ALL POSTS

When I dance, my body feels organized. When I dance, my mind gets quieter. When I dance, I feel present.

If the sun is out, I’m out. No questions. No hesitation. I will be on the patio for hours, just laying there like I’m solar powered, reading, resting, soaking it in. The moment sunlight hits my skin, something in my body calms down.

As I got older, I tried to fix it the ways most of us are taught to fix it. More discipline. More workouts. More rules. More guilt. But the harder I tried to control it, the more I felt stuck in a cycle that didn’t make sense to me.

I used to make sure I was alone. I would wait until I was in the car by myself, or in a private space, or somewhere no one could hear me. Because it felt wrong. It felt abnormal. It felt like something you would get in trouble for. Like evidence that I was out of control or “bad.”

You spent so many years carrying the weight of being “fine” that you forgot you were allowed to be curious. So I’m writing this letter to hand you back what you deserved all along. The freedom to enjoy.

Because as I learn more about my autistic experience, I’m realizing that I’m allowed to have joy that doesn’t need to be productive. I’m allowed to like what I like. I’m allowed to spend time on things that soothe my senses, regulate my nervous system, and make me feel present in my body.

I wish I could sit beside you in all those moments when noise felt like too much and you didn’t know why. I wish I could give you language sooner. I wish I could tell you that your sensitivity isn’t a flaw, it’s information. And you deserve support, not shame.

When I wear them, the world feels less sharp. Less chaotic. Less demanding. It’s like my nervous system finally gets a little space to breathe, because it’s not constantly bracing for sudden sounds, overlapping conversations, clanking dishes, loud engines, store music, or that general public noise that most people seem to filter out without thinking.

You’ll start pacing because sitting still will feel impossible. Your mind will race, your chest will tighten, your thoughts will get louder, and the world will feel like it’s pressing in from every direction. You’ll feel desperate to fix it, but you won’t know what “it” is.

I keep going. I keep performing. I keep trying to function like nothing is wrong. And then my body hits a wall, my mind goes foggy, and I burn out so fast.

You’ll try new foods because people push you to prove you’re grown, but your body will react before you can even pretend. Smells will hit you like a wall. Textures will feel impossible. And you’ll wonder why everyone else can just take a bite and move on.

You’ll watch other people disappear into books like it’s effortless, and you’ll wonder why it feels like punishment for you. You’ll try, and try, and try, and still get stuck on the same sentence like your brain won’t let you pass until every word is perfect.

There will be moments when noise hits you so suddenly that your mind goes blank. Your vision blurs. Your ears ring. Your body freezes. And you’ll feel like you’re floating above yourself, watching yourself try to act normal while everything inside is screaming.

You’re going to notice early that your inside doesn’t match everyone else’s outside. You’ll look around and see people move on so quickly, like emotions are just a passing breeze, while yours feel like weather systems.

I laugh when I say it like that, but I also remember the feeling so clearly. It was funny for half a second, and then it was sobering. Because it was not just a number on a screen. It felt like someone had handed me a key to a door I didn’t know existed.

As I started learning about autism, I also started learning about safe foods. And once I had language for it, I saw it everywhere throughout my life.

I have enjoyed rebounding as an exercise for a couple of years now, but recently I learned something that made me love it even more. It is not just a workout.

When I had to read for school, it was the worst thing ever for me. I dreaded it. I avoided it. I could stare at a page forever and somehow absorb nothing. Meanwhile, it felt like everyone around me loved reading. People talked about books like they were comfort and adventure and escape, and I just… did not get it.

I had an internal meltdown and went straight into freeze mode. I could not think clearly. I could not speak normally. I could not orient myself the way other people seemed able to. My body just locked up, like it was trying to protect me by shutting everything down.

For as long as I can remember, it has felt so strange to live with two realities at once. On the outside, everything around me can look steady and unfazed. People are talking, moving, laughing, continuing on like nothing happened.