Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens

Today, the words for my essay fail me, just when I need them the most, when my internal world is overflowing with feelings so intense, they steal my executive function, leaving me quiet, trembling, wordless. And maybe that’s why I’m thinking of you, and why your absence feels heavier today. I had big news this week, and I wish I could tell you this in person.
I wish your hands were still warm, your voice still close enough to catch the tremble in mine.

Mum,
I was diagnosed autistic this week, officially, clearly, undeniably. At forty-five. And I wish I could tell you in person. I wish I could see your face soften, as the truth finally gives shape to all the years neither of us understood.

I imagine you taking my hand and saying, “It explains a lot, doesn’t it, love?” And for a moment, I feel seen, in the way only a mother can see her child.

Your anniversary is approaching, and grief makes everything sharper, saltier, closer to the surface. The diagnosis opened a door into my past, and you are everywhere inside it.

I miss you, Mum. I miss the version of me you always believed in. I’m trying to grow,
to unmask, to meet myself with the same gentleness you once gave me. And today —
as I step into this new truth of who I’ve always been, I carry you with me. Not as a wound, but as a whisper. Not as a shadow, but as a blessing, to remind me of the little girl inside, and the love you gave so freely.

I carry you with me
into this new truth.
Always.

Elke X