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“Do you really view yourself as an author?” This is the question that has been on my mind for days. Yes. I just haven’t fully expressed it yet. But writing—real writing—is the only place I’ve ever been able to say what I actually mean. I’m autistic. That isn’t some poetic strength. It meant I felt everything. Everyone’s emotions–especially the bad ones. Hatred sticks. Girls would form a circle around me. Push me back and forth until one stepped out—and I hit the concrete. The

I walk up to Realm PDX. My shoulders are tight. The hair on my back is raised. I’ve been mocked at too many shows to walk in relaxed. It’s around 10:10. Fully dark. One street—broken RV on one side, three tents on the other, trash in between. I walk down the middle. You could disappear into those shadows in seconds. Fishnets. Fur coat. Sparkle shoes. Five-five with the confidence of someone six-five. I pass through. No footsteps behind me. Back on the sidewalk, I run into a g

Hobbies are good. They can be healthy habits that stimulate both the mind and body. Some people join book clubs or bowling leagues. Others pick up crocheting or knitting. My passion is dancing. It hits both my mind and body. It's how I cope with my anxiety and depression. My first show was Pickle in August 2024. It was ridiculous—in the best way. Pickle outfits, pickle buttons… just silly, goofy fun. Since then, I’ve been to 49 shows at 45 East. Fifty shows in 18 months. Tha

For my entire life, I had one recurring nightmare. No joke—I’ve dreamt about my teeth crumbling in my mouth.Then my nightmares started to come true. My molars were the first to go. From the outside, they looked fine. I took very good care of my teeth my whole life, so nothing seemed wrong. But one by one, they died on the inside. At first, I just had a gap-toothed smile. Since it started with my molars, it wasn’t obvious. But eventually all of my molars died, and it got to t

Dancing is something I do by myself almost every day. Last night, I watched Pixar’s Soul , and I connected deeply with the idea that when someone becomes fully immersed in what they love, they slip into another plane of existence. That’s where I go. Somewhere higher. My body relaxes. My eyes close. I let the music move through me. I’m not thinking anymore. I’m feeling. My body becomes a conduit—moving to the deep, rhythmic pulse of the artist’s emotion. So when a man asked me

I have tumors throughout my body—bones, breast, brain, liver, ovaries. They’ve been there for years, and I can feel them growing. I spent years trying to get help. Obviously, I failed. My paternal grandmother had the same unusual tumors. She spent years trying to get help too. The help never came. She died when she was two years older than I am now. Doctors have biopsied my tumors. They always tell me the same thing. It’s not cancerous. That’s what they told my grandma right

I was raised in a church. Christmas carols. Easter egg hunts. Church every Sunday—then dinner with the grandparents. Ringing the church bells, if I was lucky. These are the images that surface when I think about church. I love them. I stopped attending for many years, but about two years ago, I felt a pull—a desire to belong. So I started going to the church closest to my house. It felt like coming home. The Lord’s Prayer is a little different, but everything else felt famil

I wasn’t going to start a blog. I want to be a novelist—not a blogger—but my higher power had other plans. Last week at the gym, a woman approached me and launched into rapid-fire questions. Her focus was sharp: What is your job title? What are you doing with your life? I recognized it immediately. After being married to an interrogator (yeah, I picked a real winner), I know what information extraction looks like. The pace, the pressure, the way the questions stack—it’s inten