The “Beep Beep” Cue Work story · Short · Autistic-perspective Working at the counter with Miranda has turned into its own kind of comedy routine. Sometimes, if I’m stimming or scrolling on my phone, I get completely lost in my own little world. A customer will walk in, and Miranda will say, “Caleb, move.” But I don’t hear her. It’s like the words don’t even register. Here’s the funny part though—if she just says “beep beep,” like I’m a car blocking the way, I move instantly without even thinking. And every time, I respond with a quick “Okay, Miranda” . She cracks up every time, and honestly, I kind of love it. What could be a frustrating moment just turns into a lighthearted inside joke between us. Why it works For me, this is also a very autistic thing. Sometimes full words and instructions just don’t cut through when my brain is busy processing other things. But a short, playful sound like “beep beep” hits...

Today, I’m sharing a deeply personal moment of grief and memory. It’s about Papa, his favorite dessert, and how I experienced a wave of emotions I wasn’t ready for. This is written from my autistic perspective, and I hope it gives insight into the ways love, loss, and support show up in my life. Note for neurotypical readers: This post shares the deep sensory and emotional experience of an autistic person remembering a loved one. The intensity may be unfamiliar if you haven’t experienced grief in this way. Another Bite, Another Wave Jennifer gave me this banana pudding at my therapy session today. I only managed four bites before I started crying. Why does this taste so much like him? Miranda had to get my spoon and help me calm down while I sat there, trying to eat. She stayed by my side, quietly supporting me, helping me breathe through the overwhelming mix of grief and memory. Each bite felt heavier than the last, yet somehow comforting...

There are some things that are hard to say out loud, so I’m writing them here. This is something I’ve been wanting to tell my best friend, Miranda — the person who has been my anchor, my protector, and one of the biggest blessings in my life. A Letter to Miranda Miranda, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this fully, but you’ve been one of the biggest blessings in my life. When I needed an emergency contact for my safety plan, you didn’t even hesitate—you volunteered without a second thought. That moment told me everything about the kind of friend you are. You’ve always been my protector, my bestie, my anchor when I feel like I’m slipping. Because of you, I went back to therapy. Because of you, I sought out my second autism assessment. Because of you, I got reconnected with a psychiatrist, got back on medication, and started to believe I was worth more than just surviving. Honestly, if I hadn’t met you, I don’t thi...

Xander and the Soda Can of Doom Picture it: O’Reilly’s, August 23, 2025, Saturday, 2:35pm. Xander walks up holding a can of Dr. Pepper and asks if I had shaken it. I said no. Then he asked John if I had. Like he didn’t believe me. How could he doubt me? I would never. So I said, “Let me see it.” He hands me the can, and I shake it like the gremlin I am, then hand it back and walk away giggling. Moral of the story: Don’t mess with the autism, or you’ll get the gremlin. – Signed, Your Resident Work Gremlin

The Birthday Ambush Yesterday, when I first got to work at O’Reilly’s, I could tell something was up. Miranda and John were laughing, giggling, and cutting up. I watched them like a hawk, not taking my eyes off of them. They both tried to scare me—sneaking up behind me and shouting “Happy Birthday!” really loud, with Miranda filming it. I still jumped—loud noises startle me—but I was ready. Even in that chaotic moment, I felt safe, playful, and connected. Playful bonding Playful interactions with people I trust can be both exhilarating and grounding. I don’t have to suppress my startle response to enjoy connection. Embracing joy safely Humor, playful banter, and safe surprises can help release stress and strengthen relationships. I can lean into these moments as part of my self-regulation.

Learning to Live With Support Some days are still hard Some days are still incredibly hard. Meltdowns hit hard, and shutdowns still feel unbearable at times. But over the past months, I’ve noticed they’re happening less often—and that’s progress I’m grateful for. Therapy and medication are helping me navigate life more steadily. Frustration about the past I still feel frustration when I think about not knowing I was autistic as a child. The support I could have had then might have made things easier. But there’s nothing I can do about the past. What matters now is how I move forward. Building my own support network I’ve started building my own support network: my therapist and psychiatrist, my chosen family, and friends like Miranda and John. These people are my anchors—they help me regulate, feel safe, and remind me that life, while challenging, can be manageable. Finding balance and acceptance Life isn’t going to be a cakewalk, and ...

Through the Spectrum The night began calm, steady — just the hum of the lights above, the familiar beep of the scanner, shelves stacked neatly in their rows. I felt present, grounded, breathing slow and even. But the calm thinned. Voices stacked too quickly, questions overlapping. The scanner’s tone shifted from background to intrusion, each sound sharper than the last. My chest buzzed, restless, like the air itself had turned unstable. Soon the room pressed in on me — the scrape of boxes, the hum of the fluorescents, the smell of oil and cardboard swelling too thick. My breath shortened, movements stiff, every nerve pulled taut. And then came the collapse. Words slipped from reach, sound folded into static, my body heavy as stone. The world dulled to black and stillness — shutdown pulling me under, quiet but absolute.

How Miranda Gave Me a Name for My Alter Ego: Taylor Thursday, August 14 — just another second shift that turned into something more Some nights at work are quiet. Just me and Miranda holding down second shift, moving through the usual rhythm of orders, chatter, and silence. But this Thursday wasn’t like the rest. Somewhere between the fries dropping and the headset static, Miranda asked me a question that I didn’t realize I needed to hear. “Caleb, what’s your alter ego’s name?” she asked casually, like it was the simplest thing in the world. I froze. “Huh? I don’t know,” I told her. She tilted her head, studying me like she always does when she already knows the answer. “What do people call you when you’re not acting like yourself?” she pushed gently. All I could come up with was, “They just call me Caleb.” But the truth slipped out in another way. In the drive-thru, and even on the phone, people mishear me a...

The Headache from Hell Yesterday, August 8th, I woke up with a dull, achy headache in my left temple. It was annoying right from the start. I took all my meds like normal and went to work, hoping it would ease up. But nope, it just kept getting worse. The pain spread across my forehead and to my right temple. By the time I left work, my pain level was a 3—and for me, that’s pretty bad. I’m not sensitive to pain, so my 3 is probably someone else’s 5 or 6. On top of that, my light and sound sensitivity was doubled yesterday. That was excruciating since I already have heightened sensitivity to both. Every noise and glare felt like stabbing pain. To top it all off, my right shoulder was still hurting too. Honestly, the whole day felt like my body was just betraying me. I really don’t want to go to the ER over it. I hate going there. They don’t treat me very nicely, and the stress of that place just makes everything worse. So here I am, pushing through it the best I ...

🌧️ The Rinse Is Enough Some mornings, I just rinse off with hot water. No soap. No washcloth. No full-body scrubdown. Just water and breath and enough stillness to remind myself: I’m here. I did something. I’m still trying. Growing up, my mom would tell me, “If you’re in there with the water on, you might as well use soap and a washcloth.” But what she didn’t understand — what so many people still don’t understand — is that for someone like me, autistic and often overwhelmed, that “might as well” comes with a cost. Soap isn’t just soap. It’s texture, scent, pressure, decisions. It’s executive function and sensory load. It’s one more step when I already feel like I’m drowning in steps. There are days when just turning on the water is a triumph. Rinsing off is not “giving up.” It’s choosing a path I can actually walk. It’s something . And something is always better than nothing. The rinse helps regulate my body. The hot water...

Why It Matters to Listen to Your Neurodivergent Kids Growing up, I felt like I was never really taken seriously by my mom when it came to things that mattered deeply to me—like my emotions, my sensory struggles, or how certain situations made me feel unsafe or overwhelmed. I would try to explain, but it got brushed aside. I think a lot of it came down to her being more practical than emotional in her parenting. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She just didn’t really understand what I needed. But the thing is—that misunderstanding still hurt. When you're neurodivergent, especially as a kid, you often don’t have the words to explain what's going on in your body and mind. I didn’t. I just knew that sounds were too loud, lights were too bright, and my emotions felt like tidal waves I couldn’t control. I didn’t need anyone to fix me—I needed someone to believe me. To say, “I hear you. That sounds hard. I’m here.” I know now that I was masking a lot—hiding t...

Shoelaces and Soft Moments Most mornings before work, my mom ties my shoes for me. It’s not that I can’t tie them — I can — they just never seem to stay tied when I do it. They come undone before I even reach the front door. But when my mom ties them, somehow they stay perfect. I don’t know what she does exactly, but they hold tight. She says I should just get slip-on shoes so she doesn’t have to keep doing it. Jokes that she’s been tying my shoes for 32 years, and it’s about time I handle it myself. I tell her she’s already invested this much time, why stop now? Truth is, it’s not about the shoes. It’s about the moment. Those few minutes are just me and her. A small window of connection in a busy day. No one else. Just the two of us. While she’s bent down tying my shoes, I usually pat her on the top of the head. She says she hates it, but I always catch a little smile. She knows I don’t like to be touched much — it’s a big deal for me. A small pat is me letting her...

🧠 Psychology Is My Second Language Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what intelligence actually means. Miranda told me the other day that she thinks I’m really smart — and honestly, I didn’t know how to take that at first. My brain immediately went, "But I can’t do half the stuff I used to in college," and it spiraled into that familiar self-doubt pit. I have a degree in electrical engineering, yeah, but after everything I’ve been through — the trauma, the suicide attempt, the depression — sometimes I feel like I lost parts of myself in the aftermath. Like those four minutes changed my brain. But then I remembered something important. When Miranda was taking her vet assistant classes, she used to bring her homework to work. And you know what? She asked me to help her. Psychology, biology — she trusted me with it. And I didn’t just stumble through it — I understood it. Psychology came naturally to me because I’ve been living it. Between therapy, ps...

Unmasking Didn’t Free Me... At First I was told that unmasking would make me feel free. That I’d finally breathe easier, laugh louder, stim openly, and just exist as myself without fear. But no one told me it would crack open the vault of everything I’d buried to survive. I didn’t expect the grief, the rage, or the way my body would tremble when I let myself move differently—freely—for the first time. “I’m learning that freedom sometimes starts with falling apart.” It hurts more right now because I’m finally feeling it. Every unprocessed wound, every "just push through," every mask I wore so well they started believing it was me... I'm facing all of it now. Unmasking didn't make me happy. It made me real. And real is harder than I thought. But I’m Not Going Back I love stimming too much. I love the softness of my voice when I’m not forcing it. I love the freedom in rocking, spinning, flapping—my body speaking its tr...

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This article discusses eating disorders, emotional trauma, grief, and themes of masking and identity. Please read with care, and take breaks if needed. --- by Caleb When I finished watching The Crown, I didn’t feel closure. I felt cracked open. What started as a historical drama turned into something else—something personal. Something sacred. I saw myself in all of them. That wasn’t the plan. I just wanted something to watch. But instead, I ended up crying for people I didn’t think I’d relate to—princes, queens, even the ones I was mad at. And most of all, Diana. --- Diana Was a Mirror Diana’s story hit me hard—especially the scenes around her eating disorder. They weren’t just dramatic moments. They were real. Raw. And triggering. I saw in her what it feels like to be trapped in a world that praises your image but punishes your truth. She kept trying to be loved, to be seen, but all they gave her was rules and silence. As an autistic, I understood that all too well...

Today was one of those days. Therapy with Jennifer went well—she always gets it. Afterward, I made a quick stop at O’Reilly’s, and then, for some reason I still don’t understand, I decided Cracker Barrel sounded like a good idea. Spoiler: It wasn’t. Cracker Barrel is a sensory minefield. The moment I walked in, I was hit with that thick, cloying perfume smell—like walking into a cloud of synthetic flowers and regret. The music? Loud enough to make my teeth vibrate. And the overlapping voices? It felt like I had fifty conversations shoved in my ears at once. Even with my Loop earplugs in, it was pure sensory assault. My nervous system was already screaming before I even sat down. So why did I go? Maybe I was chasing some kind of comfort. Maybe I thought steak would fix it. I ordered a 10 oz sirloin steak, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and an extra side of fries. Fries that arrived cold, limp, and flavorless—like they’d been waiting for someone else and settled for me. A small glass o...

Lately, one word has been stuck in my head. Not in a scary way, not even in an anxious way—just... there. Over and over again: Trios. I don’t speak French. I’m not trying to count in another language. But “Trios” keeps looping like a quiet song inside me. It’s echolalia—something a lot of autistic people experience. Our brains sometimes get fixated on certain sounds or words, not because they make sense, but because they feel right. And honestly? I’ve decided to claim it. Trios is now my stim word. It’s soft, smooth, rhythmic. It rolls off the tongue like a gentle stream. It doesn’t jab or scratch like some words do. It’s calming, comforting, kind of mysterious. It feels like something magical. I don’t need to explain why it’s stuck. I don’t need to justify it. That’s the beauty of autistic brains—we experience the world through sound, rhythm, pattern. And sometimes, a word just clicks. So I wrote a song about it. I turned “Trios” into something powerful—a grounding spell when things g...

That weird feeling of hearing your voice again. Like you’re not sure if it’s really yours. Like it echoes wrong, or feels too sharp, or too soft, or like it belongs to someone else. That’s how it felt when mine came back. After more than a day of being completely nonverbal, the sound of my voice didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like unfamiliar territory. A part of me I thought I lost, trying to come back—but I wasn’t ready to trust it yet. People think that once you can talk again, you’re better. But I wasn’t. --- I could whisper. I could speak in short sentences. But I didn’t feel safe doing it. And that scared me more than being silent. I was off work, and I had the space to rest—but my throat still hurt. My brain was foggy. My body felt heavy like it had been dragging itself through a storm. And even though I could technically talk again, I chose not to. Because I wasn’t ready. Because I was afraid that if I used my voice too soon, it might break again. Because I needed silence to ...

I never expected to go the whole day without speaking. But that’s what happened when my body shut down after a sensory overload that hit me out of nowhere—and I didn’t have a choice. My voice was gone. Not because I didn’t want to talk, but because I literally couldn’t. This is what autistic shutdown can look like. It’s not dramatic. It’s not “just needing a break.” It’s survival mode. And for me, that meant spending over 24 hours unable to speak, trying to function in a world that doesn’t make space for autistic people when we’re at our limit. --- It started with jerky. Yeah, really. A co-worker offered me a piece of beef jerky and said it was hot. I thought he meant “hot” like the food I normally eat at Mexican restaurants—spicy, but manageable. I trusted him. I didn’t read the label. I just ate it. But it wasn’t normal spicy. It was extreme, sensory-assault spicy. Within seconds, I was in full-blown sensory overload—my skin buzzing, my stomach twisting, my body on the edge of shutdo...

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...