I’m Not Broken: Time Blindness, Routines, and Learning to Live as Myself

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 into a project and they think I’m irresponsible. But what they don’t see is how deeply present I am when I’m focused. That all-consuming clarity is where everything finally makes sense.

It’s not that I’m absent—it’s that I’m present in a different timeline.

It took me a long time to stop feeling broken for that.

Building Structure That Feels Like Support—Not Suffocation

The world’s idea of structure? Rigid. Exhausting. Like clothes that don’t fit.

I had to build something different. Something flexible. I started using timers like Papa suggested—not to control me, but to care for me. I made task lists I could rearrange depending on my sensory needs. I color-code by energy. Some days I need to pause. Some days I can push. And that’s okay.

I began including things most people overlook:

Soft clothes

Quiet time after socializing

Lighting that doesn’t buzz

Stim breaks

Familiar scents and sounds

These are part of my daily routine now. Just as important as brushing my teeth.

Sensory Survival Isn’t Excess—It’s Essential

Being autistic means I live in a world that often feels too much. My body is like an instrument that’s tuned differently.

In the mornings, I avoid overhead lights. I wear soft, familiar clothes. I eat safe foods. I play soft music. I use weighted blankets and stim toys to anchor myself when everything spins too fast. I prepare food I can actually eat on hard days. I listen to my body before I shower or socialize or speak.

These aren't quirks. They’re survival tools. Every adjustment is an act of self-care.

Support Matters—So Does Harm

My mom sees me. She gets it in her own way. She brings me snacks when I forget to eat. She gives me space when I need silence. Her quiet support helps me remember: I am not too much. I am enough.

My grandma, though? Not so much. She mocks my needs. Calls me dramatic, lazy, weird. Treats my routines like flaws.

And that hurts. Because when someone mocks your coping strategies, they’re not just questioning your choices—they’re rejecting you.

But I’ve learned this:

My routines are not the problem. My needs are not a burden. I am not broken.

Finding My Voice Through Routines

For years, I masked. I swallowed my discomfort. I stayed quiet to make others comfortable. But that silence came at a cost. Every time I hid my needs, I lost a little more of myself.

Now? I speak up.

Sometimes I write it down when words are hard. I use checklists, visual schedules, shutdown plans. I advocate for myself—because I deserve to exist safely in my own body.

And every time I do, I make room for others like me to breathe easier, too.

Reclaiming Joy, Bit by Bit

Being autistic in a world that wants me to fit into boxes I’ll never belong in is hard. But it’s also made me strong.

My deep focus? It’s a gift.

My sensory awareness? A form of intuition.

My stims, my rhythms, my routines? They are the map of who I am.

I spent so long thinking I was too much—too sensitive, too different. Now I know:

I was never too much. I was never broken.

I just needed to learn to live as myself—and to love that person, fully and without apology.