Papa’s Porch: Where My Healing Began
A story about grief, autism, faith, and finding peace in the quiet places
Growing up was never easy for me. I was always different from my peers—never quite fit the mold, you could say. At the time, I didn’t know I was autistic. Navigating the world was already tough, but being autistic and not knowing it made things feel impossible at times. On top of that, I’ve always had sensory issues that made everyday life overwhelming. Bright lights, loud sounds, itchy clothes—things that barely register for most people felt like a full-on assault on my system.
I was born and raised in a little town called Interlachen, Florida, just 30 miles east of Gainesville—right in the heart of Gator country. It was me, my mom, my sister Jenna, my little brother Ryan, and my grandparents. We all lived under one roof with my papa—my grandfather—and my mamaw, though Papa often called her “the devil’s sister” with a smirk. That house, chaotic as it could be, was the center of my world.
Let’s take a trip back to 2005. Papa and I were sitting on the front porch, like we often did. He was telling me—again—about his time in World War II. He’d tell the same stories over and over, but I never got tired of hearing them. There was something comforting about the way he told them, like each memory was a well-worn stone he liked to take out and turn over in his hands.
He told me how he left San Francisco aboard a naval battleship bound for India, how they crossed the equator twice but never saw the dotted line. I remember laughing at that—he always said it with a straight face like he still couldn’t believe it. He’d talk about the storm they hit before docking in Sydney Harbor and how the ship creaked and groaned as they rode it out. Only naval personnel were allowed shore leave, he said. They didn’t want the cavalry division they were transporting to India—and eventually to Burma—going AWOL.
I didn’t understand all the details at the time, but I understood that Papa had seen things. And somehow, that made me feel less alone. He didn’t always understand me, but he didn’t try to change me either. With Papa, I could just be—quiet, awkward, sensitive—and that was enough.
We moved to Cleveland, Tennessee in 2008. It was a big change—new town, new routines, new expectations. But no matter where we went, Papa’s stories came with me. Even after the move, even when things got hard, I carried them with me like little anchors.
When he passed in 2014, I was 25 years old. It felt like the ground fell out from under me. The world lost its warmth. The porch felt colder without him on it, and there was a silence that settled in our lives that no one could fill. His absence wasn’t just emotional—it was spiritual. He had this steady presence that held us together, and without him, everything felt...adrift.
His death made me start asking questions I’d been avoiding. About identity. About belief. About where—or if—God fit into it all.
In some ways, I’d already started drifting from my faith by then. It was never about anger or rebellion—it was more like watching something I loved slowly fade from view. Prayers went unanswered. Church felt like a place I had to perform, not a place I could rest. I started to wonder if there was room for someone like me in any of it.
And yet... I still miss God.
I miss the closeness I once felt—before life got complicated. I miss the simplicity of believing that I was known and loved just as I was. These days, I’m working to find my way back to that. Not to a version of faith that demands perfection or conformity, but one that welcomes the questions. One that holds space for doubt, for complexity, for the full spectrum of who I am.
This year—on April 8th—I was finally diagnosed as autistic at 35. That day gave me a strange sense of peace. All the confusion and shame I’d carried for so long suddenly made sense. It was like someone handed me a map after a lifetime of being lost.
That diagnosis didn’t change me—it named me. It helped me look back at my life with more compassion. I stopped blaming myself for the ways I struggled. I started learning to love the way my brain works, even when it feels like it’s working against me.
I still have hard days. I still get overwhelmed. I still have moments when I feel disconnected from everything, even myself. But I'm learning. I’m healing. I’m trying to rebuild—not just my identity, but my faith too.
Papa used to say, “Write it down. If it stays in your head too long, it starts to rot.” So I’m writing this—remembering, grieving, and hoping. Hoping that there’s still a God out there who sees me. All of me. And loves me not in spite of who I am, but because of it.
Maybe faith isn’t about having the answers. Maybe it’s about being brave enough to keep asking.
Since my diagnosis, the way people see me has changed—and not always in ways that feel good. Some folks have been supportive, patient, even curious. They ask questions, they listen, they try to understand. That part has been a blessing. But then there are others who seem to forget I’m still the same person I was before. They talk to me like I’m fragile, or worse—like I’m a child who can’t make decisions for myself.
Yes, I’m autistic. Yes, I sometimes struggle to understand certain social norms, or miss cues that others pick up naturally. I don’t always know what’s expected in a conversation, and I definitely don’t have the whole “friendship” thing figured out. But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable, or unaware, or less-than. It just means I experience the world differently—and that my needs and strengths don’t always fit into the boxes people expect.
Thankfully, I’ve found people who get me. Or at least, they try to. Miranda, Mikey, Chaz, and John—my closest friends at work—have become something like a chosen family. Each one of them sees past the label. They see me. They include me, they check in, they laugh with me (and sometimes at me, but in the good way), and they’ve made work feel less like a battle and more like a place I can belong.
And then there’s Ashley Singer—what I’d call my longest friendship. We don’t live near each other anymore; Ashley’s in Johnson City, Tennessee. But the bond we share is still strong. Maybe it’s because we’re both autistic, maybe it’s just the years we’ve walked alongside each other—but there’s a kind of understanding between us that’s hard to find elsewhere. I don’t have to explain myself to her. She just knows.
Lately though, I’ve been worried about her. She’s dealing with some heavy mental health challenges, and even though I’m not there in person, I feel that ache—the helplessness that comes when someone you care about is hurting and all you can do is listen and hope they know they’re not alone. I try to check in as often as I can, remind her she matters, that I see her, that she’s not too much or not enough. Just like I’ve needed others to do for me.
Because the truth is, we all need that. Whether we’re neurodivergent or neurotypical, questioning or faithful, thriving or barely hanging on—we all need people who don’t try to fix us, but just see us.
Some days, I still wrestle with my own inner critic—the voice that says I’m too weird, too sensitive, too broken. But when I think about the people who’ve chosen me, who keep choosing me, I remember that there’s strength in being different. There’s beauty in being real.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s where faith begins to rebuild—not in perfect churches or flawless prayers, but in those small, sacred connections where we are fully known and still loved.
These friendships, even though they mostly revolve around work, have become lifelines in my daily life. I don’t often see my friends outside of work, but sometimes on my days off, if I’m already out and they’re working at O’Reilly Auto Parts, I’ll drop by just to say hi. Even those short visits give me a sense of connection that helps ground me.
Miranda is one of those people who just gets me in the quiet ways. She sends me funny videos on Instagram all the time—silly memes, absurd reels, or jokes that only someone who knows my sense of humor would find for me. When I’m having a rough day, those videos feel like little life preservers tossed my way. But she’s also not afraid to call me out—in a loving way. When she sees me banging my head against the wall or a shelf (something I do when I’m overwhelmed), she doesn’t just ignore it. She stops me, checks in. She’s like a sister to me—fiercely protective, no-nonsense, and full of heart. I cherish her friendship deeply.
Chaz is my calm. If Miranda is the one who catches the storm, Chaz is the one who helps me quiet it. His presence is steady and gentle, and when I’m on the edge of sensory overload or anxiety, just being near him helps me regulate. He doesn’t need to say much—just his being there is enough. He feels like the grounding cord I didn’t know I needed.
Then there’s John—my confidant. He’s the one I turn to when I need to let it all out. When my thoughts feel too big for my brain or my emotions are swirling too fast to make sense of, John is the one who listens. He never makes me feel judged or silly for what I’m feeling. He lets me be raw, unfiltered, and real. And when he responds, it’s thoughtful and honest, never condescending. His friendship has taught me that it's okay to ask for help—that I don’t have to carry everything alone.
And of course… Mikey. Mikey is chaos and comfort rolled into one. He’s got ADHD, and sometimes, honestly, he drives me a little wild. He’s unpredictable, high-energy, and sometimes that energy pushes me toward the edge of a meltdown. But at the same time, he knows exactly how to pull me back. He can make me laugh when nothing else can. He understands parts of me that the others don’t. There’s a connection there that runs deeper than words. He may be “the crazy one” in our group, but his loyalty and warmth run deep. I love that guy, and I wouldn’t trade his friendship for anything.
These friendships don’t always look the way society says friendships are supposed to. We don’t go out together after work. We don’t do big social gatherings. But there’s something sacred about the small moments—shared glances across the store, check-ins during breaks, random DMs at just the right time. These people see the real me—not the mask I used to wear to survive, but the version of me that stims when I’m overwhelmed, that forgets social cues, that needs space and patience.
In a world that often feels too loud, too fast, too confusing, these friends are my steady points of light. They remind me that I’m not alone. That being autistic doesn’t mean I’m unlovable or broken—it just means I experience and express connection differently. And that’s okay.
They’ve helped me start to believe in people again—and in myself. And maybe, in a quiet way, they’re helping me believe in God again too. Because if love, grace, and understanding can show up in the form of a meme, a steady hand, or a five-minute vent session in the breakroom—then maybe faith isn’t so far off after all.
Something I’ve been learning—slowly, quietly—is that healing doesn’t always come in big, dramatic moments. Sometimes, it comes in ordinary ones. A text message. A laugh shared in the middle of a long shift. Someone noticing when you’re struggling and saying, “Hey, I see you.”
For a long time, I felt like I had to hold everything in. That no one would understand. That being autistic meant being on the outside of connection, always just out of step, always too much or not enough. And maybe that belief didn’t come from nowhere—people can be unkind, even when they mean well. But over time, these friendships have chipped away at that wall I built around myself. Not by trying to tear it down—but by showing up, again and again, until I didn’t feel the need to hide anymore.
And that’s where the healing began.
Because when someone sees you stimming or shutting down or fumbling through a conversation—and they stay? When someone laughs at your weird jokes, not because they’re mocking you, but because they genuinely think you’re funny? When someone remembers your favorite comfort drink, or gives you space when you’re overwhelmed, or holds your silence with you when you don’t have the words?
That’s grace.
And grace, I think, is where God still speaks to me.
For years, my faith had been slipping through my fingers. The version of religion I grew up with didn’t seem to have room for someone like me—neurodivergent, constantly questioning. I was tired of pretending to be someone I wasn’t just to be accepted by people who claimed to love unconditionally. I got worn down by the pressure to perform belief rather than actually experience it.
But now, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I just needed a different lens.
Maybe faith doesn’t have to be loud or certain or wrapped in tradition. Maybe it can be quiet. Maybe it can be autistic. Maybe it can be a flicker instead of a flame—and still be holy.
Because if there’s a God who created me—every stim, every meltdown, every misunderstood glance—then maybe that God isn’t asking me to “fix” myself, but to embrace myself. Maybe that God lives not in the pews or the polished prayers, but in the breakroom with Chaz’s calm voice and Miranda’s fierce care, in John’s quiet listening and Mikey’s chaotic joy.
And maybe God’s voice sounds less like thunder, and more like a friend sending you a funny video when you want to disappear.
I don’t have all the answers. I probably never will. But for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to feel like I don’t need them. I just need to keep showing up—to myself, to the people who love me, and maybe, someday, to God too.
It all started to shift on May 13th of this year. I was sitting across from my therapist, Jennifer, in one of those sessions where the conversation just cracks something open inside you. We were talking about my grandfather—Papa—and I found myself telling her about the week he passed away. How he went into the hospital on my birthday, August 21st, 2014. How he died four days later, on August 25th. And how we buried him on my brother’s birthday, August 28th.
It was a week wrapped in grief and strange, cruel timing. Birthdays marked by endings. It’s something I’ve carried for years, but hadn’t really said out loud like that before.
Jennifer listened—really listened—and then gently suggested something that surprised me: “What if you started writing about the happy memories you had with him?”
At first, I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t written about Papa in years. I wasn’t even sure I could. But the idea stayed with me. And when I finally sat down to write, something unexpected happened. What started as a memory of my grandfather became something more—it became a way to reconnect with the parts of myself I’d lost. It became a mirror to my friendships, to my identity, to the faith I’d been quietly grieving for years.
Writing about Papa opened a door I didn’t know I had locked. Through those memories—his voice, his stories about WWII, the sound of him creaking back and forth on that front porch swing—I began to feel less alone. His memory became an anchor. And from that place, the stories of my friends began to surface too—Miranda’s laughter, Chaz’s calm, John’s quiet wisdom, Mikey’s wild energy.
It was like each piece of the puzzle was falling into place—not in a neat or tidy way, but in a way that made me feel more whole.
This is my first real attempt to write about all of it—Papa, grief, autism, friendship, faith. I didn’t know where it would lead, but now I see that it’s becoming a spiritual journey. A slow, often painful, often beautiful unfolding of the truth that I am not alone. That I was never broken. That even in my silence, my shutdowns, my confusion and doubt—God has been quietly walking with me.
And maybe this writing is my way of walking back.
It feels like it was just yesterday—Papa waking me up early on a Saturday morning, the sun barely up, the world still soft and quiet. He had this way of knocking gently on my door and calling my name like it was the best part of his day. We’d head out to Papa Dan’s Diner, our little ritual. It wasn’t fancy, but to me it felt like the center of the universe.
He always ordered the same thing: two sunny-side-up eggs, a pile of grits, bacon crispy enough to crunch when he bit into it, toast, and a cup of coffee with cream and sugar stirred in just right. I can still smell it—coffee and grits and that warm, greasy comfort of a Florida diner in the morning.
Me? I’d get pancakes stacked three high, sausage on the side, toast, and always sweet tea—because even in the morning, sweet tea was the drink of choice.
We didn’t need big plans. After breakfast, we’d just drive into town—nowhere in particular, just being together was enough. We'd go to the hardware store, or walk around the flea market, or sometimes just drive with the windows down and the radio playing some old country song that Papa would hum along to. It wasn’t about what we were doing. It was the being there. With him.
And in the evenings, we’d return home, the Florida sun dipping low in the sky, and we’d sit out on the front porch. That porch swing was our sanctuary. Sometimes he’d tell me stories about World War II—about the stormy seas, the ship creaking under pressure, the times he crossed the equator and never saw the “dotted line.” I must have heard those stories a hundred times, but I never got tired of them. I could see it in his eyes when he spoke—what he had seen, what he had lived, what he carried.
Other nights, we didn’t talk at all. We just sat there. The cicadas buzzing in the trees. The wood of the porch warm beneath our feet. Silence—but not empty silence. Peaceful silence. Safe silence. The kind of silence that tells you everything is okay, even if the world feels too big or loud or confusing.
Looking back now, I see that those moments were sacred. Not because we prayed or read scripture—but because they were soaked in love. Unconditional, uncomplicated love. And if that isn’t the presence of God, I don’t know what is.
It’s strange how grief and healing can walk hand in hand. Writing about Papa, remembering those mornings, those stories, that porch—it’s like he’s still here, guiding me. Not just back into memory, but forward into faith. A different kind of faith—softer, slower, more honest. One that holds room for who I am now. Autistic. Questioning. Healing. Loved.
And maybe that’s the point of all of this. Maybe healing doesn’t mean going back to the person I was before the world taught me to hide. Maybe healing means becoming more fully me. The me Papa always saw. The me my friends now see. The me God never stopped seeing.
Maybe healing means becoming more fully me.
The me Papa always saw.
The me my friends now see.
The me God never stopped seeing.
And for now, that’s enough.
“Maybe healing doesn’t mean going back to the person I was before the world taught me to hide. Maybe healing means becoming more fully me. The me Papa always saw. The me my friends now see. The me God never stopped seeing.”
And for now, that’s enough.
Thank you for reading. If this story spoke to you, leave me a note or reach out. You’re not alone in this journey.
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