The Very Confused Flamingo

A story about skipping, autism, and discovering that sometimes the journey matters more than the destination.

A surprisingly accurate artistic recreation of today's events.

Today, at thirty six years old, I decided to try skipping.

I had not attempted it since I was a child.

Before I started, I did what any reasonable adult would do. I watched a tutorial video.

The instructor made it look easy.

Step.

Hop.

Step.

Hop.

Alternate legs.

Smile.

Apparently, this is called skipping.

Confident in my newly acquired knowledge, I headed into the hallway and prepared to demonstrate my athletic prowess.

The results were... disappointing.

My brain understood the assignment perfectly. My body, however, had other plans.

Every time I told my legs to hop, they simply refused. It was not a balance issue. It was not a lack of understanding. My legs just collectively decided that leaving the ground was an unreasonable request.

Instead of skipping, I invented an entirely new form of movement.

Imagine a very determined person walking while lifting their knees far higher than necessary.

Now imagine they are trying very hard to skip.

That was me.

At one point, I laughed so hard I nearly fell over. Not because I was embarrassed, but because I realized something.

I could not skip when I was a kid either.

Somewhere out there is seven year old Caleb looking at thirty six year old Caleb and asking, "So, did we ever figure it out?"

The answer is no.

No, we did not.

🦩

What struck me later was how familiar that feeling was.

Growing up, there were a lot of things that seemed to come naturally to other people but did not come naturally to me. Tying shoes. Handwriting. Certain social situations. Understanding what people meant when they said one thing but actually meant something else.

Over time, I learned workarounds.

I learned different ways of doing things.

I learned that success did not always mean doing something the same way everyone else did it.

Maybe that is why today's failed skipping experiment felt strangely meaningful.

I may never be a person who can gracefully skip across a field.

But I learned to write.

I learned to build things.

I learned to repair cars.

I learned to navigate a world that often feels confusing and overwhelming.

Most importantly, I learned that struggling with something does not mean I am broken.

Sometimes it just means I need a different approach.

Although, in the case of skipping, my approach currently appears to be "very confused flamingo."

And honestly, I think I can live with that.

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