A Song in a Weary Throat 🍂🍁🍂 🍂🍁🍂 Tonight at work, a coin caught my eye before I even realized why. I was counting down the register when I noticed the word HOPE stamped across a face I did not recognize at first. The letters stood bold over gentle lines, A Song in a Weary Throat. I turned it over in my hand, and for a second the noise around me faded. Just me, the hum of the store, and this quiet symbol that felt like it had something to say. The Reverend Dr. Pauli Murray. A name carved beneath hope itself. Someone who fought for equality, for identity, for justice, long before people had the words we use now. The phrase stayed with me. A song in a weary throat. That is what it feels like some days, to keep showing up, to keep speaking, even when your body and mind are tired of fighting to be understood. Yet somehow, there is still a song left. Still a reason to count the next coin, finish the shift, and keep believing that ...

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...

The Wild Knows Me It’s strange how a show can reach in and unlock something you didn’t know was buried so deep. I just finished The Untamed on Netflix, and it left me feeling raw—in the best way. What moved me most wasn’t just the characters or the loyalty and chosen family (though that did hit home). It was the way the wild was shown—untouched and vast, not just beautiful but free . It stirred something ancient in me, something autistic and wordless. A longing I rarely get to put into words. Watching it, I felt like the wilderness was calling to me. Not in a metaphorical sense. Literally. Like it was saying: “Come home.” For a moment, I imagined myself in Yellowstone—surrounded by mountains and sky, not needing to explain my silence, my stimming, my feelings that come too fast and too deep. There, I wouldn’t feel out of place. I’d just be . The wild wouldn’t ask questions. It wouldn’t label me. It would just accept me . There’s a kind of belonging in nature that doesn’t ...