The Moon Tonight A quiet reflection beneath a waning crescent sky Tonight, I looked up. Not casually either. I mean really looked. The moon was hanging there as a waning crescent, delicate and quiet against the deep blue night sky. My camera tried to capture it, but it failed in the same way words sometimes fail. The photo caught the shape, but not the feeling. Not the stillness. Not the way the sky seemed endless for a moment. There are certain nights where the world softens a little. Tonight felt like one of those nights. The streetlights glowed below me. The trees turned into dark silhouettes against the fading blue horizon. The power lines stretched across the sky like pencil marks on a page. And there, suspended above it all, was that crescent moon. Small, but impossible to ignore. I think one of the hardest things about being human is realizing how much beauty exists that cannot fully be shared. You can point a camera at the moon. You can ...

Stepping Forward, Quietly but Strongly Jump to Section: • Life Lately • Learning to Listen to Myself • The Quiet Battles • What’s Helping Right Now ▶ Life Lately Life lately has been a mix of stillness and storms. As an autistic person, the world often feels too loud, too bright, and too fast. I carry those moments of overwhelm in my body and mind, but I’m also learning how to honor them instead of fighting against them. There are days when I feel drained just from existing. The sound of voices overlapping, the pressure of expectations, or the weight of unspoken feelings can leave me buzzing inside — like my nervous system is running on high voltage. In the past, I tried to push through, but I’m realizing that survival isn’t the same thing as living. On the other side, there are days filled with small but powerful victorie...

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt lost—like I was drifting through life without a true sense of who I am. I wore a mask every day, molding myself to fit society’s narrow picture of what a “normal” person should be. I hid the parts of me that felt different—the way I stimmed, my social awkwardness—by watching others and learning how to blend into the crowd. Standing out felt dangerous, so I did everything I could to disappear in plain sight. Growing up, I didn’t understand why I acted the way I did. I just knew I was “weird” and “different,” and those words stung deeply. Bullies called me the R-word—something I hate to even think about—trying to strip me of my dignity and identity. I internalized those insults for years, believing I was broken or less than. Then, in April of this year, something shifted. I was diagnosed with autism. That diagnosis didn’t change who I am—it didn’t magically fix all my struggles or erase years of pain. But it gave me something priceless: a name for...

Autistic, Exhausted, Alive: My Fight to Keep My Promise Autistic, Exhausted, Alive: My Fight to Keep My Promise Sometimes I wish I could just end it. That’s the truth, as raw as it gets. I don’t want to die—not really. But the exhaustion, the noise, the endless effort... it wears me down until the idea of not existing feels like a kind of relief. But I made a promise. I made it to my mom when I was 23 after the last time I came close. I made it to Miranda too. I told them I wouldn’t try again. And I meant it. Even when I’m at my lowest, that promise is a lifeline. Today, the noise sensitivity is brutal. The bugs outside are screeching, the white noise in my brain is up to max, and even my best coping tools—my Nee Doh, my stim toys, my earplugs—aren’t cutting it. I’ve been rubbing my feet together to try to soothe the overwhelm. Still, it builds. I wish my brain would just shut down. Funny thing is, it often does—just not when I need it to. I’ve always pu...

When Life Is Full of Square Holes but You're a Round Peg Reflection: Everything I've ever tried to do has been a challenge for me—from tying my shoes to reading to maths. It was never easy. I’ve always had to take extra time, use up more spoons, push through more frustration just to get the job done right. While others were walking through open doors, I was trying to reshape myself to fit into keyholes that were never made for me. I tried. I always tried. But when the world demands speed, neatness, sameness—it doesn’t care that my brain works differently. It doesn’t wait for me to catch up. And that pressure builds. Every little task eats a piece of energy I might not get back for days. Add all the sensory overload that stacks up throughout the day—the lights too bright, sounds too sharp, clothes too scratchy, smells too strong—and eventually it’s not just tiredness. It’s meltdown. It’s shutdown. It’s trauma, piling up like bricks on my chest. Over time, that toll becam...

“Hear What?” — When the World Says It’s Quiet But My Brain Says Otherwise “Why are you up so early?” my mom asked this morning, surprised to see me awake before my usual time. I stared at her, exhausted and on edge. “Don’t you hear that?” I said. She paused. “Hear what?” And just like that, I felt like I was losing my mind. Because I *did* hear something—something loud, vibrating, piercing. The never-ending song of a cicada right outside my bedroom window. A sound that might register to others as background noise, if they notice it at all. But to me? It was like a siren made of static and bone. The frequency cut through my walls, my thoughts, and my ability to rest. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t block it out. And no one else could even hear it. Being autistic means my sensory world is cranked to a volume most people don’t notice. It means I hear lights hum, electricity buzz, and insects scream. It means that while others sleep peacefully through summer sounds, I’m curled up ...