No. I’m not Rain Man.

No, I’m not really ‘high functioning’.

You can’t see my ‘functioning level’ on most days.

No, I don’t present like your 5-year-old nephew.

I’m an adult.

I’m a woman.

I’m late diagnosed.

So yes, I have learned to mask so intensely that most days the expected is too much and the unexpected is utterly debilitating.

And I can mask MOST of the debilitating symptoms of the unexpected at work, but I crash when I get home.

No, I don’t want to tell you how many times I can’t breathe.

No, I don’t want to tell you how many times I practice conversations before and after they happen.

No, I don’t want to talk about my safe clothes and my safe foods.

But I am autistic just the same.

So, when I tell you that I am autistic, I’m not looking for your pity and especially not your absolute shock and denial because you just can’t believe it.

Remember, when someone tells you that they have depression, diabetes, PTSD, and/or autoimmune disorder the response is most often NOT well it must not be that bad.

Invisible disabilities matter.

I have autism.

I don’t need your sympathy, dismissiveness, and/or attempts at denying its existence.

Signed,

An autistic person who actually had to justify my disability.

BUT…It’s 2026, and as an advocate and a voice, I have worked tirelessly to teach these terms to educators in many settings, from pre-certification courses to college classes to seasoned, veteran teachers. And yet, yesterday I sat amongst a table of my colleagues, a multidisciplinary team, and it literally stopped me when someone called out the term ‘neurodivergent’ and said…’who talks like that; what does that even mean’?

I fully owned my decision to use the word (because it was ME, yes, I’m the problem, it’s me) 🫠, but that’s as far as my puzzled brain (no pun intended) could move. I literally sat there, wondering how people in education legitimately don’t even have an understanding of these words

.

Mind Blown.

So, as we head into Autism Month…my heart is heavy. Because we don’t have an awareness problem, we don’t even have an acceptance problem.

Because we aren’t even there!

We have an ignorance problem.

Studies suggest that in 2020, upwards of 15-20% of the world’s population is in fact, neurodivergent! That’s an estimated 1 in 5 individuals! I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a pretty substantial percentage.

It’s also a quite LARGE POPULATION to be uninformed about.

So, let’s do better…

Let’s share information.

Check out the links below!

https://www.nm.org/healthbeat/healthy-tips/Understanding-Neurodiversity

https://dallasweekly.com/2024/12/the-neurodivergent-community-1-in-5-people-and-growing/

https://www.weforum.org/stories/2022/10/explainer-neurodivergence-mental-health/

Not long ago, I was commissioned to write a very personal piece about my life and experience with Autism.

I had never been asked to write anything of the like before and what’s more, I had never heard of ; the platform it was to be published on…

So I went down the rabbit hole that is online research and found some like minded people on here and I found that my desire to write again was reignited with a hopeful sense of purpose.

I curated my little corner on this platform and then, poured my heart out onto the proverbial pages of a laptop. I wrote about Autism. The very thing I used to be terrified to even speak of.

And I did it with raw, unabashed gusto.

So much so, that I emailed this person several times to make sure my piece was still, in fact, going to be published for someone else to monetize. Sounds dirty now…But caught up in the high of being chosen, I wanted it…And I wanted it bad.

So I waited. And then I questioned how vulnerable I had been. I even removed a song lyric that I was fearful would be taken out of context.

I was all sorts of IN MY HEAD.

Some 6 months later, the time had come! My article was ready to be published, but….

Turns out, my interchangeable use of the words Autism and Autistic, even in direct quotes, did not ‘morally and ethically’ align with this writer / advocate.

Full stop.

Wait. What?

How can my lived experience, my life NOT morally and ethically align with my fellow advocates?

This person wanted to re-write some of my piece to better align with their p.o.v. And went as far as to pen the changes with the hook that if I just offered my approval, my first commissioned piece would be published!

At my expense and in more ways than one.

So, I took the time to read what was changed. And I kid you not, I found that all of the changes centered only on my use of the diagnostic criteria and the terms Autistic and Autism (in person first language).

So I sat with this.

For awhile.

A good while.

And I’ve come to this conclusion, Neurodivergent language should NOT BE mutually exclusive!

Neurodivergent language SHOULD BE MUTUALLY INCLUSIVE!

And, quite frankly, if I have a diagnosis, I don’t need anyone’s permission on how I convey that diagnosis linguistically anymore than anyone else!

Because on some days, I have Autism. And on other days, I’m Autistic. And that, my friends, is worth publishing on my own terms.

FULL PIECE COMING SOON! ❤️

No one prepares you for the empty.

You are hard wired to nest. To build, and fret, and love, and grow your own nest.

You spend 20+ years planting the seeds of a garden of love only to usher with prayer and holy conviction your gift from God out into a world wrought with spiritual battles.

All the while, you wrestle with the ‘too much’ and the ‘not enough’ persona and you realize; unceremoniously that you are also losing yourself…

Your biology is changing just as fast as your home. The very things that equipped your body to carry and nourish your prayed for child, has now left you. And left you sweaty and tearful and empty.

It’s not just an empty nest…it’s an empty shell of who you once were. You not only miss your child/children, you miss yourself. The momma of laughs and movie nights, of blanket forts and Oreo dunks.

Everything is Empty.

Not just your nest.

The sink is empty.

The mornings are empty.

The weekends are empty.

Your heart-while still, oh so full, is now also full of more fear, more anxiety, but also more prayer and more thanksgiving.

And you pray for relief for your tired momma soul. You pray for the person you know you must become.

That person?

~~~~Empty not only in nest, but FULL in spirit & hope.

To all my empty nest mommas…I see you. You’re not alone. 🩷🩷🩷

Leah Beth

I was ‘gifted’ this book probably around the age of 7.  It was at a neighborhood birthday party. The old school 80’s kind of party where everyone was invited regardless of your social skills and most importantly solely based on where you laid your head each night.

We all played in the backyard, brought a present, ate some cake and ice cream and left with a goodie bag. But this time…Each girl was given a book in the goodie bag. A book that was handpicked for each girls’ seven-year-old ‘personality’.

I remember the cacophony of laughter when each girl ceremoniously unwrapped their gifted personality in BOLD TYPE printed across these seemingly innocent and small reads.

I didn’t know I was considered a ‘Chatterbox’ to these people, or any people for that matter. I thought I was being social. I thought I was just like everyone else. At least that’s what I was TRYING to do.

I remember the absolute fear of awaiting my turn to reveal which “Little Miss” I would be pinned with…Each girl, unwrapping “Little Miss. Sunshine”, “Little Miss. Giggles”, the anticlimactic “Little Miss. Twins” (for the actual twins) and the “Little Miss. Birthday Girl”.  Cue the eye roll and uncontrollable urge to just RUN or at the very least risk the death of a million splinters as my sweaty body melted slowly into the weather worn picnic table bench in hot Florida heat only to find a welcomed bed of wide bladed lush green grass as what I could only imagine a reprieve from this nightmare I was living.

I was already wearing the most uncomfortable hot pink leather sandals I had EVER encountered (at my Mom’s prideful demand). They were very on trend in 1985. AND I HATED THEM. I hated any shoes that were designed to put my feet and specifically my toes on display. They pinched and rubbed my feet raw. They were flat and difficult to walk in (looking back now I know that they were unforgiving when it came to walking on the balls of my feet). A trait I never recognized I had inhabited until some 30 years later pointed out by my observant husband and my matching callouses on each foot.

🤢 Why do people want to see each other’s feet?  But I digress.

My heart literally skipped a beat as I looked up in shear panic.  I’d been flipping through my brain files planning my escape and trying desperately to grasp an understanding as to why people want to wear stupid and uncomfortable shoes in a color that just SCREAMS for attention when I realized that every “Little Miss” and their cool moms where ****Uh Hmmmm**** waiting on ME to unveil my new and might as well be LIFELONG LABEL.

My sweaty, clumsy hands unwrapped the small paper book and there it was. I had now been named, “Little Miss. Chatterbox”.

Ugh.

Like a gut punch.

As the adults cackled, I questioned everything I had known to be true and accurate in my 7 years on this planet. ‘She’s just so much….they agreed’. ‘Never stops talking!’….

I shoved the book as deep into the flimsy, plastic goody bag as I could as my face filled so quickly with blood that I could barely breathe.

Little Miss. Chatterbox turned Little Miss. Disastrously Embarrassed.

I wanted to rip those stupid hot pink sandals off my sweaty hot feet and throw them into the melting ice cream and run all the way home.

But, of course, that’s not what I did.

I just used that new found label as fuel to mask even harder. I never wanted to be considered a chatterbox again. I wanted to “Little Miss. Sunshine”, damnit!

And apparently in my young mind, “Little Miss. Sunshine” was easy to please and most of all…quiet. Insert more literal thinking. The sun is bright, happy and QUIET! 😎

So, before I found out that I was Neurodivergent, I was “Little Miss. Chatterbox”.

And for the majority of the next 30 years, and if I’m being honest, still today, I’ve turned into Little Miss. Sunshine Mask. 🎭

Oh and the hot pink sandals….I refused to ever wear them again. Claimed I must have outgrown them. Because clearly my shoes weren’t helping me become any more likeable.

I’ll never forget those stupid shoes.

I’ll never forget that stupid day.

I still have the book.

And slowly, in this life of neurodivergence and uncertainty, I am learning to understand that what other people think of me has no bearing on who I am.

Here’s to ME! 🤘

I probably smell like dog vomit. And I was late to work. As I walked into work…my ear (as it often does when I am overwhelmingly stressed) goes offline. It starts ringing, then static and then nothing. Literally quiet. My back starts to spasm in the same spot it always does and I am late for work. Wait…I said that already.

I overshared (per usual) with my boss, explaining the dog vomit fiasco I woke up to this morning. And proceeded to provide him with a play-by-play of how I was trying to rectify my tardiness by what I can an only imagine he thought was dramatic and unnecessary. As he never responded. I’ll overthink that part later…..

This is when I wish was a neurotypical.

Because I am currently fighting the biggest meltdown I’ve staved off for weeks. And these minor inconveniences (to MOST neurotypicals), like dog vomit or being literally 2 minutes late to work is just too much for my operating system to bear.

Turns out…I survived this day. I couldn’t help but inquire incessantly if I did actually smell like dog vomit. And I ended up navigating kid vomit. And discovered an old stain on my jeans and still survived another day.

So…I guess dog vomit is not the end of the world.

Well, at least it wasn’t that day.

-LB

You ever notice how when you’re young, people always tell you that you’re too much?

Like you are too loud, too chatty, too emotional, too dramatic…And then you become an adult and you’re not enough…or ‘just a little bit’.

You’re just a little bit autistic, you’re just a little bit anemic, a little bit anxious, your labs are just a little bit off. 

So when am I enough?

On this day, at the top of Robert’s Peak in Juneau, Alaska with my husband (aka My Goose) I felt like enough.

Taking baby steps to get back to that feeling everyday. ❤️🗻

Dressing up like adults in search of our true north. Running from mediocrity. Hunting for relevance & purpose. The generation of X seeking out the why…

Morality and academia wrapped up in the guise of ‘Be kind & Rewind’. After more than a quarter of century, oh how the heart longs to rewind back to a simpler time. When only those who saw your face could see your triumphs. And those who picked you up knew of your failures. Leaving behind the world was as simple as leaving your house. The generation of X seeking out the why…

The rise of all we accomplished and exceeded and hoped to be has left us empty and in a constant state of comparison, not even worthy of a a 90’s sitcom script. Because at one time in life, the discovery of ourselves and the world around us was far more unremarkable and out of reach compared to the digital frontier we have moulded our futures into. The generation of X seeking out the why…

For many of us, these were the ‘warmest’ holidays on record and yet…they felt empty and cold.

How did we get here? Is it really all to blame on social media? The price of cheese and eggs? The loud cacophony of people saying diagnoses are too much and too many?

Because I think it’s deeper.

I think instead of resting, we are working, hustling, and consuming more than we can afford, imagine, hold, or want.

Instead of a nap on a cold winter’s night, we are pacing at 3am rereading that post that hit right in the heart.

We are keeping up with the Jones’s except now they have Ai.

Or maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I mistook masking my anxious autism with never-saying-no. Never-speaking-up. Never-powering-down. Never-slowing-down. Making that Ai powered picture hit like something that should be illegal.

In reality, I don’t remember how to stop the people pleasing.

All of my special interests are special no more. And I’m diving deep into the crevices of a life I lived 3 decades ago. Searching for some semblance of who I was before I cared to mask.

Or maybe I just miss reality. The warm, magical feelings that came when the leaves blushed and learned to fly. When we all in one way or another dug out our dusty family traditions, watched the world (be it in most places) turn into Tchaikovsky's iconic "Waltz of the Snowflakes".

Now these things our weary bodies haul out of their dark spaces are only to be captured by Facebook and not the eyes and ears of our loved ones.

This time feels just like it did in 2020/21.

• Numb.

• Empty.

• Raw.

• Rushed.

• Crowded.

• Conflicting.

So I guess I don’t know what that was…but I know I’m ready for less.

Less

• Numb.

• Empty.

• Raw.

• Rushed.

• Crowded.

• Conflicting.

~LB

So for over 15 years, we’ve been teaching teachers about the neuroscience of trauma, all while ignoring the trauma the adults were experiencing.

What happens when everyone is dysregulated, burnt out and in survival mode?

It’s beyond time that we stop blaming

educators for the failures of a broken system.