The Wild Knows Me

The Wild Knows Me

It’s strange how a show can reach in and unlock something you didn’t know was buried so deep.

I just finished The Untamed on Netflix, and it left me feeling raw—in the best way. What moved me most wasn’t just the characters or the loyalty and chosen family (though that did hit home). It was the way the wild was shown—untouched and vast, not just beautiful but free. It stirred something ancient in me, something autistic and wordless. A longing I rarely get to put into words.

Watching it, I felt like the wilderness was calling to me. Not in a metaphorical sense. Literally. Like it was saying: “Come home.”

For a moment, I imagined myself in Yellowstone—surrounded by mountains and sky, not needing to explain my silence, my stimming, my feelings that come too fast and too deep. There, I wouldn’t feel out of place. I’d just be. The wild wouldn’t ask questions. It wouldn’t label me. It would just accept me.

There’s a kind of belonging in nature that doesn’t rely on language or rules. And that’s something I crave. Maybe that’s why The Untamed resonated so much. Because being autistic in a loud, demanding world feels like being exiled from something sacred. And this show? It reminded me that I’m not lost—I’m wild. I’m different, yes. But not broken.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll make it to Yellowstone someday. Not to escape, but to return.

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🪵 Poem: Call of the Untamed

The forest does not ask me
why I am quiet.
The wind never flinches
when I forget how to smile.

Beneath pines older than memory,
my heartbeat softens—
matching the hush of moss
and the growl of distant wolves.

I do not need a name here.
No mask, no weight of trying.
Only bark, and stone, and sky—
and the comfort of not being watched.

Chosen family may hold me,
but the wilderness knows me.
I am not broken here—
just wild, like it was always meant to be.

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📌 Note for Neurotypical Readers

If you’re neurotypical and reading this—thank you for being here.

I share these reflections as an autistic person navigating a world that often feels too loud, too fast, and too full of expectations that weren’t built for people like me. When I talk about longing for the wilderness, I’m also talking about longing for a place where I don’t have to mask—where my silence isn’t mistaken for rudeness, where my intensity isn’t too much, and where my way of being is enough just as it is.

Chosen family, quiet spaces, and deep loyalty mean the world to us. If you want to be an ally, you don’t need to fix us. Just witness us. Listen without judgment. Respect our need for downtime. Validate our stimming. Accept that sometimes words are hard, and that doesn't make us any less present or real.

We are not broken—we are wired for a different kind of beauty. The kind that echoes in still forests, deep connections, and truths that don't always fit inside small talk. Thank you for seeing us.