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 writ...

You ever feel like your own brain and mouth suddenly decide they’re not on speaking terms? Because that was me—front row seat to my own mental mutiny. So I was trying to talk to Miranda and Mikey, right? I had something I needed to say—some guy came in during their lunch break and did something weird. I don’t even remember now what it was because my brain went offline and my mouth went into panic mode. All I could get out was: “Uh… uh… om… om… mmm… huh…” Over. And over. And over. Five whole minutes of verbal buffering. Five minutes of sounds tumbling out like my voice was glitching in real-time. Miranda kept saying, “Use your words, Caleb.” I wanted to scream—I’m trying. The words were there. My brain was yelling them. But my mouth? Radio silence. Then Mikey started cracking up. And I cracked up. Because that’s what happens when you’re overwhelmed and can’t fix it—you laugh. You spin out. It’s like a feedback loop of frustration, humor, and internal chaos. The more I laughed, the more ...