Some people think it’s weird that I can go from watching Department Q or House to curling up with cartoons made for little kids. Or that I’ll happily read about revolutions and lost empires… then turn around and eat Dino-shaped chicken nuggets for dinner. But here’s the thing: it’s not childish. It’s balance. Being autistic means the world often feels like it’s turned up to eleven. Deep dramas and history books feed the part of me that loves to explore complexity, darkness, and the messy truths about humanity. They challenge my mind and let me see the world through different lenses.  But after a day of sensory overload, anxiety spikes, or just plain life stress? That same mind needs a softer landing. Cartoons are gentle, predictable, and safe. Dino nuggets feel comforting, silly, and familiar. They aren’t about avoiding adulthood — they’re about recovering enough to keep being an adult tomorrow. Liking these things doesn’t erase the fact that I’m also into heavier, “grown-up”...

Have you ever been stuck in a place where the noise feels like it’s crawling under your skin? That was me today. I had to do inventory at the Hwy 58 store in Chattanooga, TN. The scanners beeped nonstop. It felt like every beep punched through my head until I had a migraine. I don’t even remember the 30-mile drive back to my home store in Cleveland, TN. My brain was running on empty autopilot. Right now, I’m sitting at my home store trying to ground myself. My body is so tense it hurts. And the worst part? I didn’t have my Loop earplugs. No stim toys. Nothing. I’m holding back tears because I’m not home yet. I’m writing this because sometimes being autistic means our bodies remember every sound, every flicker of fluorescent light, every vibration—long after it’s over. And sometimes we forget that we do deserve to protect ourselves, even if it means carrying a pocketful of stim toys or wearing earplugs people might ask about. If today taught me anything, it’s this: bring your supports. ...

Have you ever gotten so caught up in something you love that you didn’t even realize how far it had pulled you in? Today, that happened to me. I’ve been building my blog—Chronicles of a Quiet Fighter—with so much care: the colors, badges, pages, making it feel just right. But I realized today (with help from friends at work) that I wasn’t just working on it in my free time; my mind kept drifting there even when I was supposed to be doing my job. As an autistic person, hyperfocus can feel like magic. It’s comforting, energizing, and makes me feel safe when everything else feels chaotic. But sometimes it sneaks too far, and I don’t notice until someone else points it out. Instead of beating myself up, I’m choosing to see this as a reminder: ✨ I built this blog to share my story, not just to design it. ✨ Writing and reflecting help me regulate; endless tweaking doesn’t. ✨ It’s okay to ask others to help ground me when I can’t see it myself. If you’ve been in this place too—stuck in the de...

💤 Running on Empty: Burnout, Journaling, and the Weight I’m Carrying Intro blurb: Some days you’re just tired for no clear reason. But sometimes, that tiredness has been brewing for months—and it finally catches up. Here’s where I’m at right now.

Today, I fucking lost it. A guy came into the store asking about a 400 small block Chevy. I looked up a '70 Impala with one. I asked a simple, necessary question: was it a 2-barrel or 4-barrel carb? Because it matters. It changes the head gaskets. It’s not just some minor detail—it changes the part entirely. He didn’t like me asking. He started puffing up, saying he’s been building engines for 30 years, and that all 400s are the same. But they’re not. They are not the same. I tried to show him on the screen, tried to walk him through the difference, but then he started yelling. And that’s when everything shut down. My body. My brain. Too loud. Too close. Too fast. I blacked out. I don’t remember what happened next. Mikey told me I screamed at the guy. Told him to fucking leave. Told him to get out of the store. I don’t remember that part. I don’t even remember being able to speak. But I guess I did, because apparently I stormed off, punched a radiator, and shoved a tool cart into t...

Why Does Life Have to Be So Hard Hey everyone, Caleb here. Today I want to share some real talk about how life feels when you’re autistic and dealing with everyday challenges. No fluff, just honesty. --- Sometimes I stop and wonder why life has to be this hard. Why even the small stuff — like remembering to fill my pill organizer or take my meds — feels like climbing a mountain. People say everyone struggles, and that’s true. But being autistic makes it feel like life is built on Hard Mode from the start. Every single thing takes energy: remembering steps, fighting executive dysfunction, dealing with sensory overwhelm, masking, trying to keep track of time and social cues. Even the simplest tasks can feel huge. Do neurotypical people have it this hard? Maybe sometimes. Everyone has pain and stress. But the difference is, they don’t usually have to spend so much energy just to keep up with everyday life. The world was built for them. For us, it wasn’t — and that shows in the little crac...

Some nights, the weather outside feels like a mirror to the storm inside me. There’s something about rain—its chaos, its rhythm, its unfiltered power—that speaks a language I understand. It doesn’t hide. It doesn’t pretend. It simply is. And maybe, on the nights when I don’t have the words, I can let the sky speak for me. --- When the wind blows and the trees bend, The sky splits open like a wound that won’t mend. Rain comes crashing—hard, relentless— Like the weight of every thought I can’t confess. My mind is a warzone of torment and bliss, Each lightning flash a memory I miss. I ache with things I cannot name, But still, I crave the cleansing flame. The thunder roars like voices past, Screaming truths I can’t outlast. Yet in the chaos, there's something kind— A hollow calm that cradles my mind. Each raindrop taps against my skin, As if to say, “You’re still within.” I’m torn in two—wild and small— Longing to rise, bracing to fall. The trees, they weep with me tonight, Swaying ge...

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This article discusses eating disorders, emotional trauma, grief, and themes of masking and identity. Please read with care, and take breaks if needed. --- by Caleb When I finished watching The Crown, I didn’t feel closure. I felt cracked open. What started as a historical drama turned into something else—something personal. Something sacred. I saw myself in all of them. That wasn’t the plan. I just wanted something to watch. But instead, I ended up crying for people I didn’t think I’d relate to—princes, queens, even the ones I was mad at. And most of all, Diana. --- Diana Was a Mirror Diana’s story hit me hard—especially the scenes around her eating disorder. They weren’t just dramatic moments. They were real. Raw. And triggering. I saw in her what it feels like to be trapped in a world that praises your image but punishes your truth. She kept trying to be loved, to be seen, but all they gave her was rules and silence. As an autistic, I understood that all too well...

Sometimes a moment sneaks up and turns into magic. Today, my bed called to me—and I answered. Not with sleep. With bouncing. The mattress had just the right spring. I started jumping, not even thinking why. And suddenly, a word was echoing in my head over and over: “Trios.” Over and over. Trios. Trios. Trios. I don’t even speak French, but somehow it became part of the rhythm. Every bounce matched the beat of the word. I let it happen. I bounced. I giggled. I said “trios” again and again until it all became this perfect stim moment. My whole body vibed with joy. It didn’t need to make sense. It just needed to feel right. And it did. Why it matters: Because I didn’t fight the stim. I didn’t question the loop. I just let myself be autistic, free, and happy in my own body. That’s what regulation can look like—pure joy. Let’s hear it for beds that bounce, words that loop, and moments that remind us we are allowed to feel good.

It was back in November 2024. My niece Destiny and I had to pick up the family from Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The GPS said the interstate was backed up, and in grand fashion—just like Papa always used to do—I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to take the back roads through the Great Smoky Mountains. You already know this ain't gonna end well. Somewhere along the way, we ended up crossing a one-lane wooden bridge over what I swear was a raging river. I was crying, gripping the wheel, barely holding it together, convinced we were moments from getting swept away and becoming a local news story. Meanwhile, Destiny was in the backseat laughing her butt off. She kept saying, “It’s just a small stream, get over it,” like we weren’t about to be sacrificed to the Smoky Mountain water gods. She also kept yelling, “If we don’t make it, I’m gonna kill you!” and honestly, I wasn’t sure which fate was worse at that point. Now here’s the thing—I’m deathly afraid of water. To me, that wasn’t a stream. ...

Today was therapy day with Jennifer—who, let’s be honest, is basically a fan at this point. I gave her several of my recent blog posts: the one about the crown, the hot jerky shutdown one, and the recovery post. (Yes, that flaming cow meat tried to take me out, and yes, I lived to tell the tale.) Anyway, she loved them. She even asked for my blog link. Apparently, she wants to share them with the practice owner and some of the other therapists at the clinic. She said I’m one of her success stories. Me? A success story? Honestly, I don’t feel like one. I’m just an autistic person trying to survive in a world that’s too loud, too bright, and absolutely allergic to clear instructions. I write because I need to. Because if I don’t, the thoughts pile up like unsorted laundry. It’s not about being seen—it’s about staying sane. But something shifted today. The idea that my words could actually help someone? That maybe what I’ve been surviving could offer someone else a bit of light? That’s… h...

🪰 The Day I Battled a Houdini Fly (and Got News That Shook Me) Today was… well, something else . It all started when I was attacked by a fly. Not just any fly—this little menace had to be related to Houdini himself . He’d dive bomb me, vanish, then come back for round two like it was some kind of twisted game. It was downright infuriating. Then the fly turned on Mikey—which, to be fair, he deserved after laughing at my hysterical flailing. Picture me jumping around, waving my arms, trying to protect myself from this unprovoked aerial assault. Mikey thought it was the funniest thing ever… until he became target number two. Despite our heroic efforts, we never managed to squash the bugger. It felt like a full-on 911 emergency . And of course, when we texted Miranda to come rescue us, she was in the shower. Perfect sitcom timing, right? 📞 And then—my phone rang… Ryan, my boss, said he wants to sit down Wednesday and *have a talk.* And just to calm me down, he...

For Papa— Your hands built homes, healed engines, and held my world steady. You taught me more than how to fix things. You taught me how to protect, how to love, and how to live with fierce compassion. Your voice echoes in every act of kindness I offer, every truth I speak, and every fight I take on for those who cannot fight for themselves. This is for you. Always. With all my heart, Caleb --- I remember it like it was yesterday. The sun was low in the sky, casting warm amber light that made everything feel softer, quieter. The porch boards creaked beneath us as we sat side by side—Papa in his usual worn denim jacket, and me, just trying to absorb the world in my own way. The smell of motor oil still lingered faintly on his hands, mixing with the scent of freshly mowed grass. The crickets were starting to chirp. Somewhere in the distance, an engine hummed down the highway. For once, the world didn’t feel like too much. Papa never asked me to explain myself. He didn’t flinch at my stim...

Today was one of those days. Therapy with Jennifer went well—she always gets it. Afterward, I made a quick stop at O’Reilly’s, and then, for some reason I still don’t understand, I decided Cracker Barrel sounded like a good idea. Spoiler: It wasn’t. Cracker Barrel is a sensory minefield. The moment I walked in, I was hit with that thick, cloying perfume smell—like walking into a cloud of synthetic flowers and regret. The music? Loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. And the overlapping voices? It felt like I had fifty conversations shoved in my ears at once. Even with my Loop earplugs in, it was pure sensory assault. My nervous system was already screaming before I even sat down. So why did I go? Maybe I was chasing some kind of comfort. Maybe I thought steak would fix it. I ordered a 10 oz sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and an extra side of fries. Fries that arrived cold, limp, and flavorless—like they’d been waiting for someone else and settled for me. A small glass o...

Lately, one word has been stuck in my head. Not in a scary way, not even in an anxious way—just... there. Over and over again: Trios. I don’t speak French. I’m not trying to count in another language. But “Trios” keeps looping like a quiet song inside me. It’s echolalia—something a lot of autistic people experience. Our brains sometimes get fixated on certain sounds or words, not because they make sense, but because they feel right. And honestly? I’ve decided to claim it. Trios is now my stim word. It’s soft, smooth, rhythmic. It rolls off the tongue like a gentle stream. It doesn’t jab or scratch like some words do. It’s calming, comforting, kind of mysterious. It feels like something magical. I don’t need to explain why it’s stuck. I don’t need to justify it. That’s the beauty of autistic brains—we experience the world through sound, rhythm, pattern. And sometimes, a word just clicks. So I wrote a song about it. I turned “Trios” into something powerful—a grounding spell when things g...

That weird feeling of hearing your voice again. Like you’re not sure if it’s really yours. Like it echoes wrong, or feels too sharp, or too soft, or like it belongs to someone else. That’s how it felt when mine came back. After more than a day of being completely nonverbal, the sound of my voice didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like unfamiliar territory. A part of me I thought I lost, trying to come back—but I wasn’t ready to trust it yet. People think that once you can talk again, you’re better. But I wasn’t. --- I could whisper. I could speak in short sentences. But I didn’t feel safe doing it. And that scared me more than being silent. I was off work, and I had the space to rest—but my throat still hurt. My brain was foggy. My body felt heavy like it had been dragging itself through a storm. And even though I could technically talk again, I chose not to. Because I wasn’t ready. Because I was afraid that if I used my voice too soon, it might break again. Because I needed silence to ...

I never expected to go the whole day without speaking. But that’s what happened when my body shut down after a sensory overload that hit me out of nowhere—and I didn’t have a choice. My voice was gone. Not because I didn’t want to talk, but because I literally couldn’t. This is what autistic shutdown can look like. It’s not dramatic. It’s not “just needing a break.” It’s survival mode. And for me, that meant spending over 24 hours unable to speak, trying to function in a world that doesn’t make space for autistic people when we’re at our limit. --- It started with jerky. Yeah, really. A co-worker offered me a piece of beef jerky and said it was hot. I thought he meant “hot” like the food I normally eat at Mexican restaurants—spicy, but manageable. I trusted him. I didn’t read the label. I just ate it. But it wasn’t normal spicy. It was extreme, sensory-assault spicy. Within seconds, I was in full-blown sensory overload—my skin buzzing, my stomach twisting, my body on the edge of shutdo...

When you lose track of time doing something you love, people call you disorganized. Lazy. Careless. But here’s the truth: I’m autistic. I experience time blindness. When I dive into one of my special interests, I don’t just focus—I disappear into it. Hours slip by. I forget to eat. I forget to sleep. Sometimes, I even forget I exist. It’s not a lack of discipline. It’s a different experience of time. A Timer and a Compass My papa understood this before I had the words to explain it. He’d gently say, “Keep a timer nearby, kiddo.” Not as a rule or punishment, but like a little life hack. “Set it so you remember to take a break.” He didn’t want to stop my passion—he wanted to help me protect my body while letting my mind soar. That small kindness stuck with me. A timer became not just a reminder to eat or stretch—but a quiet message: You matter, too. The World Thinks I’m Disorganized—But They Don’t See the Whole Picture People see the missed meals, the forgotten texts, the way I disappear...

Mom and Grandma at it again Today has been another day of noise and tension. My mom and grandmother argued again—like they do almost every day. It’s always about something that doesn’t matter in the long run. My brain can’t understand the point of it. I try to tune it out, but the shouting cuts through everything, like a sharp alarm I can’t silence. It makes my skin crawl and my stomach twist. I just want quiet. I want peace. But that’s rare in this house. My grandmother is difficult. Honestly, she’s abusive—emotionally manipulative and cruel, especially to my mom. I see it. I hear it. I feel it in the heaviness of the air after every interaction. She talks down to us like we’re worthless, like our feelings and needs don’t matter. Sometimes I think she sees us as tools, not people. That’s hard to say. But it feels true. Even though she can’t walk on her own or take care of herself, she still finds ways to control everything around her. She uses guilt like a weapon. My mo...

Okay, hear me out—maybe it’s just me, but I think cow meat has it out for me at this point. I said hold on… 😅 First, it was that flaming cow meat that tried to take me out (you remember the hot jerky saga, right?). And now, I go to Burger King and order a number one—regular Whopper meal. I even upsized it to a large with sweet tea, feelin’ fancy. I get home and... there are no fries in the bag. None. Nada. Just sadness. I haven’t even checked the sandwich yet to see if they got it right. I ordered it with no mayo, no tomato, and no pickles—because I have autistic sensory issues with all three. Let me be clear for the folks in the back: 🧠 It’s not about being picky. It’s about how my brain and body react to certain textures, smells, and tastes. Mayo feels like slime on my tongue. Tomato makes everything soggy. Pickles? Instant sour overdrive. If any of those are on my burger, I literally can’t eat it. And don’t say, “Just pick it off.” First of all: 👉 You can’t pick off mayo, you abs...

I was just lying here tonight, quiet and still, when a realization hit me like a soft but undeniable wave: I mask more at home than I do at work. That might sound backwards to some people, but if you’re autistic like me, you might get it instantly. At work, I’m surrounded by Miranda, John, Chaz, and Mikey. That crew—those people—they make me feel safe. Fully safe. Like I can exist exactly as I am, stims and pauses and all, without worrying about judgment. I don’t have to think so hard about every little facial expression or body movement. I don’t have to constantly scan the room to see if I’m “too much” or “not enough.” I can just… be. But at home? That’s where the mask comes back on—tight, subtle, exhausting. Even though I’m technically “home,” I don’t feel truly safe unless I’m closed off in my bedroom. And even then, I don’t fully let my guard down. Some part of me stays on edge, waiting. Bracing. Managing. It’s wild how much your body knows who you can be yourself around. Safety is...

After my last post about the whole speech block situation with Miranda and Mikey, I kept asking myself something I’ve wondered for years: Was that a meltdown… or a shutdown? It’s something I’ve never really been sure how to categorize. So I finally sat down and unraveled it—and I want to share what I found, because I know I’m not the only autistic person who’s been stuck in this grey zone. --- 💥 Meltdown vs. 🧊 Shutdown — What’s the Difference? Here’s the short version: A meltdown is an external overload explosion. Think crying, yelling, pacing, lashing out, or sensory stimming that looks big. It’s loud. It’s visible. It’s energy spilling outward because your system’s fried. A shutdown is an internal collapse. Think going quiet, freezing, losing the ability to speak or move, or feeling emotionally numb. It’s your brain hitting the brakes to avoid further damage. The energy goes inward—and it can be just as intense, just… silent. --- So What Happened to Me? That moment where I couldn’t...

💌 A Break-Up Letter to Beef Jerky By Caleb — the Quiet Fighter with a Tender Gut and Zero Tolerance for BS Dear Beef Jerky, We need to talk. And before you even flex your leathery little muscles—I’m not here to fight. I’m here to walk away. You and I? We had a thing once. I thought you were tough, bold, full of flavor… the kind of snack that said, “Yeah, I survive the wild.” But it turns out, I’m not into survival mode snacks anymore. I’m into peace. I'm into regulation. I'm into not bleeding out of my rectum at the worst possible moment. Remember that spicy episode? You know the one—where you sneak-attacked me with a flavor so hot I literally shut down, lost speech, and had to stim my way back to Earth? Yeah. That wasn’t cute. That was traumatic. And now… you made me bleed. In the most humiliating way possible. Through my underwear. Through my pants. In broad daylight. That’s not love. That’s violence. I don’t care how protein-packed you are. I don’t care how rugged your pack...

You ever feel like your own brain and mouth suddenly decide they’re not on speaking terms? Because that was me—front row seat to my own mental mutiny. So I was trying to talk to Miranda and Mikey, right? I had something I needed to say—some guy came in during their lunch break and did something weird. I don’t even remember now what it was because my brain went offline and my mouth went into panic mode. All I could get out was: “Uh… uh… om… om… mmm… huh…” Over. And over. And over. Five whole minutes of verbal buffering. Five minutes of sounds tumbling out like my voice was glitching in real-time. Miranda kept saying, “Use your words, Caleb.” I wanted to scream—I’m trying. The words were there. My brain was yelling them. But my mouth? Radio silence. Then Mikey started cracking up. And I cracked up. Because that’s what happens when you’re overwhelmed and can’t fix it—you laugh. You spin out. It’s like a feedback loop of frustration, humor, and internal chaos. The more I laughed, the more ...

They told me I was cold. Too quiet. Too distant. Too calm. What they didn’t know—what I didn’t even know—is that I wasn’t calm. I wasn’t fine. I was caged. I was suffocating under layers of forced smiles, muted reactions, and silent screams. I wasn’t allowed to feel. If I cried? I was dramatic. If I got angry? I was dangerous. If I showed joy? I was “too much.” So I learned to shut it all down. I masked so hard that even I couldn’t tell what was real anymore. I thought maybe I didn’t have emotions like other people. I thought maybe something was broken inside me. But here’s the truth: I wasn’t emotionless. I was surviving. Now I know I’m autistic. Now I know I wasn’t “cold”—I was conditioned to suppress everything. And now that I’m unmasking? It’s like a dam breaking. I feel everything. In full color. Full volume. Full impact. There’s no such thing as “mild” in my emotional world. There’s no polite little wave of sadness. It’s a tsunami. There’s no casual happiness. It’s sunlight explo...