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Wandering in early-morning thought, I began to ponder this little musing. We have become sloppy and careless.We have lost the skill to understand poetry,or even to stay with what we are reading and hearing. We speak without thought.We build strong bodies, cultivate minds, and learn to understand our emotions…But where is eloquent language?In what writing…
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A few months ago, I wrote a paper for uni on how the same crime is punished differently by gender. Reading a recent news article about a young woman punished for using a weapon in self-defence reignited that fire. Innocence is spoken of as purity. But why do so many women’s[1] stories begin at the…
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The Lady of the Lake Speaks Her wisdom does not allow imperial-minded restriction,where fear destroys what it cannot control,and then calls the ruin protection. To speak of autism is not a story from the Book of Invasion.But a plea to the folk, to educate themselves, to loosen their grip on old beliefs that turn naming…
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Honestly, at this point, I’m convinced the universe is writing my life like a cosmic sitcom. Picture this: I finally get diagnosed autistic at forty-five and immediately discover I’m now both the ancient mythical sage and a small, overstimulated goblin-child who needs grape juice, quiet, and maybe a nap. The duality is outrageous. One minute…
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(A Heroin(e)’s Journey in a Neurodivergent Body) Burnout did not ask for permission. It arrived like a storm that had been forecasting itself.Through years of quiet weather reports, the world refused to read. It was not a noble quest, or a choice or a calling I accepted with grace. It was my body saying: No…
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Every age needs a monster to chase. In medieval times, it was witches who were marked and burned, as if fear could be turned to ash. In the twentieth century, it was communists, with lists and sweeps that promised safety and delivered suspicion. And now, in the twenty-first century, the sweep is for autism. Presidents…
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When A specific burnout hits, the version of me I’ve tried to keep hidden becomes the version people see. The dark side, the bitterness, the self-pity, the sharpness of my words, escape. It isn’t who I am, but it’s what exhaustion distils me into. All the quiet work of editing myself, smoothing the edges, softening…
Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens 