilt and obligation when the original officer stepped down for her own mental health. No one else was willing to step up, and I didn’t want our chapter to fall apart under pressure from national headquarters.
So I did what I’d always done: I took on too much. I wore the perfect face. I planned the perfect party. I made sure everyone else had the time of their lives—even though I was barely surviving mine.
After the event, I went out with my boyfriend and friends to celebrate. Everything seemed fine. But later, back in my boyfriend’s room at his fraternity house, something broke. I sat down on the floor and started crying—hard. Full-body, couldn’t-stop sobbing. And then I started scratching the back of my neck, my arms, my shoulders. I pulled at my hair in sharp, frantic handfuls. It wasn’t premeditated. It wasn’t attention-seeking. It was a release. It was a meltdown. I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what it was.
He pulled me into his arms and stopped me. And then I never spoke about it again.
The Perfection Trap
Looking back, it’s not surprising that it happened then. I was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. But I didn’t know how to name it, and I didn’t feel like I had permission to admit it. I was a “high-functioning” sorority girl with leadership roles and a big smile. I was the girl people could count on. And I believed that being good meant never showing pain.
So I didn’t.
I buried it. I kept moving forward. I acted like it had never happened—because that’s what perfection required of me.
The Part of the Story I Didn’t Know Yet
It would be years before I’d begin to understand that I’m autistic. That I have ADHD. That my brain has always processed the world more intensely than others. That I’d been masking—hiding my real self to fit in, to survive—for most of my life.
That night wasn’t random. That moment on the floor was my body and brain screaming out after months (maybe years) of chronic overstimulation, internalized pressure, and emotional dysregulation. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t weak. I was melting down in the only way my nervous system knew how to.
But without a diagnosis, without language, without community or support—I thought it was just me. I thought I had snapped. I thought I was broken.
Teaching Burned Me Out Again
The next time it happened, I was a teacher—three years into my career at a public elementary school in Florida. I was overworked, under-supported, and living on Diet Coke, potato chips, and 3 hours of sleep a night. I stayed late at school. I brought home papers to grade and lessons to plan. I gave everything I had to my students and had nothing left for myself.
One night, the scratching and hair-pulling came back. I remember the sting, the sharpness, the brief moment of stillness that followed. The next day, a fourth grader asked about the marks on the back of my neck. I wore my hair in a bun every day, so they were visible.
I lied. “Oh, it was my cat,” I said. She believed me. Of course she did.
But they didn’t look like cat scratches.
It Wasn’t for Attention. It Was to Survive.
Self-harm is so misunderstood. Especially in neurodivergent people.
It wasn’t about getting someone to notice me. It was about trying to regulate a body that had gone completely dysregulated. It was a way to feel when I felt nothing. Or to distract myself from feeling too much. It was my brain’s desperate attempt to cope with things I didn’t know how to express in words.
And even when I did try to speak, I didn’t feel like I was allowed to.
Now I Know Better. Now I Treat Myself Kinder.
Today, I know that autistic and ADHD people are more prone to self-harm. Not because we’re “crazy” or “unstable” but because our brains and bodies are wired to experience the world in intense, overwhelming ways. We are more likely to internalize shame. More likely to mask. More likely to burn out quietly.
I’m not immune now. But I have better coping tools. I’ve found gentler ways to let the feelings out—through art, poetry, walking in nature, meditation, painting galaxies and wildflowers. I’m learning to ask for help. I’m learning to listen to myself when the early signs show up.
And I’m not pretending to be perfect anymore.
A Letter to My Younger Self
Dear Me at 21,
You weren’t crazy. You weren’t too sensitive. You weren’t weak.
You were breaking under the weight of a world that never taught you how to live in your body. You were trying to carry everyone’s expectations without dropping your own. You were masking pain with smiles and success and silence.
And when you finally cracked, you thought that meant something was wrong with you.
But all it meant was this:
You were overwhelmed. You were hurting. And you needed help.
I see you now. And I love you fiercely.
You made it. And you’re still making it.
Love, The version of you who finally knows she never had to be perfect. The one who wears softness like armor now.
Healing Isn’t Linear—But I’m Not Hiding Anymore
Up until this past summer, the self-harm moments had become more frequent than ever. It scared me. It felt like I was back in that place again—on the floor, overwhelmed, and alone.
But this time was different.
Because this time, I finally had answers. I was diagnosed with autism. And instead of shame, I felt relief. I was getting the help I needed. My parents, my siblings, and my friends showed up for me with love and support. There was no judgment. No pretending. Just care. And that made all the difference.
I still have moments. The past year has been one of the hardest of my life. So many changes. So much processing. So much unraveling.
But I also have more tools now. I can talk about the hard stuff instead of hiding it. I can lean on my boyfriend and my family. I can say “I’m not okay” without feeling like I’ve failed.
It still happens sometimes—but I don’t carry the shame anymore. I don’t keep it secret. And every time I speak it out loud, every time I let someone in, it loses a little more of its power over me.
I’m still working on it.
But the more I understand what’s really happening inside me—the sensory overload, the masking fatigue, the emotional spirals—the more I can show myself compassion. And the less alone I feel.
This post contains raw, vulnerable content about suicidal thoughts, self-harm, and deep emotional pain. It’s not meant to shock—it’s meant to tell the truth. If you are struggling, please know you are not alone. This is my way of surviving. If you choose to keep reading, thank you for holding this with care. If you’re someone who loves me, thank you for still being here.
📝 The Poem:
A Prayer I Shouldn’t Have to Say (for the girl who keeps waking up anyway)
Sometimes, I wish I could die. And I’m so fucking scared because the wish keeps growing— quietly, like mold in a room I forgot to check. It doesn’t scream. It waits.
I used to keep an ESPN article bookmarked— about a runner at Penn State who jumped off a parking garage. I reread it like scripture. Not because I wanted to be her, but because I already was. Just slower to the edge.
In college, I started researching methods. Not for shock value. For comfort. Like maybe if I knew enough it would be easier when the time came. Like maybe knowing gave me power over something.
While teaching, I locked myself in my bathroom at home more times than I’ll admit. Laid on the cold tile of classrooms after everyone left, wishing I wouldn’t get up.
Still now, I find rooms with doors I can close— not to shut people out, but to lie down and hope I’ll just stop.
Because facing it feels like drowning in daylight. Because trying feels like dragging my bones through broken glass just to smile at a meeting.
And I still pray— To God, To Goddess, To whatever might cradle the wreck of me—
Please, take me instead. Let my death do something useful. Spare someone better.
I know it would destroy my parents. They’ve already lost a child. They’d give anything to keep me. And that’s the catch— I want to leave, but I don’t want to hurt them. So I stay. Like a ghost with obligations.
If you’re listening, God, Goddess, anyone— make this life holy again. Make breath feel like more than survival. Make staying feel like something other than surrender.
Please, make it matter that I stayed.
And maybe— maybe there’s something waiting just past the next morning. A hand I haven’t held yet. A moment that doesn’t ache. A softness I’ll recognize as my own.
Maybe the staying isn’t the end of the story.
Maybe it’s the start of the healing.
📌 Note to Readers (end):
If this resonated with you because you’ve felt these same things—please, please stay. The world is heavy, but it’s not hopeless. You are not alone, and you are not beyond saving. I’m still here. You can be too.
If you or someone you love is struggling, please reach out:
