The Words I Needed When I Was Young

The Words I Needed When I Was Young

Sometimes, I stay up late writing the words I needed when I was young. The world goes quiet, and for a few hours, I can finally hear myself think.

I imagine a kid, an autistic kid sitting on the floor with a tablet or at the table next to their parent. They stumble onto my blog, scroll for a bit, and whisper, Hey… they’re just like me.

That’s who I write for. The kid who feels everything too deeply. The one who tries to fit in but always ends up standing out. The one who’s told they’re “too sensitive,” “too honest,” “too much.”

When I write, I pour everything out the confusion, the sensory overload, the loneliness, the beauty I see in details other people miss. At night, my mask is gone. I don’t have to filter it. I just let it spill out the way it really feels.

Some nights, it’s messy. Some nights, it hurts. But every time I let those words out, I feel lighter. Like I’m making room for something softer.

If my writing helps one kid feel less broken, that’s enough.
If one parent reads it and sees their child in a new light, that’s enough.
If one person learns that being autistic doesn’t mean being wrong, that’s more than enough.

Not every post will see the world. Some stay in my drafts because they’re too raw or too close. But the ones that make it out, they carry the pieces of me that someone out there might need.

Because maybe, somewhere, a kid is waiting for these words just like I was.