Welcome back to Soft Days Collective, friend. Come in gently, take a deep breath, and stay awhile.
This is one of those posts that feels a little tender to share, the kind you hold close to your chest for a while before letting it see the light. But if this space is anything, it is honest. And soft. And rooted in becoming.
Lately, I have been sitting with the quiet question of how I truly show up for myself. Not the version of me that moves through the world with a practiced smile or well-rehearsed responses, but the one that exists underneath it all. The one shaped by small rituals, comfort habits, sensory preferences, and the little quirks that make me, me.
And I have come to realize that, despite all the growth I have done, the final piece of the puzzle is not becoming someone new. It is accepting who I have always been. Especially when it comes to my late diagnosis of being neurodivergent.
So today, I want to move slowly through this. To gently unpack what it means to be me, and what it looks like to build a life that feels softer, safer, and more aligned.
Let’s begin with what is known. I am a member of the autism community. My official diagnosis places me at level one, though there are seasons of my life where I feel much closer to level two. During my evaluation, the clinician leaned in that direction, but because I masked so well, level one was what ultimately made it onto paper.
Alongside that, I carry diagnoses of generalized anxiety disorder and persistent depressive disorder, with intermittent major depressive episodes. For a long time, those words felt heavy. Defining, even. But I am learning to hold them differently now. They are not limitations. They are language. They help me understand the way my mind and body move through the world.
And understanding creates space for compassion.
Over time, I have come to see my experience in three gentle layers: the cloak of invisibility, the outside world, and my quirks.
The Cloak of Invisibility
This is where most of my world lives. Beneath the surface. Quiet, unseen, but always present.
I often describe my nervous system as something that never truly powers down. Like a small, restless creature that is always alert, always scanning, always moving. Even in stillness, there is motion. Even in calm, there is a hum.
Because of this, I crave structure. Plans help me feel safe. And more often than not, I need a backup plan, just in case. There is comfort in knowing what comes next, in having a path to follow when the world begins to feel overwhelming.
I also experience interoception challenges, which means that understanding my own body’s cues is not always intuitive. Hunger, fatigue, emotions, even basic needs can feel blurred or delayed. There are moments where I pause and ask myself, “What am I feeling?” and am met with silence. Not because nothing is there, but because it takes time to translate.
There is also the quiet, constant rehearsal. Conversations played out internally before they ever happen. Practicing tone. Facial expressions. Word choice. It is a way of preparing, of trying to meet the world in a way that feels acceptable, even if it does not come naturally.
And then there is the sensory layer. I tend to lean toward sensory avoidance, especially when input feels too unpredictable or intense. I find comfort in cool air, steady pressure, familiar textures. But I am easily overwhelmed by unexpected touch, heat, certain fabrics, or specific food textures. My body knows what it likes, and it is not shy about letting me know when something feels off.
The Outside World
Stepping out into the world often means stepping into my mask.
It is something I have learned to wear well. To most people, I may seem a little quirky, maybe a bit socially awkward, but generally okay. Functioning. Fine.
But masking is a quiet kind of labor. It is constant awareness. Adjusting, filtering, monitoring. And it can be exhausting in ways that are hard to explain.
There are moments when the mask slips, especially when I become overwhelmed. I might stim in public, small movements or actions that help regulate my system. For me, that is often the first signal that I am nearing my limit. That I need to find safety, and soon.
Some environments are especially difficult. Busy stores, doctor’s offices, unfamiliar places, airports. Spaces filled with unpredictability, noise, and expectation. If you ever find me there, moving a little slower, a little quieter, or a little more rigid, just know I am doing everything I can to stay grounded.
Invisible does not mean imaginary.
My Quirks
And then there is the part of me that feels the most alive.
My hyperfixations come and go, but they almost always center around two things: joy and movement. The things that bring me back to myself. The things that regulate, soothe, and light me up all at once.
I am drawn to activities that offer deep, grounding input. Knitting, yoga, hiking along the North Shore, kayaking, gardening, baking something warm on a quiet afternoon. These are not just hobbies. They are anchors.
I am also a devoted reader, especially when it comes to romantasy and dark romance. My TBR list is ever-growing, and honestly, I have made peace with the fact that I may never reach the end of it.
I love learning. Deeply. Especially when it comes to nature-based education, forest schools, and the magic of outdoor play. There is something about it that feels like home to me.
But the most sacred pieces of this section are the ones few people see. The unmasked moments. The soft, unfiltered versions of me.
The spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. The little songs I make up without thinking. The strange sitting positions that somehow feel more comfortable than anything else. The bursts of laughter, the odd noises, the sarcasm that slips out unintentionally.
My love for the changing seasons. My fascination with ancient history and belief systems. My childlike wonder when it comes to dinosaurs and Disney.
These are the pieces that feel the most true. The most me.
Acceptance
There are days I wonder how different things might have been with an earlier diagnosis. What might have felt easier. What might have made more sense.
But I also know this. The version of me that exists today was shaped by every single experience that came before. And somewhere along the way, I learned how to soften.
Not in a way that makes me smaller, but in a way that makes me more honest. More intentional. More at home in my own life.
I am learning to focus on what I can hold, and to gently set down what I cannot. I am practicing asking for accommodations without guilt. Creating space for my needs without apology. Letting my life move at a pace that actually feels sustainable.
Through deep breathing, mindfulness, and yoga, I am building something steady within myself. Boundaries that feel safe. Routines that feel supportive. A sense of inner peace that I can return to, again and again.
I am not moving through life passively.
I am choosing to move through it softly.
And maybe that is the heart of it all.
Not becoming someone easier to understand.
Not shrinking to fit into spaces that were never made for me.
But learning, slowly and gently, to exist as I am.
To honor it.
To trust it.
And to believe, even on the quietest days, that it is more than enough.