trauma recovery

A smiling person wearing a yellow jacket sits by a river, with a laptop in front of them, surrounded by green trees and grass.

An abstract artwork featuring various shades of blue, green, and yellow paint with cut-out text elements that read 'owe it to our' and 'heart.'

Let’s clear some things up.

There is so much misinformation about autism out there, it could fill a book. Actually, probably a library. And I’m tired of watching people learn about autism from Facebook memes, RFK Jr. conspiracy theories, or the cringiest portrayals on TV. (Please, for the love of god, stop referencing Rain Man.) So here it is. A real, honest look at what autism actually is—and isn’t—from someone who lives it every single day.

What Autism Isn’t:

It’s not a disease.
It’s not a tragedy.
It’s not a childhood-only thing.
It’s not caused by vaccines. (RFK Jr., please sit down.)
It’s not something you can always “see.”
It’s not bad parenting.
It’s not the same for every person.
It’s not a phase.
It’s not just a male thing.
It’s not something you can “fix” with a diet, discipline, or detox.

What Autism Actually Is:

It’s a neurodevelopmental difference. A way of experiencing the world that’s wired differently, not wrongly. It affects how I communicate, feel things, process sensory input, interact socially, and just… exist.

For me, autism means:

I take a long time to tell a story because I include every detail. That’s not rambling—it’s how my brain works.
I can feel deep physical pain when certain sounds happen (like modern country music. No offense, but if someone puts on Morgan Wallen, I might scream). Thank goodness for my noise-cancelling Beats and guided meditations.
I’m hypersensitive and hyper-empathetic to other people. I literally feel their emotions in my body. But I also have alexithymia, which makes it really hard to identify or explain my own feelings. So I absorb others’ pain and get lost in my own.
I have a nonstop internal monologue. My brain is either narrating, imagining, or spiraling 24/7.
I have a high-pitched, fast-talking voice and tons of energy. People have called me sunshine. That’s nice. Until I feel like I’m “too much.”
I have a strong sense of justice. Which is pretty typical for neurodivergent folks.

And while we’re talking about justice, let me say this loud: Today’s Republican Party has done so much damage to my nervous system. Trump’s cruelty—especially when he mocked a disabled reporter, or bragged about grabbing women by the pussy—was deeply traumatic to me as a rape survivor. That is not just gross. It is illegal. But women still get shamed or disbelieved for calling it what it is: assault.

A colorful painting of a black and white cow with a concerned expression, beneath a dark sky with a yellow lightning bolt striking down.

A colorful painting featuring a cow with a lightning bolt emanating from its head, set against a blue and green background with swirls of dark clouds.

Autism and Mental Health

I’ve been through deep depressions. I’ve battled suicidal ideation. I’ve even attempted. Why? Because masking who I am—pretending to be “normal”—is exhausting. It made me hate myself. I’d apologize constantly for being “too weird.”

I’ve self-medicated with alcohol, weed, and even taken more Adderall than prescribed, just trying to numb out the emotional overwhelm. That’s called self-sabotage, and it’s not unique to me. It’s what happens when people aren’t given the support they need to process hard emotions.

I’ve struggled with disordered eating too—either not eating at all because I forgot or hyperfocused, or bingeing on entire boxes of cookies or mini Snickers. My nutrition tanked. My mental health tanked harder.

A handwritten note expressing feelings of confusion and the struggle to engage socially, with phrases about overwhelming thoughts and the desire for connection.

And Still—I’m Here

I love art and nature. I collect plants like they’re treasure and try to make my space more beautiful wherever I go. I feel joy like it’s electric when I’m allowed to be fully, freely myself.

But just as often, I crash. I burn out. I dissociate. I question everything about myself. That’s what living in a neurotypical world can do to a neurodivergent brain.

The worst is when I feel like I’m not enough and too much at the same time. That combo? That’s a killer.

And yet, here I am. Writing this. Painting. Healing. Unmasking.

Shout out to my neurodivergent therapist Sharla (you’re amazing), my mom for getting me autism workbooks, and all the voices out there helping me understand myself. It’s been work. But it’s working.

One More Thing

Just because I’m different doesn’t mean I’m broken.

Think of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or Einstein. Or Emily Dickinson. Or any of the brilliant, sensitive, creative minds that shaped this world. Many of them were autistic.

I’m not trying to be one of them. I’m trying to be me.

When people understand me, I light up. I feel it in my nervous system—the calm, the connection, the joy. It’s electric.

So please, make space. Ask questions. Show compassion.

And don’t call me broken.

I’m just different. And honestly? That’s a good thing.

A computer screen displaying the ASPIE Quiz results, indicating a score of 154 out of 200, with a 100% probability of being atypical (autistic/neurodiverse). The screen includes a radar chart depicting various skills related to perception, relationships, and social interactions. — CjYKMlNuYXBjaGF0LzEzLjMzLjAuNTEgKGlQaG9uZTE0LDU7IGlPUyAxOC4zLjI7IGd6aXApIAI=

**If this resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it. Whether you’re neurodivergent yourself, love someone who is, or you’re just here to learn—thank you. Leave a comment, start a conversation, or simply carry this perspective with you into your next interaction. Every small moment of understanding makes a difference.

This post is part of my blog’s Understanding Neurodivergence series—where I write openly about autism, ADHD, masking, unmasking, and everything in between. If you want to read more about what it’s like to live in a neurodivergent brain (the hard, the beautiful, the misunderstood), head to the full section on my blog and stay awhile. There’s so much more to explore.**

A person smiling, holding a flower close to their nose, standing outdoors with sunlight filtering through trees. The image has a caption about getting wet grass on their shoes to pick the flower.

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. 🌼