AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,105 words “Did you mean to be rude?” That’s the question I’ve been hit with more times than I can count. Usually after I said something direct. Or honest. Or just… true. I didn’t roll my eyes. I didn’t raise my voice. I just didn’t wrap my words in extra padding. And that, somehow, made people uncomfortable. I’ve been misunderstood for most of my life. Not because I’m mean. But because I speak plainly. I say what I see. I name what I notice. I don’t

AWRYTE | Weekly Post I didn’t know what masking was. I just knew I felt like a different person in every room. That certain tones made my stomach clench. That I had to rehearse how to say “hi” without sounding weird. That I came home from school and collapsed—no noise, no talking, just nothing. Everyone said I was “so good.” I was “such a joy to have in class.” I was “mature for my age.” They didn’t see the rest. The shutdowns. The stomachaches. The way I’d replay every inter

AWRYTE | Weekly Post There were only two of us. That made dividing us easy. She was the dramatic one. I was the smart one. She cried loudly. Slammed doors. I read books. Got good grades. Knew when to keep my mouth shut. And the roles locked in early—like assigned seats in a family photo nobody wanted to retake. At the time, it felt like a compliment. Being “the smart one” bought me safety. Approval. A little less scrutiny. It also came with pressure. Don’t mess up. Don’t ask

AWRYTE | Weekly Post Some people grow up with yelling. I grew up with measuring. No raised voice. No slammed doors. Just… calculation. She didn’t explode. She calibrated. If I crossed a line, the punishment wasn’t noise—it was distance. A look. A pause. A clipped sentence. Enough to make me squirm. Enough to make me wonder what I’d done. Enough to make me fix it before she had to name it. When people talk about emotional abuse, they think of rage. They think of chaos. Of brui

AWRYTE | Weekly Post Love didn’t feel like a given. It felt like a reward. I don’t remember being held just because. I remember being praised when I did something right, when I made things easier, when I didn’t mess up. And I chased that approval like it was oxygen. Because it kind of was. I was a smart kid. I picked up patterns quickly. I could read a room before I could read a book. And in my house, the rule was simple: Be helpful. Be quiet. Be impressive. And maybe, just m

AWRYTE | Weekly Post I used to think I was easygoing. Go with the flow. Flexible. Chill. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I told everyone else. That’s what they liked about me. I could adapt. I didn’t make a fuss. I smiled. I stepped back. I let other people lead. I said sorry before I spoke, even if I didn’t know why. I didn’t understand that what I thought was a personality trait was actually a survival tactic. I folded. Before I was asked. I adjusted. Before anyone h

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,180 words “You don’t look autistic.” People think that’s a compliment. They say it with a smile, like it’s reassuring. Like I should be grateful I’m not visibly “one of those” people. But here’s what I hear: “You’ve done such a good job hiding it, we forgot to believe you.” Let’s back up. Before diagnosis, I was just “quirky.” Or “intense.” Or “a lot.” I was the one who talked too fast, cared too much, and stayed too long in the wrong places because

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been asked this. Asked like it’s a comfort. Asked like being just anxious would make it all easier to explain, treat, or ignore. But “just anxiety” never fit. Not the way they said it. Here’s what anxiety looks like in a neurotypical frame: Nervous before a big test. Heart racing before a presentation. Feeling overwhelmed when something unexpected hits. Here’s what it looks like for me: I’m ten years o

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,110 words When I was nine, I wrote my own eulogy. Not because I was suicidal. Not because I wanted attention. Because I was scared I’d die without anyone knowing how to talk about me. I didn’t have the language for it at the time, but I was already masking so hard I didn’t trust anyone around me to describe me accurately. If I vanished, the world would have a file full of grades and report cards, maybe some stories about how I was “so mature” or “a l

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words If I had a dollar for every time someone called me “defensive,” I’d have enough to fund the therapy that explained why I’m not. Not defensive. Not combative. Not difficult. Not oppositional. Just trying to be understood. And punished for it. It starts early. You say something that doesn’t sit right. I ask a question. I try to clarify. I explain where my brain went and what I thought you meant. You tense up. You accuse. “You’re being defensi

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words Some people seem to know, instinctively, how to arrange their face. Not just for photos—though that’s its own minefield—but in conversation, at the grocery store, on Zoom. They react before the other person finishes a sentence. A head tilt here. A soft nod. A knowing smile. A flicker of concern at the exact right second. I watch them sometimes. Their faces look like dance partners with the moment—always a step ahead, always on rhythm. Mine

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,110 words It always starts as a compliment. “You’re so articulate.” “You’re really sharp.” “You don’t seem like you’d have trouble with this.” And then, when I hit a wall— “You’re too smart to be struggling with this.” That sentence has followed me from childhood through adulthood like a shadow I didn’t ask for. Not just confusing. Not just dismissive. It’s a full-body erasure. A slap disguised as praise. Because here’s what it tells me: My intellige

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words It’s always after I flinch. After I pause. After my face changes. After I start to pull away. That’s when they say it: “You took that the wrong way.” As if the only problem is the way I heard it. Not the way it was said. I’ve heard it too many times to count. After a joke that cut too deep. After a comment that brushed too close to something I’ve already had to survive. After someone gets uncomfortable with the fact that I noticed. “You too

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words It’s funny how people hear me say something direct, then look at me like I must not get the deeper meaning. Like I’m too literal. Too black-and-white. Too stuck in surface-level thinking. I get it. I’m autistic. I’ve heard it before. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t being literal. I was being clear. There’s a difference. I say what I mean because it saves us both time. I use the words that fit the shape of my thought. I don’t do vague complim

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,165 words “But you seem fine.” They always mean it as reassurance. Like I should feel relieved. Grateful that I “don’t look like something’s wrong.” But every time someone says it, I feel smaller. Less seen. More alone. I’ve heard it from teachers, coworkers, partners, doctors, therapists. Said with kindness, sometimes confusion. Once, even with a shrug and a smile. “But you seem fine.” I never know how to respond. Because what they’re really saying