AWRYTE | Weekly Post There’s a time before the label. Before “autistic.” Before diagnosis. Before language. And in that space— there’s just confusion. A constant hum of “something’s off.” A sense of being the only one who didn’t get the manual. Trying harder. Smiling more. Shrinking smaller. Still missing it. Before it had a name, it just felt like failure. Why is everyone else fine with this light? This sound? This rule? Why do I need to prepare three days in advance to make

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,100 words At seven, my crying in the corner was met with worry. “She’s sensitive.” “She’s having a hard day.” By ten, it became “She’s dramatic.” By fourteen: “She should know better.” And by seventeen? It turned into a warning, said under someone’s breath: “You’re too old for this.” That sentence stayed with me. Worse than being misunderstood was the quiet judgment that came with age. The older I got, the less acceptable it became to visibly struggl

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,145 words It’s weird what people choose to minimize. I could say, “I cried for twenty minutes after I couldn’t find the right pen,” and they’ll laugh. But not in a mean way. In a confused, “you’re being dramatic” way. Like I accidentally told a joke I meant as a confession. I’ve heard it my whole life: “That’s not a real problem.” “You’re overreacting.” “You need to toughen up.” And I believed them—for a long time. Because I didn’t know that what I w

AWRYTE | Weekly Post They called me difficult. High-maintenance. Touchy. A drama queen. Too loud. Too much. Too everything. But no one asked why. No one stopped to ask what was underneath the reactions. Underneath the meltdown. Underneath the shutdown. Underneath the eye roll or silence or outburst or refusal. I wasn’t trying to be a problem. I was in pain. The lights were too bright. The rules kept changing. The noise wouldn’t stop. My brain couldn’t catch up. My heart beat

AWRYTE | Weekly Post The meltdown never scared me. It was everything that came after. The shame. The looks. The whispered “dramatic.” The way adults sighed or scoffed or rolled their eyes when I was already shaking. It didn’t start loud. Not always. Sometimes it was just… a buildup. Too many lights. Too much noise. Too much “just be flexible.” And then something small—one unexpected word, a sock that wouldn’t sit right, a sudden shift in tone—would knock me over. My throat wo

AWRYTE | Weekly Post The meltdown never scared me. It was everything that came after. The shame. The looks. The whispered “dramatic.” The way adults sighed or scoffed or rolled their eyes when I was already shaking. It didn’t start loud. Not always. Sometimes it was just… a buildup. Too many lights. Too much noise. Too much “just be flexible.” And then something small—one unexpected word, a sock that wouldn’t sit right, a sudden shift in tone—would knock me over. My throat wo

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,080 words I wish I could say I only heard this once. That it came from a one-off moment, a clueless stranger, a blip. But no. This one had range. It showed up in classrooms, kitchens, doctor’s offices, and group chats. Wrapped in fake concern or snide advice. And every time, it stung the same. “Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough.” Trying was never the problem. Trying is the one thing I’ve always done too much of. I tried when I was five and the

AWRYTE | Weekly Post | ~1,120 words I didn’t know what to say the first time someone told me this. I was sixteen, shaking, holding in tears with all the strength I had left. And a well-meaning adult—someone who thought they were helping—said it. “You’re too pretty to be this upset.” It hit me like a slap and a compliment in the same breath. A confusing sort of erasure, wrapped in something that sounded like praise. The message was clear, even if I couldn’t name it yet: If you

AWRYTE | Weekly Post I wasn’t loved. I was tolerated—when I was useful. When I was quiet. When I was helpful. When I didn’t ask too many questions. When I made them look good. When I made them laugh, but not too loud. When I didn’t take up too much space. Then I was “such a good girl.” I didn’t know love could be something you didn’t earn. I thought it came in bits. Rewards. Smiles after I did something right. Praise was safety. Silence was danger. I studied their faces like

AWRYTE | Weekly Post “You’re so good at X—how can you not do Y?” That line haunts more of us than you think. I’ve had adults say it, teachers say it, boyfriends say it, coworkers say it, my own brain say it. You can memorize scripts. You can explain complex systems. You can write whole chapters in one sitting. But you can’t open a jar. Can’t handle a group text. Can’t follow directions to a party you’ve been to five times. You want to know what breaks me? The “easy stuff.” Th

AWRYTE | Weekly Post People hear “masking” and think it’s acting. Like I’m putting on a costume, saying lines, pretending to be something I’m not. But that’s not it. Not really. I’m not pretending to feel things. I’m just performing the version of them you’ll accept. If I could walk into a room and just be—without adjusting my face, filtering my voice, second-guessing my tone, managing your reaction, calculating the social math—I would. But I’ve learned the cost of that. And

AWRYTE | Weekly Post “You have serious boundary issues.” That’s something I’ve been told more than once. And not just by strangers. Friends. Teachers. Partners. Therapists. I didn’t always understand what they meant. I wasn’t trying to be invasive. I just… felt connected. And when I feel connected, I lean in. That’s the part people don’t see. They only notice the intensity. The frequency. The emotional weight. But not the intention behind it. Not the heart of it. I’m autistic

AWRYTE | Weekly Post I saw it once in a parenting forum—someone typed it plain: “My autistic child makes me miserable.” No context. No follow-up. Just that. A sentence that cut through my chest like a paper slice. Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: some days are miserable. But it’s not because our kids are autistic. It’s because parenting in a world that doesn’t support difference is. When I had my first child, I was full of ideas about what it would be like. The rituals

AWRYTE | Weekly Post The first time my child broke something on purpose, I didn’t get angry. I got scared. Not because of what they broke. But because I had no idea how to help them. No roadmap. No translator. Just a mess on the floor and a deep pit in my chest that whispered, I should be doing better than this. Let me be clear about something: autistic kids aren’t destructive. They’re dysregulated. And those are not the same thing. But you wouldn’t know that from how people

“Why didn’t you just say something?” I’ve heard that sentence more times than I can count. It always comes after the fact—after the meltdown, the silence, the fight, the missed cue. After I’ve already run out of energy or words. The assumption is that if I didn’t speak up, it must mean I understood what was going on. That I had all the context. That I was on the same page. That I was just choosing not to participate. But that’s never been how my brain works. If I could have s