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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…
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And we are now faced with complacency; we don’t have to fight to survive, we can live, and we are freer than ever. Life has never been better. Yes, there are still wars, there is still hunger, and there are still pandemics in the world, but life quality and expectancy have never been as high…
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I’m 45, and in some ways, my emotional growth feels decades behind.Not because I didn’t want to grow, but because I had to survive. My neurodevelopment (in the family of neurodivergences), for me, has been a long apprenticeship in hiding. Masking. Suppressing. Twisting myself into shapes that fit a world that never wanted to see…
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by AwenyddionSeer of the rupture, child of freak occurrence, cartographer of the sacred in-between I do not walk a straight path. I walk the trail of freak occurrences, the things no one could have predicted, the moments that shatter meaning and give birth to new shapes. I do not collect things. I collect events, thresholds,…
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There was a time when I breathed in colours like air. Art was not a hobby. It was a heartbeat.A language the world could not decipher, but my soul spoke fluently. And yet, the voices came. Sharp as chalk on slate. Teachers with their red pens and cold smiles.“This is not enough.” “This is not…
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Truthful, with my pen as guide! A full-hearted, soul-sent storm chaser, crashing through this world with poetry in my veins and vulnerability as my sword. I don’t come gently. I come with the trinity of myth. I come with longing. I come with the kind of truth that makes people look away, “who knows, they…
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There is something that feels familiar about Poor Things. Behind its surreal, provocative imaging, I see a metaphor that I think neurodivergent women will recognise, whether they’ve named it yet or not. The young, awakening Bella Baxter embodies more than just an odd, fantastical experiment. She reflects a pattern I know in my own DNA:…
Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens 