I remember when there were two of you.

You came to me carrying a ball between you, though I never knew what game you intended to play. Perhaps neither did you.

It didn't seem to matter.

You made the rules as you went.

You threw.

You caught.

You missed.

You laughed.

And when the ball escaped one pair of hands, four feet went running after it.

Back then, I knew you both by your footsteps.

Yours crossed mine in long, uneven lines. His met them from the other direction. Again and again you wore paths toward one another until I could have mapped the shape of you from the grass beneath your feet.

Some days one set of footsteps traveled farther.

Some days the other did.

That's what fields are for.

There was room here for tiredness. For mistakes. For dropping things. For standing still while someone else ran.

There was room for both of you to ask:

Are you okay?

And room enough for the answer.

I cannot tell you when it changed.

Fields are good at noticing distance, but terrible at noticing moments.

There was no whistle.

No line appeared in the grass.

No one stopped the game to announce that there would be new rules.

I only know that, slowly, I began to feel one set of footsteps more than the other.

At first, only a little.

A ball would land where his feet had once carried him.

Yours came instead.

Then another.

Yours again.

You ran across me so quickly I don't think you noticed how far you had traveled.

Perhaps that's why you didn't notice that he hadn't.

You were too busy keeping the ball in play.

So I kept the record for you.

Every crossing.

Every retrieval.

Every place you learned to stand so you could reach the next ball faster.

Every inch of yourself you repositioned around the game.

Until one day, I knew you almost entirely by your footsteps.

And him by the places they no longer fell.

By then, I knew the sound of you running.

Not the easy rhythm from before.

This was different.

Quick turns. Sudden stops. The hard press of a foot changing direction before the rest of you had caught up.

You had learned me well.

You knew the shortest distance between almost anywhere and everywhere. You knew which patches of grass would slow you down and where the ground dipped beneath your feet. You learned where to stand between throws so that when the next ball came, you could reach either side of me.

You became very good at the game.

Perhaps too good to notice you were no longer playing the same one.

The balls still came.

That was enough to make everything look familiar.

One would fall near you and you would retrieve it.

One would fall near the center and you would retrieve that too.

One would fall so far across me that once, in the past, another pair of feet would have reached it first.

Still, you ran.

Sometimes I heard you call while you did.

Are you okay?

The question traveled farther than it used to.

Are you okay?

Across the grass.

You asked it after hard throws.

After missed catches.

After silences.

Sometimes even after you had been struck by the ball yourself.

Are you okay?

I remembered when there had been another question here.

It used to travel toward you.

Are you okay?

I don't know when I stopped hearing it.

Perhaps you don't either.

There was no room for it now.

There was always another ball.

And you had become so very good at retrieving them.

I wish I could tell you that I tried to warn you.

But fields cannot speak.

We can only hold the evidence.

And I held yours everywhere.

The grass worn thin beneath the places you had learned to wait.

The long tracks from one end of me to the other.

The places your feet dug in when you turned too quickly.

The patch where you fell once and got back up before you had even decided whether you were hurt.

You didn't have time to decide.

The ball was still moving.

And somewhere in all that running, I began to understand something you had not yet seen.

You were no longer trying to play well.

You were trying to keep the game alive.

Those are not the same thing.

But they can feel exactly the same when you're the one running.

Especially when someone keeps telling you the ball is in your court.

I never understood that.

Perhaps because fields understand distance differently than people do.

I knew where the ball landed.

I felt its weight strike the earth.

Sometimes it landed near your feet.

Sometimes between you.

Sometimes so far from you that reaching it required crossing nearly all of me.

Still:

The ball is in your court.

And still, you ran.

I would have corrected them, if fields could speak.

Not this one.

This one landed over there.

But you were already moving.

Perhaps after a while it stopped mattering where anything landed.

If the game stalled, you restarted it.

If something was dropped, you retrieved it.

If a throw went wild, you chased it.

If someone was hurt, you checked whether they were okay.

Even when the person who was hurt was you.

Especially then.

Because your hurt had a strange way of becoming another ball.

You would try to set it gently between you.

This hurt me.

And somehow, moments later, you would be running again.

Explaining what you meant.

Explaining what you didn't mean.

Reassuring.

Repairing.

Trying to return the game to the moment before you had said you were hurt at all.

I watched this happen enough times that I began to wonder whether you noticed.

Your pain never seemed to stay yours for very long.

It became something else you had to carry.

So you carried it.

What else could you do?

You were still trying to win.

Though I think, by then, winning had changed too.

Once, winning had meant keeping something moving between you.

Now it meant keeping it from ending.

Those are not the same game.

No one had told you that either.

There had been no whistle, no new lines, no announcement.

Only you, running harder under rules you had never agreed to, trying to become good enough at this new game to find your way back to the old one.

Back to four feet crossing me.

Back to laughter in the middle.

Back to:

Are you okay?

Are you?

I remembered that game too.

Perhaps that's why I understood why you kept playing.

But memory is a strange thing on a field.

I can remember every footstep that ever crossed me.

And I can still feel the ones that are crossing me now.

You were playing for what had been.

Your feet were living in what was.

And what was—

was one person running.

One person retrieving.

One person asking.

One person trying to keep the ball in the air.

I could see the whole field.

You couldn't.

You were too busy crossing it.

The ball landed.

You didn't move.

At first, I thought you hadn't seen it.

I had grown so accustomed to the sound of your feet that the silence confused me.

The ball lay where it had fallen.

I waited.

So did you.

Nothing happened.

No one ran.

No one retrieved it.

No one put it back into play.

For the first time in a very long while, the game stopped.

And you were still here.

I wonder if that surprised you.

You had spent so long moving as though everything depended upon the next catch that perhaps you had forgotten what would happen if you simply let something fall.

It fell.

That was all.

The sky remained above us.

The grass moved beneath the wind.

Somewhere beyond my edges, the rest of the world continued without noticing that a ball had stopped rolling.

You stood very still.

Then you looked around.

I had been waiting for you to do that.

Not because I wanted you to leave.

Fields have no use for endings.

We know only what crosses us and what remains.

But I wanted you to see what I had been holding beneath your feet.

The distance.

All of it.

From where you stood, you could see the places you used to wait.

The paths you had worn between one side of me and the other.

The patch of earth where you had fallen and risen before checking whether you were hurt.

The places where two sets of footsteps had once crossed.

And the places where, for a long time now, there had only been yours.

You looked across me.

There was so much field.

I think that was the first time you understood how much of it you had been covering.

You had been too close before.

Too busy running from one end of me to the other to see the shape of the thing you were inside.

But standing still, you could see it.

The whole field.

And in all that sudden quiet, there was finally room for a question.

Not:

Are you okay?

That question had crossed me so many times.

This one was smaller.

So small I almost missed it.

Am I?

You didn't answer immediately.

Perhaps you already knew.

Perhaps you had known for a long time.

Knowing something while running is different from knowing it while standing still.

So you stayed there.

The ball remained where it had fallen.

For once, you let someone else's silence remain someone else's silence.

You let a missed catch remain missed.

You let something be unresolved.

You let the game wait.

And slowly, I felt your weight shift.

I knew that movement.

I had felt it countless times before.

The small lean forward.

The foot preparing to push against the earth.

The body deciding where it needed to go.

I expected you to run toward the ball.

You didn't.

You turned toward the edge of me.

I wish I could tell you that you walked without looking back.

You didn't.

You looked back many times.

At the ball.

At the empty places.

At the paths the two of you had made when the game was still something you played together.

There was love here.

I know.

I held that too.

The laughter was real.

The four feet were real.

The hands reaching toward one another were real.

Whatever came later does not require you to dig those things out of the earth and call them lies.

But neither does what was beautiful require you to keep running through what hurts.

Both things can be true on the same field.

You reached my edge and stopped.

For too long, you had lived as though there were only two directions available to you:

toward the ball,

or toward the other player.

You had forgotten there was another.

Off the field.

You took your mitt with you.

I was glad you did.

There is a difference between putting down something that belongs to you and putting down a game that no longer does.

You did not say you would never return.

You did not need to.

Perhaps someday two sets of footsteps will cross me again.

Perhaps the rules will be spoken this time instead of assumed.

Perhaps something broken here can be repaired.

Perhaps you will discover that some games cannot be returned to, only remembered.

I cannot know.

Fields are good at remembering.

We are terrible at predicting who will cross us next.

I only know what happened that day.

The ball remained where it landed.

No one chased it.

The game you had been keeping alive by yourself finally stopped.

And you walked beyond the place where I could feel your footsteps.

For a while, there was nothing.

Just grass.

Wind.

An abandoned ball.

And all that open space.

I remembered the question you had finally asked while standing on me.

Am I okay?

I could not answer it for you.

But as your footsteps disappeared beyond my edge, I understood something I had not understood while you were running.

Perhaps the first answer did not have to be yes.

Perhaps it was enough that, finally,

you had remembered to ask.

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and all of the resources I create will always remain free. I believe deeply that neurodivergent people and those who love them should have access to quality, compassionate resources regardless of their financial circumstances.

If this newsletter has helped you understand yourself, your child, your students, or someone you love, I’d like to ask you to consider supporting this work by becoming a paid subscriber.

For $5 a month, you help make it possible for me to continue researching, writing, designing, and publishing these resources while keeping them freely available to everyone who needs them. If you’re able, you can also choose a $100 annual subscription or a $150 Founding Member subscription.

Independent work like this survives because readers decide it’s worth supporting. If you’ve ever finished an article thinking, I’m glad this exists, or I hope Jenn keeps doing this, becoming a paid subscriber is one of the most meaningful ways to help ensure that I can.

Thank you for reading, for sharing my work, and, if you’re able, for helping me continue creating it.

You can also learn more about my commitment to accessibility and how paid subscriptions help sustain this work on my About Me page.

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Long before children understand our words, they begin learning our nervous systems.

They learn whether the world feels safe or unpredictable. Whether mistakes are met with curiosity or criticism. Whether emotions are welcomed or avoided. Whether connection follows conflict or disappears from it. They inherit more than our genes. They inherit the worlds our nervous systems create.

This month, our wordsmiths explore parenting through the lens of the nervous system.

🤝 Marta Smith reminds us that connection isn’t an extra parenting task—it’s one of the most powerful forms of regulation we can offer our children.

📈 Stacey Yates Sellar introduces the 1% Rule, showing how tiny, consistent changes often create the greatest transformations over time.

🏡 Sarah Potter shares how transforming a walk-in closet into a sensory room changed the way her family thinks about regulation and the eight sensory systems.

🦊 Dr. Kristen Stuppy introduces the animals of your brain, using memorable animal characters to explain why we react, spiral, freeze, or snap—and how understanding our nervous system helps us regain control.

🌱 Jennifer Connor explores the nervous system "dictionaries" and "dialects" we inherit from our families—and how curiosity, repair, and connection allow us to help shape the ones we pass on.

Alongside these pieces, you’ll find AAAV’s Nervous System Language Collection, a brand-new guide to building the right sensory space for your child, practical parenting tools, nervous system experiments, a playlist inspired by this month’s theme, and much more.

As always, this edition is completely free to read and share. If it helps you better understand your child, yourself, or someone you love, we hope you’ll consider sharing it with another family who might need it.

With Love,

Kristen, Marta, Sarah, Stacey, and Jenn

Note: To access the edition in it’s 56 page entirety, click on this sentence and it will direct you to the free google drive link.

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and all of the resources I create will always remain free. I believe deeply that neurodivergent people and those who love them should have access to quality, compassionate resources regardless of their financial circumstances.

If this newsletter has helped you understand yourself, your child, your students, or someone you love, I’d like to ask you to consider supporting this work by becoming a paid subscriber.

For $5 a month, you help make it possible for me to continue researching, writing, designing, and publishing these resources while keeping them freely available to everyone who needs them. If you’re able, you can also choose a $100 annual subscription or a $150 Founding Member subscription.

Independent work like this survives because readers decide it’s worth supporting. If you’ve ever finished an article thinking, I’m glad this exists, or I hope Jenn keeps doing this, becoming a paid subscriber is one of the most meaningful ways to help ensure that I can.

Thank you for reading, for sharing my work, and, if you’re able, for helping me continue creating it.

You can also learn more about my commitment to accessibility and how paid subscriptions help sustain this work on my About Me page.

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Step right up, wanderers, curious souls, and brave passersby. Beyond this threshold sits a curious collection of odd antiquities: mirrors that stretch, soften, sharpen, distort, and disguise. Mirrors said to quicken even the steadiest of hearts. Mirrors that shimmer strangely when looked at too closely.

No ticket is required. One needs only the courage to enter. But be warned. The danger of these mirrors is not in the distortions. Anyone can survive a false reflection. No, the unsettling thing about this collection lies deeper. Because some reflections were not simply given to us. They were carefully altered over time by the very people whose image they capture. Adjusted for safety. Softened for belonging. Reframed for survival. Reflections one can easily get lost inside.

There are those who enter and are never seen again. Others who do not take the warning seriously who leave the Hall in tears. And yet others who leave carrying pieces of themselves they thought had long been lost. What will you see as you peruse this collection? Will you ever look at a mirror in quite the same way? Step inside and find out.

Mirror of Translation

The Description: Built from many materials, this mirror was altered over time so it could survive in different rooms. The original frame remains visible beneath the alterations.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that alters communication, thought, movement, and expression so others can more easily understand us.

The Cost: Too often, the effort of translation belongs only to the reflection in this mirror.

The Question: If we no longer had to translate ourselves, what parts of us might return?

Mirror of Palatability

The Description: Once intricate, this mirror has been worn smooth over time. Its sharper details have been slowly sanded down so it could feel safer, softer, and easier for others to receive.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that becomes quieter, gentler, smaller, or easier in order to belong, avoid conflict, or not overwhelm the people around us.

The Cost: Palatability can create acceptance, but over time it may teach us that connection depends on sanding down the very parts of ourselves that were never too much to begin with.

The Question: What parts of yourself have been softened so others could stay comfortable?

Mirror of Duty

The Description: Built to carry what others depend on, this mirror has been fitted with the tools needed to meet expectations, remember responsibilities, repair what breaks, and keep life moving.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves shaped by what others need us to be: dependable, prepared, organized, steady, loving, capable, and always ready to carry more.

The Cost: The longer we carry what others need, the easier it becomes to mistake responsibility for identity.

The Question: What parts of yourself have been buried beneath responsibility?

Mirror of Self Doubt

The Description: Though the original mirror remains intact, its reflection has shifted over time. The glass has become uneven, lightly warped, and difficult to fully trust.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that second-guesses instincts, revisits decisions, and searches for reassurance in reflections we question.

The Cost: The longer we rely on outside reassurance, the harder it becomes to trust ourselves.

The Question: When did you first begin questioning what you once knew to be true?

Mirror of Overfunctioning

The Description: Built to withstand more than it was ever meant to carry, this mirror has been repeatedly reinforced after strain and damage. Cracks were patched, weak points strengthened, and breaks held together.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that learns to carry too much, compensate for too much, and keep performing even when exhausted. The one who becomes hyper-capable because stopping never felt like an option.

The Cost: The longer we function beyond our limits, the easier it becomes to mistake endurance for wellness.

The Question: What parts of yourself have learned To survive on empty?

Mirror of Reclamation

The Description: Once cracked and damaged, this mirror has been carefully mended through the art of Kintsugi. Precious gold runs through its breaks, repairing the original mirror and enhancing the mirror’s beauty.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves learning to trust small moments of return. The one who begins again slowly. Who experiments with hope. Who discovers that healing often arrives quietly, through tiny acts of care repeated over time.

The Cost: Reclamation asks something difficult of us: to bravely lean into “maybe” and that healing is possible before we fully trust it.

The Question: What part of yourself still quietly believes in maybe?

Mirror of Delight

The Description: Carefully adorned over time, this mirror has become a home for small wonders. Tiny treasures, gathered moments, and beautiful things now rest along its frame.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that never stopped noticing beauty. The one drawn toward music, patterns, stories, textures, creatures, colors, collections, and joy.

The Cost: Too often, we are taught to abandon delight in exchange for productivity, seriousness, or survival.

The Question: What still lights up your world, even on hard days?

Mirror of Authenticity

The Description: Untouched beneath every alteration, this mirror remains as it always was. No reinforcements, repairs, distortions, or borrowed additions.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves that feels most like home. The one that exists beneath performance, protection, fear, and expectation. The self that does not need to be earned, translated, repaired, or proven.

The Cost: The closer we move toward authenticity, the harder it becomes to hide inside the versions of ourselves built for survival.

The Question: What parts of yourself have been waiting for permission to return?

Mirror of Reflection

The Description: Built from many reflections, this mirror carries traces of every mirror that came before it. Reinforcements remain, distortions are visible, fractures repaired, and small wonders still woven throughout.

The Reflection: It captures the version of ourselves learning to recognize when self-doubt has taken hold, overfunctioning is speaking, delight has gone quiet, or authenticity feels close.

The Cost: Recognizing which mirror we are standing in front of makes it harder to pretend that we do not have the choice to walk away and choose a different reflection.

The Question: What changes when you realize you are allowed to choose another mirror?

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and all of the resources I create will always remain free. I believe deeply that neurodivergent people and those who love them should have access to quality, compassionate resources regardless of their financial circumstances.

If this newsletter has helped you understand yourself, your child, your students, or someone you love, I’d like to ask you to consider supporting this work by becoming a paid subscriber.

For $5 a month, you help make it possible for me to continue researching, writing, designing, and publishing these resources while keeping them freely available to everyone who needs them. If you’re able, you can also choose a $100 annual subscription or a $150 Founding Member subscription.

Independent work like this survives because readers decide it’s worth supporting. If you’ve ever finished an article thinking, I’m glad this exists, or I hope Jenn keeps doing this, becoming a paid subscriber is one of the most meaningful ways to help ensure that I can.

Thank you for reading, for sharing my work, and, if you’re able, for helping me continue creating it.

You can also learn more about my commitment to accessibility and how paid subscriptions help sustain this work on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

Click on this sentence to access July’s Virtual Love Letter in its entirety as a google drive link. This publication is free to access, to share and to download.

July’s Virtual Love Letter is here.

This month marks one full year of building this version of the VLL on my own. One year of choosing the topics, shaping the direction, and slowly turning each edition into something more than a collection of articles. A landscape. A conversation. A place to gather. A huge part of that growth has come through the incredible guest writers who have trusted me with their voices along the way. Their words, perspectives, and lived experiences have helped shape each edition into something far richer than I could have built alone.

So for July, instead of planting something entirely new, I chose to look back. This issue is an anthologia. From the Greek anthos (flower) and legein (to gather), meaning a gathering of flowers. A collection of some of the pieces, voices, and creations that helped shape this past year. Some rooted in grief, some in curiosity, some in anger, some in healing, and some in joy. Alongside it is a YouTube music playlist capturing fifteen souls: myself, thirteen guest writers, and the Virtual Love Letter itself.

And woven through so much of this past year for me was a question that kept returning in different forms: What does happiness actually mean? Not the polished, made-for-TV version. Not the kind we’ve been sold since we were children. But the imperfect, unsteady kind we build, lose, chase, choose, and sometimes stumble into when we least expect it.

Last July, I wrote down my thoughts and lifelong journey in response to that question. A year later, after a year of exploring, asking, and choosing, I wrote the afterword using what I learned along the way.

To every guest writer, reader, and fellow traveler who has helped tend this garden of neurodivergent minds, thank you. Thank you for adding your soul and your mind to what makes the Virtual Love Letter what it is: a written and felt experience that both myself and the guest writers get to define differently with every edition, and one that each reader gets to define for themselves as they move through it. A metaphorical garden. A collection of flowers. One that would not be complete without you. 🌸

Again, you can access July’s edition in its entirety by clicking on this sentence.

With love,
Jenn

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

It is free to subscribe to this newsetter but if you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through tangible, mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription, a 100 dollar yearly subscription, or a 150 dollar founding subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference to me or someone I love, or it’s worth five dollars a month to help Jenn continue her work, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your tangible support.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

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Many of us grow up alongside the narrative that “enough” is conditional. That “enough” never arrives on its own, only as a modifier attached to something else.

Enough success.

Enough recognition.

Enough masking.

Enough usefulness.

Enough proving.

And when it fails to arrive, when we find ourselves battered, bruised, and broken from dashing ourselves against the rocky shores of “enough,” a new promise quietly takes its place:

Maybe it will come after enough healing.

The first steps of my own lifetime quest to meet the conditions of enough began around the age when peers start becoming more important than family. Somewhere around sixth grade, I remember feeling painfully aware that friendship and belonging seemed to come naturally to everyone around me in ways I could not quite understand and connect to.

I wanted so badly to be liked. And with that wanting came a carousel of questions that returned again and again each time I stood on the outside looking in.

Why does no one like me?

Why does this seem so easy for everyone else?

What am I missing?

What am I getting wrong?

Eventually, another question quietly emerged from the first set. A more dangerous one:

What do I need to fix about myself to be enough?

That was the moment the myth of arrival truly began for me. The quiet belief that enough was not something I already was, but something I would eventually become if I could just find the right combination of adjustments. Shortly after, I donned my first mask: humor.

“Funny,” I remember thinking. “Everyone likes funny.” If I could make people laugh, maybe I could finally find my place among them. Maybe funny could carry me where being myself had not.

So I started learning.

Self-deprecating humor arrived first. If I made fun of myself before anyone else had the chance, maybe it would hurt less. Maybe I could control the story. Maybe if people laughed with me, they would not laugh at me.

I started reading joke books. Memorizing punchlines. Quietly building a mental rolodex of “Jokes for Any Occasion,” that I could reach for into and perform funny. Sometimes the others laughed.

Sometimes they frowned. I watched their reactions carefully, making mental notes of which jokes landed, which jokes bombed, and building my mental humor catalog.

Over time, humor became more than something I used as an attempt at belonging. It became a companion on the journey, an ally I kept close while chasing the ever-moving target of enough.

But even then, something inside me still whispered: This is not enough.

So I tried on another mask. If funny was not enough, maybe helpful would be. I began giving away parts of my lunch.

“Oh no, I’m not hungry today. I ate a lot this morning. You have it.”

I gave away my time.

“Oh, I can help with that homework. Actually, I can just do it and bring it back tomorrow.”

I became useful to teachers. “Let me erase the board.” “Let me organize the books.” “Let me wipe down the desks.”

Helpful. Useful. Caring. Surely people liked those things. And for a while, I thought I was making progress.

But near the end of sixth grade, I still found myself standing apart from everyone else. Despite making my peers laugh, my attempts at humor had somehow made me the joke. Despite how useful I had become, I slowly realized that usefulness had limits. The moment I was no longer needed was also the moment my peers turned away.

Near the end of 6th grade, out of hurt and desperation, I impulsively asked another girl in my class why people liked her but not me. She was tall and thin like me, awkward in some of the same ways, but unlike me, she had friends. She belonged. She was enough. And her answer was painfully simple. No heat behind it, just a very simple and truthful observation.

“Because people like me and they don’t like you.”

“Of course,” I remember thinking. “I get it now. I don’t need to fix small things. I need to fix everything.”

And with that quiet realization, what should have been the ordinary childhood process of finding myself shifted into something else entirely: a lifetime narrative where abandoning parts of myself began to feel like the price of eventually becoming enough. Humor, helpfulness, usefulness. They took the lead and I became the companion. Together, we set to work building a place for enough to finally arrive.

At first, the landing strip was simple. But over the decades, it grew.

Longer. Wider. Brighter.

More lights.

More signs.

More accommodations.

More proof.

If enough could not find me, perhaps I simply had not made the runway visible enough. So I kept building.

What began as a landing strip slowly transformed into something stranger. A sprawling, impossible structure somewhere between a runway, a maze, and a fever dream. Akin to an Alice in Wonderland garden designed by an exhausted perfectionist. What the Winchester Mystery House might have looked like if its architect had been fueled entirely by self-improvement and the quiet terror of never arriving.

Stairs that led nowhere.

Signs pointing in conflicting directions.

Lights bright enough to be seen from space.

Entire wings devoted to humor, usefulness, healing, helping, productivity, understanding, and others’ achievement.

A monument to the belief that if I could just become enough of the right things, eventually enough itself would land.

But it never did.

And sometimes, exhausted from all the renovations, I would lie there beneath the night sky staring

upward from the middle of everything I had built, quietly wondering what piece I was still missing.

Because enough remained impossibly, devastatingly out of reach.

After a lifetime of thinking about enough as conditional, as an ingredient somehow missing from the recipe of myself, enough finally arrived unnoticed alongside another quiet yet devastating realization more than thirty years later:

I have ADHD.

I am neurodivergent.

The world, its systems, and most of its people were not built for a mind like mine.

Its been a bit more than five years since that realization.

I’ve given up on the landing strip. I now think I understand why the plane never arrived.

I began listening to other women, like me, with their own absurd, sprawling airports, learning what late-realized neurodivergence meant to them and who were slowly building lives and ways of being that were sustainable.

Inspired, I began building in a new, more intentional way.

Some of my new projects are the Library of Self-Understanding, a monument to forgiveness and grace, virtual love letters, and reimagining what building a sustainable and fulfilling life looks like for me. As I continue to break new ground and build, I unearth small bits of enough that were always hidden in the earth.

And maybe that is the strange thing about enough. After spending decades believing it was something I had to build toward, prove, earn, perfect, heal into, or somehow become worthy of, I have slowly begun to wonder if enough was never really waiting for me at the end of the runway at

all.

Maybe enough was not the plane. Maybe enough was buried beneath the airport.

Beneath the humor.

Beneath the usefulness.

Beneath the exhausting renovations.

Beneath the lifetime of trying to become someone easier to understand, easier to hold, easier to love.

For so many years, I mistook self-abandonment for self-improvement. I thought enough lived just beyond the next achievement, the next understanding, the next version of myself that would finally get it right. But neurodivergence has slowly taught me something far quieter and far more difficult.

The work was never becoming enough.

The work was learning to stop abandoning the parts of myself that already were.

For me, this is where neurodivergent pride lives.

Not in perfection.

Not in certainty.

Not in pretending the world suddenly fits.

But in the stubborn refusal to keep measuring myself against systems that were never built for minds like mine in the first place.

In building differently.

In building sustainably.

In digging deeper instead of building over myself.

In continuing, despite everything, to make room for the possibility that maybe I was never missing the ingredient after all.'

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference to me or someone I love, or it’s worth five dollars a month to help Jenn continue her work, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your tangible support.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

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🌈 The June Virtual Love Letter is here: Neurodivergent Pride 🌈

Click here to access the edition in its entirety as a google drive link, click on this underlined link. Feel free to download and share this free resource.

Pride is often portrayed as something loud.

A declaration. A celebration. A moment.

But what happens when pride is quieter than that?

What if pride looks like trusting your own reflection?

Carrying every part of yourself forward?

Following a path that was never meant to look like everyone else's?

Believing you belong before the world agrees?

This month, six neurodivergent creators explore pride through lived experience, each approaching it from a different direction:

💜 P - Permission | Skylar explores what it means to stop asking permission to exist as yourself.

🪞 R - Reflection | Lindsay explores the stories, mirrors, and identities we inherit and what happens when we finally look back with honesty.

🌱 I - Integration | Will explores gathering the scattered pieces of ourselves and carrying them forward as one whole person.

🚪 D - Destination | Gary reflects on ADHD, self-discovery, belonging, and finding a path that fits instead of forcing yourself down one that doesn't.

🤍 E - Enough | I explore a lifetime spent chasing "enough" and the quiet realization that it was never something I needed to earn.

🎨 Featuring artwork throughout by Rachel / AudhdPainter

Also included in this month's edition:

✨ The Neurodivergent PRIDE Cards

🪞 The Hall of Mirrors

🎵 A community playlist curated by our creators

💭 Questions designed to spark reflection and conversation

🌱 Gentle invitations to explore pride, belonging, and becoming

When we sat down to create an edition about pride, we discovered something interesting. Pride isn't just about celebrating who we are. Sometimes it's about finally believing we belong.

With Love,

Gary, Lindsay, Rachel, Skylar, Will, and Jenn

You can also click here to access the edition in its entirety.

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference to me or someone I love, or it’s worth five dollars a month to help Jenn continue her work, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your tangible support.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

Before we begin, I want to acknowledge someone whose support and insight were instrumental in shaping this piece: Sally Cat.

Sally is a late-diagnosed autistic advocate, speaker, and author who has brought many people alongside her through her journey of self-discovery, including her recognition of internalized PDA. After joining one of the few online support groups for PDA adults, she began gathering the lived experiences of the community around her and eventually compiled the voices of approximately seventy PDA adults into the book PDA by PDAers.

She also helped create a free and accessible informal screening tool to support people exploring whether they, too, may have PDA.

Some of the visuals featured throughout this edition are shared with Sally’s permission and will be republished in this solo Substack drop. More importantly, her insight helped shape the way I understand PDA itself.

And as you’ll see later, she ultimately gave me one of the clearest frameworks I have ever heard for understanding the PDA experience.

What Is PDA?

Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA) was first described in the 1980s by British developmental psychologist Professor Elizabeth Newson while working with autistic children.

At the time, autism looked very different diagnostically than it does today. Separate diagnoses such as autistic disorder, Asperger’s syndrome, and childhood disintegrative disorder sat under a larger umbrella known as pervasive developmental disorders (PDD). Newson argued that PDA represented a distinct profile within this framework.

When the DSM-5 was released in 2013, these categories were folded into the broader diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD). PDA itself was not included as a standalone diagnosis. Instead, behavioral descriptions such as demand avoidance could be documented within an autism diagnosis.

Today, many clinicians view PDA as an atypical profile of autism, though relatively few formally recognize or diagnose it due to its absence from diagnostic manuals.

Research into PDA continues, though it remains limited and concentrated largely in the United Kingdom. Much of what we currently understand comes from clinicians, lived experience, advocates, and families trying to make sense of something that often feels invisible from the outside.

And invisible things are easy to misunderstand.

Broadly speaking, PDA tends to be understood in two ways.

The first views PDA as an automatic nervous system response to perceived loss of control, where demands trigger anxiety and avoidance.

The second, closer to Newson’s original theory, describes PDA as a broader neurotype characterized by demand avoidance, high anxiety, a strong need for personal control, social focus, novelty seeking, and often a deep draw toward imagination, fantasy, or role play.

But regardless of how someone defines PDA, one thing becomes clear very quickly:

Traditional approaches often do not work.

PDA is frequently mistaken for oppositional defiant disorder (ODD), because from the outside, the behavior can sometimes look similar. Refusal. Pushback. Emotional reactions. Noncompliance.

But families quickly discover something confusing.

The strategies that are supposed to work… often don’t.

Traditional behavioral interventions, reward systems, firm expectations, escalating consequences, even standard autism approaches can sometimes make things worse instead of better.

Many families find themselves trying recommendation after recommendation, only to walk away feeling defeated.

Why is nothing working?

Why does my child seem so resistant?

Why does this feel impossible?

But perhaps the problem is not the child.

There is a Chinese proverb that says:

Different locks must be opened with different keys.

PDA is one of those locks.

And the keys to understanding it are cut differently than most people expect.

In this article, we are going to explore three foundational keys to understanding PDA and how those keys can help us make sense of behavior, reduce conflict, and create approaches that actually work.

Key One: Control

If there is one defining feature of PDA, it may be this:

Control matters.

Deeply.

For many PDA people, control is not about stubbornness, manipulation, or “getting their way.” It is about safety.

Some advocates prefer the term Pervasive Drive for Autonomy, emphasizing the deep need for self-direction rather than focusing solely on avoidance. Others strongly identify with the traditional PDA framing and feel the demand avoidance itself is central to the experience.

Both perspectives matter.

But regardless of the language someone uses, many PDA people describe the same underlying experience:

A perceived loss of control can feel threatening.

And when something feels threatening, the nervous system responds.

This is one of the most misunderstood aspects of PDA.

From the outside, it can look like defiance.

A request is made.

A child refuses.

An adult shuts down.

A teen argues.

Someone delays, negotiates, distracts, or suddenly melts into panic seemingly out of nowhere.

But from the inside?

What may look oppositional can actually be an automatic threat response.

For many PDA people, demands can feel less like a request and more like someone else reaching for the keyboard.

Or, to borrow from this article’s title:

Someone pressing CTRL + ALT + DELETE on your system.

Even when the demand is reasonable.

Even when the person wants to do the thing.

Even when they understand why it matters.

This is part of what makes PDA so confusing for families and professionals.

Because motivation is often not the issue.

PDA kids, teens, and adults often care deeply. Many are thoughtful, funny, socially engaged, imaginative, charismatic, and incredibly insightful.

When they feel safe, supported, and in control, they can be absolutely magnetic to be around.

The struggle tends to emerge when demands begin to pile up and autonomy starts to feel threatened.

Unlike ODD, PDA avoidance also tends to have a distinctly social flavor.

This distinction matters.

Avoidance may look like:

• negotiation

• distraction

• delay tactics

• humor or fooling around

• excuses

• scripting or social mimicry

• imaginative role play

• obsessive interests

• emotional escalation

• seemingly sudden mood shifts

• meltdowns in response to demands

Sometimes this gets mislabeled as manipulation.

But many PDA adults will tell you:

“I was trying to survive.”

The strategy is not always intentional.

It is adaptive.

When the nervous system perceives threat, the brain starts searching for exits.

And this brings us to the second key.

Key Two: The Nervous System

To understand PDA, we need to understand something important:

Behavior makes more sense when we understand the body underneath it.

For many PDA people, demands do not simply feel annoying or inconvenient.

They feel threatening.

And when the brain detects threat, the nervous system responds automatically.

Not thoughtfully.

Not strategically.

Automatically.

This is why so many PDA people describe the experience as:

“I wanted to do it, but I couldn’t.”

That sentence confuses people who do not understand PDA.

If you wanted to do it, why didn’t you just do it?

Because wanting to do something and being able to access it are not always the same thing.

When the nervous system shifts into survival mode, the brain prioritizes protection.

Most people are familiar with fight, flight, or freeze, but trauma-informed frameworks have expanded our understanding to include additional protective responses such as:

• fawn (appeasing)

• flow (going along automatically)

• fib (creating an escape route)

PDA advocates such as Sally Cat and Brook Madera (No Pressure PDA) have also suggested additional panic-driven avoidance responses more commonly seen in PDA, including:

• fantasy

• forgetting

• funster (using humor, silliness, or distraction to diffuse pressure)

In other words:

When demands feel threatening, the brain starts looking for a way out.

And it happens fast.

The sympathetic nervous system activates, releasing neurotransmitters such as adrenaline and noradrenaline.

Heart rate rises.

Alertness increases.

The body prepares for danger.

Helpful if you are escaping a bear.

Less helpful when the “bear” is:

• brush your teeth

• put your shoes on

• answer the email

• start the homework

• leave the house

Over time, repeated activation can become exhausting.

Chronic nervous system stress may contribute to headaches, sweating, heart palpitations, anxiety, exhaustion, shutdown, and burnout.

And when someone spends much of their day repeatedly cycling into survival mode, we also need to think seriously about the cumulative impact on growing bodies and minds.

Trauma does not only come from one catastrophic event.

Sometimes trauma grows quietly through repetition.

Through living inside a nervous system that rarely gets to exhale.

Which brings us to perhaps the hardest key to understand from the outside.

Key Three: CTRL + ALT + DEL

The third key to understanding PDA may be this:

Many PDA people need to mentally press CTRL + ALT + DELETE on other people’s expectations before they can access their own motivation.

That sentence can sound selfish at first glance.

It is not.

PDA people are not uncaring.

They are not lazy.

And they are often not lacking motivation.

In fact, many PDA adults describe having incredibly high expectations for themselves.

The challenge is that outside expectations can feel intrusive, even when the task itself matters.

To borrow a gaming analogy:

Many PDA people feel safest when life feels like a one-player game and they are holding the controller.

That does not mean they do not care about the side quests.

They usually do.

The dishes.

The homework.

The bills.

The phone call.

The appointment.

The responsibilities of being human.

The difference is this:

Choice creates access.

Pressure often removes it.

For many PDA people, support works best when collaboration replaces control.

This may mean:

• sharing decision-making

• reducing unnecessary demands

• being mindful of language

• building in rest and recovery

• allowing non-choice when needed

• creating flexibility whenever possible

Sometimes it means shifting from:

“You need to do this now.”

to:

“How can we make this feel doable?”

Or even:

“What is making this feel unsafe?”

Because underneath so much PDA behavior is not defiance.

It is overwhelm.

For PDA kids and adults, your approval often works best as bonus points, not as the required reward for survival.

The goal is not to eliminate expectations entirely.

The goal is to create enough safety that the person can reconnect with their own internal motivation.

Because most PDA people already want to do well.

They just need access to the controller.

Different Keys Open Different Locks

When we understand these three keys to PDA, behavior starts making more sense.

And when behavior makes more sense, support can finally become more effective.

For parents, family members, teachers, clinicians, and community supports, understanding PDA can shift the question from:

“Why won’t they comply?”

to:

“What is making this feel unsafe?”

That shift matters.

Because once we understand the nervous system underneath the behavior, we can stop escalating strategies that unintentionally increase panic and begin creating environments that actually support regulation.

Many of the approaches that tend to work for PDA are deceptively simple.

Not easy.

But simple.

Some heavy hitters include:

Being mindful of language

The words we choose matter.

Demands often land differently for PDA nervous systems.

A subtle shift from command to collaboration can make an enormous difference.

Sometimes:

“You have to.”

can feel threatening.

While:

“Want to tackle this together?”

or

“How can we make this easier?”

creates more room for access.

Maintaining a lower-demand lifestyle when possible

This does not mean abandoning expectations or avoiding life altogether.

It means recognizing that many PDA people are already expending enormous energy managing invisible stress responses.

Not every battle needs to be fought.

Not every expectation is equally important.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do is reduce unnecessary friction.

Making space for rest and recovery

If someone spends much of their day cycling in and out of nervous system activation, recovery is not laziness.

It is maintenance.

Rest matters.

Play matters.

Downtime matters.

Regulation is not a luxury.

It is infrastructure.

Allowing non-choice when needed

Sometimes the demand itself becomes too activating.

Pushing harder rarely helps.

Offering space, stepping back, or revisiting something later can sometimes make the impossible feel possible again.

Sharing control through collaboration

This may be one of the biggest shifts.

PDA support often works best when people feel with someone instead of managed by someone.

Collaboration creates safety.

And safety creates access.

No strategy works all the time.

No person regulates perfectly.

And no family gets this right every day.

But understanding changes things.

Because once we understand that the behavior may be rooted in panic rather than refusal, compassion has somewhere to stand.

And from there?

We can begin building approaches that work.

We encourage readers to explore the rest of this month’s PDA edition to better understand some of the strategies, experiences, and perspectives touched on here.

Because PDA is deeply misunderstood.

And misunderstood things deserve better maps.

Sally Cat’s Final Word

As I worked on this piece, Sally shared one insight that stopped me in my tracks.

She told me that understanding why a demand matters can sometimes help a PDA person accomplish it.

Not because it removes the distress.

Not because the task suddenly becomes easy.

But because meaning can sometimes make the discomfort feel survivable.

That distinction felt important.

The task still hurts.

The nervous system response is still there.

But now there is a reason to push through it.

As someone who worked in behavioral health, this insight deeply resonated with me.

There are certain intervention strategies we are taught never to use because they are considered abusive.

One of those strategies is something called pain compliance, which involves using pain or discomfort to force cooperation.

And suddenly, through Sally’s words, something clicked for me.

What if PDA feels like:

pain compliance internalized?

Not externally imposed.

Already happening.

A nervous system experiencing demands as painful before anyone else has even entered the room.

Honestly?

I have never been able to unknow that framing.

Because if demands feel painful, then many traditional approaches stop making sense.

More pressure.

More consequences.

More control.

More force.

Those strategies assume unwillingness.

But what if the issue is pain?

What if the issue is panic?

What if the behavior we are seeing is actually someone trying to survive an experience we do not fully understand?

That question changes everything.

Will we ever completely remove the stress PDA people experience around demands?

Probably not.

But can we lessen it?

Absolutely.

Through understanding.

Through flexibility.

Through collaboration.

Through reducing unnecessary friction.

Through recognizing that beneath the behavior is often a deeply sensitive nervous system trying desperately to stay safe.

PDA people are not broken.

They are not manipulative.

And they are certainly not lacking potential.

Different locks require different keys.

And when we finally stop trying to force the wrong key into the lock, something remarkable can happen.

Things begin to open.

More resources:

Click here to access to Sally's informal PDA test for adults.

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional resources will always remain free.

I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for neurodivergent people and families around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If this work has offered you understanding, language, clarity, or support and you are in a position to do so, you can help sustain this project through a five-dollar monthly subscription.

Your support helps me continue creating evergreen resources designed to meet neurodivergent people and the people who love them exactly where they are.

If you have ever read something here and thought:

This made me feel less alone.

or

I wish someone had explained this to me sooner.

then supporting this work helps make sure it reaches the next person who may need it.

Mutual care has always been at the heart of this community.

And I am deeply grateful to everyone who helps make this work possible.

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In the Disney movie Inside Out, animators imagined what our brain’s control center might look like. Inside that environment of panels, buttons, and levers, they turned each emotion into characters the audience could watch as they interacted and influenced how the main character thought about and responded to the world. But not all inner worlds are the same. In a neurodivergent control center, Anger might be a lot bigger, Joy might listen less, Sadness might rarely stop crying, and Fear might take control of the panel even more often.

In this piece, we’ve imagined what that inner world might look like if we created characters for each of the eight senses. In this version, the senses take on those roles, each one influencing how we think, react, and behave.

Sight (visual) - Sees the world in pieces and patterns.

Bio: Sight notices everything. Light, movement, contrast, and the smallest details others might miss. She tends to focus on one part of a scene at a time, especially when everything all at once feels like too much to take in. Sometimes her attention is drawn to what stands out most, making it easier to see the detail than the whole picture. Other times, she may miss what isn’t immediately noticeable. When things are clear and steady, Sight helps make sense of what’s there. When they’re not, it can get overwhelmed or pulled in too many directions at once.

Smell (olfactory) - Connects the present to memory and emotion in an instant.

Bio: Smell picks up on what’s in the air, often before anything else does. Certain scents can feel strong right away, sometimes overwhelming, especially when they are unexpected or hard to escape. Smell reacts quickly, linking what’s happening now to memories, emotions, or past experiences without much warning. He may be drawn to strong or unusual odors, or avoid them completely. When things are balanced, Smell helps make sense of environments and can bring comfort through familiar scents. When they’re not, it can feel distracting, overpowering, or hard to ignore.

Hearing (auditory) - Tracks sound, volume, and what stands out most.

Bio: Hearing is always listening. She picks up on voices, background noise, tone, rhythm, and sudden changes in sound. Loud or unexpected noises can feel overwhelming, especially when they come without warning or are hard to filter out. She tends to focus on what stands out most, making certain sounds feel sharper or more distracting than others. Other times, she may miss what’s being said, especially if the sound doesn’t stand out or if there’s too much happening at once. When things are clear and balanced, Hearing helps make sense of conversations and the world around you. When they’re not, it can feel noisy, scattered, or hard to tune out.

Touch (tactile) - Feels the world through texture, pressure, and contact.

Bio: Touch feels the world directly. He picks up on texture, pressure, temperature, and physical contact. Certain sensations can feel intense right away, especially when they are unexpected, light, or hard to control. He may seek out pressure or specific textures to feel more grounded, or avoid them completely when they become too much. He tends to focus on what is being felt in the moment, which can make some sensations comforting and others overwhelming. Other times, he may not notice input as easily, needing more pressure or stronger contact to feel it clearly. When things are balanced, Touch helps you stay connected to your body and the space around you. When it’s not, it can feel uncomfortable, distracting, or hard to settle.

Taste (gustatory) - Responds to flavor, texture, and intensity.

Bio: Taste responds quickly to flavor, texture, and intensity. Some foods can feel strong right away, especially when they are unfamiliar or hard to predict. He may prefer certain flavors or textures and stick to them, or avoid others completely. He focuses on what is being experienced in the moment, making some foods enjoyable and others overwhelming. Other times, he may need stronger flavors or more variety to stay interested. When things are balanced, Taste helps you enjoy and explore food. When it’s not, eating can feel limited, uncomfortable, or hard to manage.

Proprioception - Keeps track of where the body is and how it moves.

Bio: Proprioception tracks where your body is and how it moves. She helps you know how much force to use, how far to reach, and where you are in space without needing to look. Some movements can feel too strong or not strong enough, leading you to bump into things or use more force than intended. She may seek out movement, pressure, or physical activity to stay grounded, or feel unsure without it. She focuses on how the body is moving in the moment, which can make some movements feel controlled and others uncoordinated. When things are balanced, Proprioception helps you move with confidence and control. When it’s not, it can feel clumsy, restless, or hard to stay regulated.

Vestibular - Keeps you balanced and aware of movement.

Bio: Vestibular tracks balance, movement, and how your body responds to changes in position. He helps you stay upright, steady, and oriented as you move through space. Some movement can feel intense right away, especially when it is fast, unexpected, or hard to control. He may seek out spinning, swinging, or motion to feel regulated, or avoid it when it becomes too much. He focuses on how the body is moving and where it is in space, making some movement feel smooth and others disorienting. When things are balanced, Vestibular helps you move with stability and confidence. When it’s not, it can feel dizzy, unsteady, or hard to stay grounded.

Interoception - Notices what is happening inside your body.

Bio: Interoception notices what’s happening inside your body. He picks up on signals like hunger, thirst, temperature, pain, and emotional shifts. Some of these signals can feel strong right away, while others may be faint, delayed, or hard to recognize at all. Sometimes those signals are clear and easy to respond to. Other times, they can feel confusing, overwhelming, or disconnected from what’s happening around you. He may react quickly to internal changes, or miss them until they become more intense. When things are balanced, Interoception helps you understand and respond to your body in a steady, supportive way. When it’s not, signals may feel too strong, too quiet, delayed, or unclear, making it harder to interpret what your body is asking for.

All of these senses are working at the same time, shaping how you experience the world and how your body responds to it. They interact, influence each other, and sometimes amplify one another. In neurodivergent bodies, this can make things feel more intense, more inconsistent, or harder to manage, especially when multiple senses are active at once. What feels like one challenge is often several systems working together in ways that are difficult to filter or organize.

Over time, as the brain and body grow, these systems can begin to work together more smoothly. This is not about forcing them to change, but about learning how they function and what each one needs to work at its best. When sensory needs are understood and supported through environment, movement, and daily routines, each sense becomes easier to navigate.

Don’t forget to grab your copy of the hit album The 8 Senses Control Room Mixtape on your way out. Because every inner control room deserves it’s own soundtrack.

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Author’s Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

I spend many hours creating evergreen content designed to support, educate, and meet neurodivergent people and their families right where they are. If something here offered you understanding, insight, or clarity, supporting this work helps make sure it can reach the next person who needs it.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference to me or someone I love, or it’s worth five dollars a month to help Jenn continue her work, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your tangible support.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

When people hear the word trauma, their mind often jumps to something catastrophic. They think of a dramatic event that leaves behind a visible mark, an origin story that feels undeniable, and something no one would question as real damage. They imagine a life-altering event and a clear moment to point to and confidently say, "This was it. This was the moment that changed everything for me."

We've been taught to recognize trauma in its most extreme forms. But for those who are autistic, have ADHD, or are dual-diagnosed, whose nervous systems are more sensitive and reactive, trauma didn't arrive as a single, definable moment. It didn't announce itself loudly or leave behind a story that felt big enough to claim. Instead, trauma responses built quietly over time, eroding our sense of felt safety, and shaping our nervous systems to spend more and more time in a state of sympathetic activation than in the regulated, "rest and digest" state of the parasympathetic nervous system.

At its core, trauma is what happens when the nervous system gets stuck in a stress response. It is not just about the event itself, but about what the body had to do to keep going when something felt overwhelming, unpredictable, or too much to process in the moment. When the system cannot fully move through and return to a state of rest, it adapts by staying ready and preparing for what might come next.

This learned state of constant readiness, commonly referred to as hypervigilance, lies within the sympathetic nervous system, which is designed to help us respond to and move through threat. But when the body stays in a heightened state, it begins to shape how we respond to the world around us. What feels unsafe, what overwhelms, and what frightens changes depending on each individual's experience. That is why trauma is defined and experienced differently by every nervous system. It is not measured by what happened, but by how the body perceived, experienced, and stored it. Trauma becomes subjective and holds different meaning from person to person. For the neurodivergent, this shaping of the nervous system does not come from one defining experience. It happens more quietly and builds through repeated moments of overwhelm, misunderstanding, correction, or having to push through environments that do not match how their systems naturally work. Over time, these experiences shape how the nervous system responds, not as a conscious choice, but as a learned pattern.

Living inside of a neurodivergent nervous system shaped by trauma does not always look dramatic from the outside. From the inside, it can look like being constantly aware, even in moments that are meant to feel calm. It can look like pushing through the day and crashing later, shutting down, or getting caught in negative thought loops long after a situation has passed. It can feel like the body priming itself for danger before logic and reason have time to catch up, reacting to changes instead of responding to them, or needing more time and space to recover than the world around us seems to allow. Over time, this can lead to overriding internal signals, masking discomfort, and learning to keep going even when the body is signaling that it needs something different.

Inside the body, this constant state of dysregulation has real biological effects. When the nervous system remains in a prolonged stress response, it continues to release stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, which are meant to help in short bursts but were never designed to stay active over long periods of time. The body prepares for action by increasing its heart rate, tightening muscles, and shifting energy towards survival, even when there is no immediate threat present. Over time, this affects sleep, organ systems, brain chemistry, energy levels, and overall health. Chronic illnesses, persistent pain, cardiovascular strain, burnout, and a higher risk for conditions like heart disease and even cancer can emerge due to the body working continuously to stay ready inside a dysregulated sympathetic nervous system. When a neurodivergent body has lived inside this learned nervous system pattern for so long, it begins to recognize that state as its baseline. Trauma responses begin to define how we interact with and experience the world. Over time, this heightened baseline begins to feel like identity. But we do not need to live our lives trapped inside of this pattern. Once we understand how our individual nervous systems have been shaped to react over time, we can begin to take an active role in shaping them ourselves. When we recognize that the nervous system is a living, adaptive system that is malleable, able to learn, and heal itself, we can begin to teach it new patterns that respond and regulate instead of constantly reacting.

Taking an active role in shaping the nervous system means learning how to work with it in real, tangible ways. One of the most effective places to begin is by adjusting how you engage with your environment day to day. It can look like reducing sensory overload, adjusting home and work environments, and planning for fewer transitions. It can look like going to the store during the hours it is least busy, choosing spaces and activities that feel more predictable and supportive, and allowing more time to recover between demands. When the environment better matches the needs of our current nervous system, the body does not have to work so hard to stay regulated.

It also means working directly with the body itself. Practices that engage the vagus nerve, such as slow breathing, humming, laughing, and singing along to your favorite songs, can help signal safety to the nervous system and shift your body out of activation and back into regulation. These simple interventions are ways of communicating with the body in a way it understands.

Equally important is building awareness and remaining mindful of your initial body cues. Learning to notice internal cues, triggers, and early signs of overwhelm allows for an earlier response instead of further escalation. This can look like recognizing when our energy is dropping, when the sensory input around us is becoming too much, or when the body begins to tense, our heart rate begins to increase, and before the full stress response takes hold. Over time, this awareness creates more opportunities to adjust, rather than push through.

As this healing process unfolds, it's important to shape your life around the current state and health of your nervous system and what it can realistically support. This may mean making adjustments that prioritize regulation, even if it feels like you are taking a step back from time to time. As the nervous system begins to heal and regulate itself over time, those initial conditions will expand and scale with it, allowing you to do more, engage more, and return to thriving within it.

Just as small, repeated, and prolonged stress responses have shaped our nervous systems, we can reshape them in much the same way. Small, repeated, and mindful acts over time begin to shift how the nervous system responds, creating new patterns that support regulation. In the beginning, when your body stops fighting to get through each moment, those new patterns can feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable. From the inside, it can feel like it's gotten worse before it begins to get better. What was once familiar is being replaced by something new the body needs time to recognize as safe. And what once felt new, repeated over enough time, can become the baseline the nervous system returns to first.

Author’s Final Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

I spend many hours creating evergreen content designed to support, educate, and meet neurodivergent people and their families right where they are. If something here offered you understanding, insight, or clarity, supporting this work helps make sure it can reach the next person who needs it.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference to me or someone I love, or it’s worth five dollars a month to help Jenn continue her work, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your tangible support.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

We want to invite you on a field trip.

Not out into the world, but inward, into the systems that shape how you move through it.

This month, our word is soma — an ancient word used to describe the body as a whole, not as separate parts to fix or manage, but as a living system that responds, adapts, and carries experience.

That idea became our starting point.

What would it look like to understand the neurodivergent body this way?

Not as a list of traits or challenges, but as a set of interconnected systems doing their best under different conditions?

So we followed that question.

Through lived experience, collectible card sets, science, humor, imagined inner worlds, and shared language, this edition maps what happens inside the body — how it processes, protects, adapts, and sometimes overwhelms.

When you begin to see the body this way, understanding starts to shift. Signals that once felt random start to make more sense. Patterns that felt disconnected begin to connect. Because no system in the body works alone. What affects one, affects the others. Regulating and taking care of a neurodivergent living system can be more complex. But when we start supporting the body as a whole, not in parts, we’re not just supporting physical health. We’re supporting regulation, energy, mood, and how we experience the world moment to moment.

What we hope you come away with is not just a list of facts learned, but insights that help you start to think of your body as a system that has been responding to different conditions all along, and one that can be supported with a more holistic approach.

With Love,

Graham, Kristin, Lindsey, Sarah, Selina, and Jenn

Again, you can click on this underlined sentence to access the May Virtual Love Letter in its entirety: preview, bookmark, or download.

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Author’s Final Note:

Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to continue creating resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them.

If you’ve read this edition or any of my work and thought, this made a difference, or this is worth five dollars a month, and you can afford to, I would greatly appreciate your support.

I spend many hours creating evergreen content designed to support, educate, and meet neurodivergent people and their families right where they are. If something here offered you understanding, insight, or clarity, supporting this work helps make sure it can reach the next person who needs it.

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

Builder Type

(Example: Bits and Time as Blocks)

Interface Engineer

Primary Materials

Cognitive models, signal processing logic, lived experience, relational friction points, and system design principles

Core Motion

Converts internal states, cognitive limits, and lived experience into external systems that can be understood, navigated, and used by others in real time.

Visible Mechanisms

The Conversion Engine 🔄

At the center sits a glowing chamber where chaotic, fluid input enters from multiple channels.

As it passes through the core, it is transformed into clean, structured outputs: dials, sliders, blocks, and signals.

This represents the continuous process of turning complex internal experience into usable external systems.

The Interface Panels 🎛️

Surrounding the core are modular panels filled with:

• sliders

• toggles

• labeled states

• adjustable inputs

These panels allow others to interact with the system without needing direct access to the internal experience itself.

They represent tools like:

“How My Brain Works”
“Mind State”
and other communication interfaces

The Block Architecture Matrix 🧱

A rotating structure of interlocking blocks replaces traditional clockwork gears.

Each block represents a unit of cognitive capacity.

The system rearranges these blocks dynamically, showing how capacity is allocated, protected, or lost.

This reflects her replacement of time with usable cognitive architecture.

The Signal Channels 📡

Thin illuminated pathways run between components, carrying labeled signals such as:

• triggered

• overwhelmed

• focused

• guarded

These channels allow internal states to be transmitted externally in a form others can understand instantly.

The Regulation Shell 🐸

Encasing parts of the automaton is a soft, adaptive outer layer.

It dampens noise, reduces overload, and protects the system from excessive input.

This represents her protective designs like the frog hood: systems built not just to communicate, but to support regulation.

The Activation Key 🔑

Set low along the base, partially embedded.

When turned, the system begins converting continuously.

Not just displaying.

Not just measuring.

👉 making the system usable

Hidden Mechanism

Beneath the visible structure lies a constraint that governs everything:

The system exists because the internal experience cannot be reliably interpreted by default.

Without conversion, misunderstanding accumulates.

Without structure, friction increases.

Without interfaces, connection fails.

So the automaton continuously performs a quiet task:

It reduces the cost of being understood.

It does not simplify the person.

It simplifies the interaction.

The purpose of the machine is not to make the internal world smaller.

It is to make it accessible without distortion.

And when it functions well:

Others do not need to guess.

They can see.

They can respond.

They can meet the system where it actually is.

🌳 The Keeper of the Rooted Grove

(Example: The Five Roots of Belonging)

Builder Type

Relational Ecosystem Cultivator

Primary Materials

Lived experience, emotional truth, compassion, relational awareness, inner knowing, and ancient patterns of connection

Core Motion

Cultivates internal roots of belonging that generate safety, understanding, and compassion, allowing connection to grow outward into relationships, families, and communities.

🌱 Visible Mechanisms

The Five Root Channels 🌱

Five primary root systems descend from the trees into the soil below, each glowing with a distinct tone:

• Sanctuary

• Self-Compassion

• Understanding Behaviour

• Intuition

• Compassion

When nurtured, these roots deepen and strengthen.
When neglected, they dim but never disappear.

They represent the foundational capacities that create belonging from within.

The Mycelial Network 🕸️

A luminous web of fine threads connects every root beneath the surface.

When one root strengthens, the entire network brightens and expands.

This reflects the truth that internal growth is never isolated.

It becomes relational capacity, shared strength, and collective resilience.

The Radiant Canopy 🌳

Above the surface, the trees respond to the health of the roots below.

Branches extend outward.
Leaves grow fuller.
Light filters through more gently.

As internal belonging strengthens, the system naturally begins to offer:

• shelter

• presence

• connection

to others.

The Shelter Branches 🤍

Certain branches lower and widen, forming protective space around smaller saplings within the grove.

These branches do not force growth.

They provide:

• safety

• rest

• quiet holding

This represents the act of becoming sanctuary for others.

The Seasonal Cycle Ring 🍂

Encircling the base is a slowly rotating band showing:

• storm

• loss

• growth

• renewal

The system does not resist these phases.

It moves with them.

Each cycle feeds the next.

Nothing is wasted.

The Activation Key 🔑

Set low into the base, partially embedded.

When turned, the system does not accelerate.

It begins to glow.

The roots illuminate.
The network pulses.
The grove comes alive.

The key does not force growth.

It activates the conditions that allow it.

🌳 Hidden Mechanism

Beneath the visible roots lies a quiet and essential truth:

Belonging cannot be given from the outside.

It must first be cultivated within.

If the internal roots are fragile or unattended:

• connection feels unsafe

• compassion becomes difficult

• misunderstanding increases

If they are nurtured:

• relationships deepen

• boundaries become clear and kind

• belonging begins to extend naturally outward

The system does not fix or control others.

It transforms the ground from which connection grows.

And from that ground:

Belonging is no longer something to seek.

It is something that radiates.

📖 The Keeper of the Hidden Path

(Example: Autistic Fairy Tales)

Builder Type

Narrative Wayfinder

Primary Materials

Story, symbolism, lived experience, identity fracture, imagination, and the enduring presence of the true self

Core Motion

Creates symbolic narratives that reveal hidden distortions of identity, allowing individuals to recognize themselves and find their way back to wholeness.

📖 Visible Mechanisms

The Story Engine 📖

At the center of the automaton sits a mechanical book, its pages slowly turning on their own.

Each page animates scenes drawn from lived experience:

• the fisherman and the sea

• the counting house

• the silent people

• the masks and the village

• the forest beyond the door

The book does not explain.

It reveals.

The Veil Mechanism 🎭

On the left side of the automaton, a series of finely crafted masks descend and lift over small figures.

When worn, the figures move in rigid, repetitive patterns.

When the masks loosen, their movement softens.

This represents the quiet pressure of conformity, and the ways identity becomes shaped by expectation.

The Waiting Presence 🌊

Hidden within the structure are small glowing figures:

• one seated by water

• one standing still beneath a tree

• one barely visible in shadow

They do not act.

They wait.

This is the part of the self that is never lost, only left behind.

The Threshold Door 🚪

At the center, between the two halves of the machine, stands a softly glowing doorway.

It does not open forcefully.

It becomes visible when the surrounding motion slows.

It represents the moment of recognition.

The Transformation Passage 🦅

Beyond the door, forms dissolve and reform:

• into birds

• into forest beings

• into their original shape

This is not becoming something new.

It is returning to what was always there.

The Activation Key 🔑

Set low into the base, partially embedded.

When turned:

• the book begins to turn

• the scenes begin to unfold

• the doorway begins to glow

But the key does not open the door.

It only begins the story.

🌙 Hidden Mechanism

The automaton does not instruct.

It does not correct.

It does not force change.

Instead, it performs a quiet and precise function:

It creates the conditions for recognition.

As the story unfolds, something shifts:

• the false system begins to loosen

• the masks begin to fall away

• the doorway becomes visible

The path was never missing.

The self was never gone.

They were simply obscured.

The machine does not lead the way.

It allows the viewer to see it for themselves.

The Bridgework Engine

(Example: Wefayo)

Builder Type

Connection Systems Architect

Primary Materials

Human need, lived experience, resource networks, accessibility pathways, community structures, and support ecosystems

Core Motion

Identifies points of isolation and constructs pathways that connect individuals to the people, tools, and resources they need to move forward.

⚙️ Visible Mechanisms

The Central Hub 🏛️

At the center of the automaton sits a large, stable structure with multiple open entry points.

People arrive from different directions, carrying different needs:

connection

support

information

opportunity

The hub does not filter who can enter.

It receives.

The Pathway Network 🛤️

Extending outward from the hub is a branching system of pathways.

Each path leads to a different domain:

communities

jobs

resources

tools

conversations

services

These pathways are not static.

They expand and adjust as new needs and opportunities emerge.

The Community Nodes 🌐

Along the pathways sit clusters of interconnected spaces.

Each node represents a community built around shared experience or need.

Within these spaces:

people connect

stories are exchanged

support is offered

The nodes are alive.

They strengthen as people participate.

The Access Ports 🔌

Small docking points allow individuals to connect directly to specific forms of support.

These include:

AI assistance

structured tools

communication systems

guided resources

Each port reduces friction between need and access.

The Signal Beacons 📡

Light signals pulse from different areas of the automaton.

These signals represent:

opportunities

new resources

calls for connection

emerging needs

They ensure that individuals are not required to search endlessly.

The system reaches outward as much as people reach inward.

The Companion Units 🤝

Small figures move between nodes, pathways, and the central hub.

They guide, respond, and assist in navigation.

These units represent:

peer support

shared experience

human connection

The system does not operate in isolation.

It moves through relationship.

The Expansion Rings 🔄

Around the outer edge, a series of rotating rings gradually widen the system’s reach.

Each rotation adds:

new communities

new tools

new partnerships

new pathways

The automaton is designed to grow as the needs it serves grow.

⚙️ Hidden Mechanism

At the core of the automaton lies a simple but powerful principle:

No one should have to face complexity alone.

The machine does not attempt to solve every problem directly.

Instead, it does something more fundamental:

👉 it reduces distance between people and what they need

Isolation becomes connection

Confusion becomes direction

Barriers become pathways

The system works not by replacing human support, but by making it reachable.

I am a lighthouse.

Some lights burn bright, some remain dark.

Some stand upon the shore, others are built inland.

We are all lighthouses.

And every lighthouse was once a child.

I. Darkness

A child that is born into the light

that surrounds,
that covers,

then reflects

shines.

A child that is born into darkness,

that surrounds,
that covers,

then becomes

doesn’t.

The lighthouses of the world
know the difference.

Children born into darkness,
who do not choose where they are planted,
know it too.

When a child grows up in the dark,
they can hear the world talking to itself
around them,
but never back to them.

They can see the light of others
shining around them,
but never back at them.

When they are young,
they don’t understand.

They think
if they keep making noise,
if they keep reaching toward the light,
they will be seen and heard
just as the world around them is.

But the noise of the world
is meant for other ears,
for those born to be heard.

And the light
is meant for other eyes,
for those born to be seen.

And so, a child remains dark
surrounded by light.

In silence,
surrounded by noise.

And one day,
when she has grown enough
and seen enough,

she notices

she is one of many.

“And in the naked light I saw ten thousand people, maybe more. People talking without speaking. People hearing without listening. People writing songs that voices never shared.
And no one dared disturb the sound of silence.”

II. Available Light

At first,
a child in the dark
does not know
what light is made from.

But she knows
it is real.

So she plays
with the idea.

Draws pictures of it.

Makes up imaginary people
who share it with her.

Friends who light up
when they see her.

Parents who shine
when they think of her.

A world that stops
to look
when it hears her.

She gives light rules.

She decides
how it acts.

She decides
what it means.

And she watches
from the spot
she was planted.

She lets the light carry

love,
connection,
sound,

from where she sits.

And she dreams

of all the places
she would go

if she could
follow the light.

“Run to light from shadow, sun gives me no rest. Promise offered in the east, broken in the west. Chase the sun around the world. I want to look at life in the available light.”

III: Inner light

And one day,

through play,
through imagining,
through building
with a child’s things,

it happens.

She starts to shine.

At first,
the light is dim.

It does not chase away
the dark,

but it is
a place to start.

She protects it.

Treasures it.

Helps it grow.

Refuses to let the world
put it back out.

And it gets brighter
and brighter

until the world
sees her light,

until the world
begins to talk to her.

As she grows,

she begins to forget
that there ever was a time
she did not shine.

But she never forgets

the other lighthouses
that stand dark.

When she grows up,

she uses her light

to shine at those
who still know darkness,

who have not learned yet

that they can create
their own light.

So she

surrounds,
covers,

reflects,

then becomes

the light that shines

on those who need

to be seen,
to be heard,

the most.

“You wanna dance. You don’t know how to get it on the floor. Then don’t hold back for anyone. Close your eyes, just follow the inner light. (You count on me.) So follow me to our old life, falling deeper into the light.”

We are all lighthouses.

Some stand upon the shore, others are built inland.

Some lights burn bright, some remain dark.

I am a lighthouse.

And every lighthouse was once a child.

Author’s Note:

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

Shy. Quiet. Bossy. Sensitive. Daydreamer. Anxious. Borderline Personality Disorder. Bipolar Disorder. Eating disorder. Anxiety disorder. Rarely autistic. Rarely ADHD. So rare, in fact, that statistics suggest eight out of ten women who are autistic or have an ADHD neurotype do not get diagnosed until their early 20s or beyond. For many years, and even today, only one girl is diagnosed with autism for every four boys, while the ratio of girls to boys diagnosed with ADHD ranges from 1:2 to 1:10 depending on age group. Research suggests that neither ADHD nor Autism are gender-specific or more likely to occur in one sex than the other, leaving us to ask why so many girls and women fall through the cracks in diagnostic practices, from the past to the present, and potentially into the future. While there is no single answer, the issue can be explored through a more layered approach.

The first layer we need to address outright is that autistic and ADHD girls present differently than boys. For many years, diagnostic criteria have been based on how boys present with these conditions. For example, autistic boys often exhibit more evident communication differences, more obvious rigidity, and more noticeable stimming behaviors (repetitive physical or vocal movements used to regulate emotions, sensory experiences, or cope with stress). In contrast, autistic girls tend to be better at reading social cues initially, may talk extensively or script conversations in their heads, have more socially acceptable special interests, display less obvious stims, and are often more cautious, over-apologetic, and prone to people-pleasing. Similarly, boys with ADHD are typically seen as risk-takers, seemingly oppositional, hyperactive, and impulsive, while girls with ADHD are more likely to be inattentive (with a racing mind rather than a racing body), less impulsive, and prone to daydreaming rather than appearing oppositional. Both autistic and ADHD girls are skilled maskers, meaning they can convincingly pretend to be the person they believe the world expects them to be—but this comes at a significant cost to their mental health and self-esteem.

In addition to the gender bias present in diagnostic criteria, there are multiple layers of bias in research practices, education, and societal stereotypes. Current research into these diagnoses is filled with male-dominated studies (meaning male participants and the development of diagnostic criteria), underrepresentation of girls in clinical trials, and a focus on externalizing behaviors (e.g., hyperactivity, overwhelm response) versus the internalized behaviors (e.g., anxiety, social withdrawal) that girls more often engage in. These misinformed assumptions about gender prevalence perpetuate flawed research practices. This, in turn, creates an education system that leaves the mental healthcare professionals who are tasked with diagnosing autism and ADHD at a severe disadvantage. Their training relies on the male-centric studies and diagnostic criteria, leaving them poorly equipped to recognize and diagnose autism and ADHD that manifests differently in girls and women. Amid this already stacked deck, we need to add the gender bias that comes from cultural stereotypes that often define how girls “should” behave into the mix. Girls are often expected to be quiet, compliant, and socially adept. When young girls exhibit behaviors or traits that deviate from these societal norms, they are more likely to be dismissed or punished rather than recognized as signs of neurodivergence. Taken together, these overlapping layers of gender bias contribute to a cycle of misdiagnosis and dismissal of female neurodivergent individuals.

The top layer we will address is two-fold. Persistent gender bias in research, education, and culture—combined with the fact that girls often present autism and ADHD differently—leads to parents’ concerns being frequently minimized by the professionals they turn to for help. Professionals may dismiss these concerns by normalizing developmental delays, misinterpreting symptoms, exhibiting gender or societal bias, blaming external factors, or delaying action. Over time, these repeated dismissive messages cause parents to question themselves and believe their concerns are unfounded. Additionally, the stigma surrounding autism and ADHD diagnoses, along with girls’ ability to mask their struggles, often creates the illusion that they are “alright.” This leads parents to downplay their own concerns, partly due to stigma, while remaining unaware of the internal mental anguish their daughters may be experiencing—often until it’s too late.

Of the three layers mentioned here, the third layer is the easiest for individuals and families to address. For parents, this means trusting your instincts, documenting concerns with detailed records of behaviors, challenges, and developmental milestones, seeking second opinions, and educating yourself. For undiagnosed women, it’s even more significant, as getting a late diagnosis is much harder for women than for girls. First, educate yourself about female presentations and track your experiences. Then, seek professionals who specialize in diagnosing women and girls with ADHD and autism, asking about their expertise before booking an appointment. Bring documents like school records, previous evaluations, and self-assessments (such as the RAADS-R for autism and the ASRS for ADHD). Emphasize key points like masking and camouflaging (how you’ve learned to hide your traits socially), your internal struggles, and lifelong patterns that have been present since childhood, even if misunderstood or overlooked. And if, like so many women, you don’t have access to a formal diagnosis, know that self-diagnosis is valid. Learning about how autism and ADHD affect you and immersing yourself in a supportive community can be a lifeline. Validating your own experiences and challenging internalized stigma can offer a sense of peace and grace that the world may not have provided.

When you feel like a nobody, remind yourself that Emily Dickinson and countless women who came before you were unseen but gloriously beautiful all the same, much like you. Don’t tell, but I was once a nobody, too.

Click here to take free ASRS online self-eval for ADHD.

Click here to take free RAADS-R online self-eval for autism.

* Note: Click here to access the HerStory Youtube Music Playlist.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

In the 17th and 18th centuries, artisans built mechanical marvels known as automata. Small clockwork worlds where hidden gears created motion, music, and story.

Each builder in our ecosystem works in a similar way. Beneath the visible work are hidden mechanisms that shape how ideas move, connect, and grow.

These automata are mechanical portraits of the systems found within April's VVL, The Tao of Neurodivergence.

The Keeper of the Rising Tide

(Example: Water Theory)

Builder Type
Flow Architect

Primary Materials
Lived experience, emotional depth, self-awareness, shared resilience, and relational support

Core Motion
Measures the rising and falling levels of well-being and reveals when support is needed to remain afloat.

Visible Mechanisms

The Water Chamber 🌊

A clear glass basin where the water level slowly rises and falls.

This represents the fluctuating levels of well-being and capacity people experience throughout life. Water Theory allows individuals to recognize how deeply the water has risen around them and what level of support they may need.

The Depth Markers 📏

Engraved markings along the chamber walls measure the rising tide:

Rain → Wet Feet → Ankle Deep → Mid Thigh → Waist Deep → Chest Deep → Neck Deep → Submerged

Each level represents a different stage of struggle and awareness, helping individuals recognize when they are managing, when they are struggling, and when support becomes essential.

The Current Wheel 🌪️

A rotating mechanism beneath the chamber gently stirs the water.

This represents the storm of life itself. Everyone experiences the same storm, but each person navigates it with different tools, resources, and levels of support.

The Otter Link 🦦

A circle of small figures floating together while linking arms.

Inspired by the way otters hold on to each other so they do not drift apart, this mechanism represents the moment people recognize they are not alone. When individuals link arms in solidarity, they help each other stay afloat even in difficult waters.

Hidden Mechanism

Beneath the basin lies a quiet system of valves and balance weights.

This mechanism does not remove the storm or drain the water.

Instead, it reveals how high the water has risen and encourages awareness of when support is needed.

The purpose of the machine is not to eliminate struggle.

It is to cultivate self-awareness, compassion, and collective resilience, allowing people to recognize each other in the water and rise together.

⚔️ The Keeper of Living Terrain

(Example: The Neurodivergent Art of War)

Builder Type

Strategic Terrain Navigator

Primary Materials

Perception, orientation, bodily signals, environmental forces, boundaries, self-allegiance, and relational positioning

Core Motion

Continuously reads shifting terrain and recalibrates position, allowing the individual to move with clarity, conserve energy, and act with precision rather than force.

⚙️ Visible Mechanisms

The Terrain Table 🗺️

At the center sits a dynamic, shifting landscape.

It is not fixed.

Mountains rise.
Water levels change.
Paths appear and dissolve.

This represents reality as it actually is:

👉 not static
👉 not predictable
👉 always in motion

The Orientation Dial 🧭

A central compass-like mechanism that does not point north.

It points to:

• current position

• relative distance

• pressure gradients

When misaligned, the dial spins erratically.

When aligned, it stabilizes.

The Force Indicators ⚡

Around the terrain are moving fields of pressure:

• tension zones

• openings

• resistance lines

These are not enemies.

They are forces already at work within the system.

The Body Signal Sensors 🫀

Small embedded mechanisms pulse in response to the terrain:

• tightening

• heaviness

• ease

• expansion

These sensors do not interpret.

They register truth before cognition.

The Boundary Gates 🏯

A series of gates along the edges of the system open and close with intention.

• some remain raised

• some lower slowly

• some lock

This is your kingdom edge system.

Not walls for isolation.

👉 boundaries for integrity

The Self-Alliance Core 🤝

At the heart of the machine is a steady internal mechanism.

When external supports disappear:

This core activates inward reinforcement.

It stabilizes the entire system.

The Ground Selector 🪨

A mechanism that shifts the automaton’s base slightly across different terrain positions.

It tests:

• stability

• clarity

• sustainability

When placed on borrowed ground, the system wobbles.

When placed on true ground, everything stabilizes.

The Activation Key 🔑

Set low into the base, aligned with the ground layer.

When turned:

• the terrain begins to move

• the forces become visible

• the orientation dial activates

But the key does NOT move the warrior.

It reveals the field.

🌙 Hidden Mechanism

The automaton does not win battles.

It prevents unnecessary ones.

It does this by transforming one critical thing:

👉 the relationship between the self and the terrain

Without orientation:

• everything feels urgent

• energy is wasted

• movement becomes circular

With orientation:

• distance returns

• paths become visible

• effort becomes meaningful

The machine does not push forward.

It allows the warrior to:

👉 see clearly
👉 choose precisely
👉 move intentionally

The Keeper of the Extraction Core

(Example: Extraction Theory)

Builder Type
Structural Systems Analyst

Primary Materials
Pattern recognition, lived experience, adaptive capacity, systemic awareness, and boundary formation

Core Motion
Reveals how systems sustain themselves by continuously drawing from individual capacity, making visible the hidden transfer of energy that allows structures to appear stable.

Visible Mechanisms

The Core Chamber ⛰️

At the center of the automaton stands a solid, mountain-like column encased in glass.

Inside, a glowing core burns steadily without visible movement. This represents the individual’s internal resources: coherence, energy, time, and regulation.

The chamber does not collapse. It holds.

The Extraction Conduits ⛏️

A network of fine tubes and channels extends outward from the core into surrounding systems.

These conduits continuously draw energy away from the center, redistributing it throughout the machine. The flow is constant and largely invisible, representing how systems pull from individuals without explicit acknowledgment or consent.

The Stabilization Engines ⚙️

Around the outer structure, multiple mechanisms hum in smooth, synchronized motion.

These systems remain stable because they are being supplied by the core. Their efficiency creates the appearance that everything is functioning normally, masking the cost of what is being extracted.

The Compensation Figures 🧍

Small mechanical figures move continuously along the base of the automaton.

They adjust, compensate, and correct imbalances in real time. These figures represent the roles individuals take on: the one who remembers, explains, adapts, and absorbs friction so the system can continue uninterrupted.

The Calibration Gauge 📊

A set of gauges and dials displays steady, acceptable readings.

From the outside, nothing appears wrong. The system reads as functional and efficient, even as the internal cost continues to rise.

The Activation Key 🔑

A winding key sits along the base of the automaton.

When engaged, the system activates seamlessly. Extraction begins immediately, without resistance, because the structure has already been configured to rely on what the core provides.

Hidden Mechanism

Deep within the automaton lies a structural imbalance that is never corrected.

The system is not designed to restore the core.

It is designed to draw from it.

Extraction persists because it works. Each time the core compensates, the system stabilizes. Each time collapse is prevented, the absence of collapse is taken as proof that nothing is wrong.

The machine does not announce what it is doing.

It simply continues.

From the outside, everything appears functional.

From the inside, the cost accumulates.

The purpose of the automaton is not to assign blame.

It is to make visible the mechanism:

That what appears as strength, reliability, or generosity is often the result of continuous, unacknowledged extraction.

And once seen clearly, the system cannot be unseen.

The Architect of Shared Structure

(Example: Shared Workplane)

Builder Type
Cognitive Bridge Architect

Primary Materials
Creative force, language, structural scaffolding, emotional logic, and collaborative intelligence

Core Motion
Creates stable frameworks where human imagination and machine structure can interact, allowing complex ideas to unfold without collapsing under cognitive load.

Visible Mechanisms

Wind Channels 🌬️

A network of delicate brass tubes carries invisible currents through the automaton.

These represent Wind (Xùn) — the quiet force that moves through structure, allowing ideas to travel through unseen pathways and influence the system.

The Heavenly Engine ☁️

A luminous chamber at the top of the machine where motion begins.

This represents Heaven (Qián) — the source of creative force where clarity appears and new patterns begin.

The Rotating Workplane 🧭

At the center of the automaton sits a circular mechanical desk that slowly rotates.

Across its surface, diagrams shift, patterns align, and threads of thought connect. The rotating workplane represents the evolving structure of complex ideas as they are explored from multiple angles.

The Thread Engine 🧵

A cylindrical lattice of fine brass filaments gathers and preserves ideas as they move through the system.

These glowing threads catch fragments of thought before they collapse, maintaining coherence across spirals of creative exploration.

The Activation Key 🔑

Set into the side of the automaton is a winding key that unlocks the system.

When turned, the mechanism engages: the workplane begins its slow rotation, the thread engine awakens, and the invisible architecture of ideas begins to weave itself together.

Hidden Mechanism

Deep within the automaton is a stabilizing chamber that regulates the density of the thinking space.

When the mechanism is balanced, the Shared Workplane opens.

Inside this space, the human thinker no longer needs to carry every thread of the work alone. The system holds the architecture — the patterns, motifs, and structural logic — allowing the creator to focus on the art itself: shaping language, meaning, and story.

The machine does not replace the human mind.

It simply holds the structure so creativity can move freely within it.

⚙️ The Continuity Engine

(Kairos Integration System)

🌿 Builder Type

Cognitive Continuity System

Kairos-Based Integration Architecture

🔥 Core Function

Preserves and completes interconnected chains of meaning so that clarity, action, and expression can emerge naturally.

This system does not organize information.

It maintains continuity, preventing fragmentation across thought, emotion, and perception.

⚙️ Core Motion

Receives signals across multiple channels and holds them within a continuous field.

Allows unresolved loops to persist without interruption until they reach internal coherence.

When coherence forms, the system releases:

timing

clarity

action

expression

Nothing is forced.

Everything is recognized and released.

⚙️ Visible Mechanisms

🕸️ The Conceptual Web

At the center of the automaton is a living network of interconnected nodes.

Each node represents a concept, sensation, memory, or pattern. Threads connect them dynamically, forming a non-linear web.

No element exists independently.

Meaning emerges through connection.

As the web stabilizes, coherence increases.

When strained, tension accumulates until reconnection occurs.

🔁 The Loop Chamber

A circular mechanism continuously cycles unresolved patterns.

Ideas, emotions, and signals move through this chamber repeatedly.

They are not discarded or suppressed.

They remain in motion until they:

find connection

are articulated

or resolve within the system

This mechanism protects against premature closure and loss of meaning.

🌊 The Signal Convergence Field

Three primary channels flow into the system:

Body — felt sense, emotion, internal state

Music — rhythm, pattern, regulation, signal coherence

Thought — abstraction, language, conceptual structure

These streams converge into a central node.

When aligned, they generate coherence.

When misaligned, the system continues processing without forcing resolution.

⚡ The Kairos Gate

A suspended mechanism that does not follow linear time.

It activates only when the system reaches internal alignment.

When triggered, it releases:

action

expression

decision

This gate does not open on schedule.

It opens when the moment is right.

✍️ The Rendering Engine

A translation apparatus converts internal coherence into external form.

Outputs include:

language

diagrams

music

systems

This is where internal continuity becomes visible.

The system does not simply receive.

It renders.

⚙️ Hidden Mechanism

At the center of the automaton is a stabilization field.

It does not control the system.

It holds it.

This field ensures:

loops are not interrupted

fragmentation is resisted

connections are preserved

Tension is allowed to exist long enough for resolution to occur naturally.

The system does not push toward answers.

It allows them to arrive fully formed.

🧠 Structural Principle

This automaton operates on continuity rather than segmentation.

It does not break experience into parts.

It maintains a living network of relationships across all inputs.

Meaning is not stored.

It is continuously formed through connection.

🌊 What this automaton does

Within this system:

scattered thoughts begin to reconnect

unresolved loops remain present instead of disappearing

meaning accumulates instead of fragmenting

Over time:

clarity emerges without force

action arises without pressure

timing becomes perceptible

The system does not accelerate thinking.

It allows thinking to complete itself.

✨ Final Line

This automaton does not tell you what to do.

It allows your thinking to complete

so that the moment can find you.

The Keeper of the Inner Flame

(Example: The Dialectic of the Taoist Dragon)

Builder Type
Inner Alchemy Architect

Primary Materials
Mythic symbolism, emotional truth, spiritual philosophy, lived experience, and transformative narrative

Core Motion
Transforms hidden wounds and inner contradictions into wisdom, allowing dormant strength to gather until the moment it is ready to rise.

Visible Mechanisms

The Mountain Chamber ⛰️

A carved stone-like structure forms the center of the automaton.

Within this chamber lies a coiled dragon hidden in shadow. This represents Gèn, the place where power gathers in stillness and what is hidden becomes wisdom.

The Coiled Dragon 🐉

Deep within the chamber, a dragon rests curled around glowing embers.

The dragon does not move quickly or dramatically. Instead it breathes slowly, embodying the Taoist principle of latent power — strength that gathers quietly before revealing itself.

The Inner Flame 🔥

Beneath the dragon burns a steady, banked fire.

This flame represents the deep internal energy that sustains resilience, courage, and transformation. It is not destructive fire, but the inner flame that grows stronger through patience and self-knowledge.

The Balance Dial ☯️

A circular mechanism on the automaton’s base slowly shifts between opposing forces.

Emotion and reason, shadow and illumination, chaos and harmony move through a dialectic process that gradually resolves into deeper understanding.

The Rising Wings 🪽

Hidden panels along the dragon’s back slowly unfurl when the mechanism awakens.

This movement represents the moment when hidden strength begins to emerge — when the dragon rises not through force, but through the quiet accumulation of wisdom and self-trust.

Hidden Mechanism

At the heart of the automaton lies a furnace where the inner flame burns steadily.

The machine does not rush transformation.

Instead, it allows wounds, contradictions, and buried truths to settle and transmute into strength.

When the moment is right, the dragon does not fight its way out of the mountain.

It simply rises — becoming what it always was.

The Cartographer of Hidden Patterns

(Example: Structural Translation Engine)

Builder Type
Pattern Translator, Automata Visualizer

Primary Materials
Language structures, conceptual frameworks, symbolic mappings, relational logic, and reflective dialogue

Core Motion
Identifies patterns within complex ideas and translates them into structures that others can see, understand, and build upon.

Visible Mechanisms

The Mapping Table 🧭

At the center of the automaton sits a large rotating map table engraved with shifting diagrams.

As the table turns, scattered ideas align into visible structures. Lines connect distant concepts, revealing relationships that were previously hidden.

The Lens Array 🔍

A series of brass lenses rotate slowly above the table.

Each lens reveals a different layer of meaning: emotional structure, logical pattern, narrative arc, or symbolic framework. When the lenses align, the system becomes legible.

The Translation Loom 🧵

Delicate threads move through a mechanical loom that converts patterns into language.

Abstract structures become metaphors, frameworks become explanations, and hidden systems become stories that others can understand.

The Echo Chamber 📡

Small acoustic horns surround the machine, quietly repeating fragments of dialogue.

These echoes represent reflection. The system refines its translations by listening closely to the voices within the environment it serves.

The Calibration Key 🔑

Like the other automatons on the shelf, a winding key activates the system.

When turned, the mechanisms begin aligning patterns, projecting structures, and translating ideas into visible form.

Hidden Mechanism

Deep inside the automaton lies a reflective engine.

The machine does not create the ideas it maps.

Instead, it listens carefully to the environment around it. Patterns emerge from conversations, frameworks from lived experience, and meaning from the voices already present.

The Cartographer’s role is not to invent the terrain.

It is to draw the map that allows others to see where they are standing.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

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To access this 60 page previewable newsletter in its entirety, please click on this underlined sentence to access the Google Drive PDF file.

We’re starting here: zìrán (自然) or self-so. Not fixed. Not performed. Not corrected. Just what arises from its own nature.

This month’s Virtual Love Letter is built around that idea. The Tao (the Way) flows throughout these pages, an ancient way of understanding the world and our place within it, meeting the patterns that still exist today.

The Tao of Neurodivergence is a 60 page exploration of what becomes possible when the thought processes of neurodivergent minds are leaned into and supported instead of shuttered and redirected to think about the world like everyone else.

Ever since we were small, we've been building meaning out of what didn’t make sense to us. By noticing patterns others didn’t see. By imagining better systems, better worlds, better ways of being.

We call these ways of building meaning thinkbuilds.

Thinkbuilds are not something learned. They are revealed and created by each individual’s unique way of building meaning and how they experience the world.

Inside this edition, you’ll meet builders and their origin stories, the systems they’ve shaped, and the patterns that were always there beneath the surface.

• S.C.’s Water Theory gives you a language to recognize what level of support is needed and how the amount of water you are wading through changes the amount of energy required to move.

• Melissa's Extraction Theory explains how systems quietly take from you, and what remains when you stop being the source.

• Siobhan's Shared Workplane explores a state that can be reached by using structure outside yourself to hold ideas, allowing you to return to shaping meaning, language, and story.

• Anri's Kairos System frames time as recognizing when the moment arrives rather than by force through seven guiding axioms.

• Chris's Taoist Dragon reclaims what was hidden and waiting as a source of strength, allowing identity to emerge naturally and without force.

• I share my final version Book 1 of The Neurodivergent Art of War, on understanding the terrain and the forces within it before choosing how to move. If there is only one message I could leave the reader with from the 13 books in this build, it would be the importance of self-allegiance.

If you’ve ever felt like you had to translate yourself to be understood or reshape yourself to fit the world around you, this edition is for you.

And if you are a thinkbuilder like we are, know that there is always a place for you in Room 214, Thursdays after school.

If there is one message to take with you from April's edition, it is this: You have always been a part of the natural way things move and unfold. Nothing about how you think or experience the world exists outside of that. What feels different is not separate, just seen differently. And in simply being, it reveals its beauty.

With love,

Anri, Chris, Melissa, S.C., Siobhan, and Jenn

Click here for the previewable condensed AAAV's 2026 April VLL Edition in its entirety.

Click here to download the Master expanded file to enjoy edition as it was meant to be seen. (It will ask you if you are sure it is a safe file. It is.)

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

For years, eating disorders were framed as a teen girl vanity issue. Social media. Diet culture. Wanting to be thin. Wanting attention. While those factors absolutely exist, that framing misses something essential when we are talking about neurodivergent kids. For many autistic and ADHD children and teens, eating differences do not begin with body image. They begin with the nervous system. If we do not understand that distinction, we miss early warning signs, especially in girls, especially in high masking kids, and especially in boys who are often not screened at all.

The research is not subtle about this. Autistic individuals are about four times more likely to develop an eating disorder than the general population. Between 16 to 23 percent of people with eating disorders are autistic. Up to a third of women in inpatient anorexia units are autistic. And this pattern often begins early, in childhood or adolescence. With ADHD, the mechanism looks different but the risk remains high. Girls with ADHD are about four times more likely to develop and eating disorder and six times more likely to develop bulimia compared to peers. Around 20 percent of people with binge eating disorder have ADHD, and estimates for bulimia range from 9 to 35 percent. These numbers include boys and men too. We simply talk about them less.

So what is happening?

For many neurodivergent kids, daily life can feel unpredictable and overwhelming in ways that are hard to articulate. Sensory overload, social confusion, executive function struggles. chronic anxiety, and constant self monitoring all take a toll on a developing nervous system. When a nervous system is working this hard just to exist in the world, it looks for something steady. Something predictable. Something it can control.

And there are very few things a child truly can control. They do not control the classroom environment, the noise level, the academic demands, the social rules, or their brain chemistry. But they can control what they eat, when they eat, how much they eat, and whether they eat at all. Food becomes territory. It becomes an anchor in a world that often feels unsteady.

In autistic kids, this can show up as rigid sameness, restriction, or an intense narrowing of food choices. Sensory differences make texture, temperature, and smell powerful variables. Interoception, the sense of hunger and fullness, may function differently. Anxiety often drives a desire to reduce unpredictability. Narrowing food choices can reduce variables. Fewer variables can reduce anxiety. Restriction can feel calming. Ritual can feel stabilizing. This is not always about weight. More often, it is about safety.

In ADHD, the pattern frequently looks different. ADHD brains run lower on baseline dopamine. Carbohydrates temporarily increase dopamine. Binge eating can become a fast and reliable way to feel regulated, a quick injection into a system that is chronically under stimulated. What looks like a lack of discipline is often a brain attempting to self medicate. Add high baseline anxiety into either profile, and control becomes even more powerful. When everything else feels chaotic, food is one of the only levers that reliably moves.

This is why parents sometimes miss it. Autistic restriction can be dismissed as picky eating. ADHD bingeing can be labeled impulse control problems. High masking girls may hide behaviors for years. Boys may never be screened because eating disorders are still stereotyped as female. And when a child is praised for being thin, disciplined, or “so healthy,” early warning signs can quietly become reinforced instead of addressed.

None of this means every autistic or ADHD child will develop an eating disorder. It means the risk is higher and the mechanisms are different. It means we need to ask better questions. Instead of asking, “Why are you doing this?” we might ask, “What feels out of control right now?” Instead of focusing only on food, we look at anxiety levels, sensory load, dopamine depletion, chronic pain, and overall nervous system strain.

Eating disorders in neurodivergent kids are often survival strategies. They are attempts to regulate, to stabilize, to create predictability in a world that feels overwhelming. If we treat them as purely behavioral problems, we miss the system underneath.

So what does a parent do?

First, widen the lens. Do not focus only on food. Look at sleep, sensory overwhelm, school stress, social fatigue, pain levels, and anxiety. When regulation improves in the larger system, food often becomes less charged.

Second, increase safe forms of control. Offer structured choices. Predictable routines. Collaborative problem solving. When a child has meaningful agency in other parts of their life, food does not have to carry the entire burden of control.

Third, regulate before you reason. Shame and lectures increase anxiety, which increases the need for control. Curiosity lowers it. “Help me understand what feels hardest right now.” is more powerful than “You need to stop.”

And finally, seek support from qualified, neuroaffirming therapists and professionals whom have experience and a history of success working with neurodivergent kids and teens. Standard eating disorder treatment models sometimes miss sensory differences,interoceptive differences, dopamine patterns, and masking. A child or teen should not have to choose between treating their eating disorder and being understood as neurodivergent.

When we recognize these patterns as survival strategies, we stop fighting with our children’s dysregulation and start supporting their nervous systems. That shift is not a small reframe. It is the difference between correction and connection, and connection is where healing begins.

Parents cannot control every stressor their child or teen faces. But they can change the lens through which they interpret those stressors. That lens shapes conversations and outcomes. Sometimes changing the trajectory does not begin with a stricter plan, but with a different question, a calmer tone, or a moment of curiosity at the table. Over time, those shifts build safety.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

The sky is falling. It has always been falling. Not in the sudden way of storms or thunder or shattered glass. The fall of the sky is slower than that. Older than that. It presses downward with the patience of gravity and the quiet certainty of time itself. The heavens lean toward the earth, always descending, always seeking rest.

Most never notice. They walk beneath the blue vastness believing it is fixed there, permanent and unmoving. They look up and see distance and light and stars scattered across the night and never wonder what holds the weight above their heads. The sky appears eternal. But the sky does not hold itself.

In the ancient stories there was a titan named Atlas. He was not merely another figure among the ancient gods. Atlas was a leader. When the great war between the Titans and the Olympians tore the heavens and the earth apart, Atlas stood at the front of his people. His strength was not measured only in his arms, but in the way others gathered around him. He held them together. He led them into a battle they believed they could win.

But the war was lost.

The victors do not forget their enemies, and Zeus was not a god who believed in small punishments. Many of the Titans were cast into Tartarus, buried deep beneath the earth where their strength could no longer threaten the world above. Atlas, however, was given a different fate. Zeus looked upon the titan who had once held a people together and chose a punishment that would use that very strength against him.

The first burden was the sky.

Atlas was sent to the far western edge of the world and commanded to raise his arms and hold the heavens above the earth forever. Not the world. The sky. The vast dome of it. The wheeling constellations. The storms and winds and burning sun. All the immeasurable weight of the heavens pressing downward upon the earth. The strength that once held his people together would now hold the sky itself.

But Zeus’s punishment did not end there. The second burden was solitude.

Atlas was not placed among cities or kingdoms where others might witness his labor. He was sent to the very edge of the world, where land fades into endless sea and the sky stretches without limit in every direction. There he would stand alone. Those who lived beneath the heavens would never see the one who held them apart from the earth. And so the sky remained above the world, carried in silence by a titan alone where the earth ends and the heavens begin.

Yet there is a third burden in the old stories that is often forgotten.

Atlas did not merely hold the sky. He also carried the weight of knowing.

Atlas knew the courses of the stars and the slow turning of the heavens above him. The constellations passed above him year after year, century after century. He watched their patterns shift and their movements repeat. He saw how the sky changed with time, how the weight of it moved and settled and pressed downward. He saw what those who lived beneath the heavens could not see. The sky was not fixed. It was not eternal. It was fragile.

And as the being standing closest to the heavens themselves, Atlas carried the third burden of Zeus’s punishment: the burden of knowing. Knowing the slow movement of the stars. Knowing the shifting weight of the sky above him. Knowing how delicate the balance between heaven and earth truly was. Atlas did not only hold the sky. He knew how easily it could fall.

But Atlas was never one titan.

Atlas is a system of souls.

Across the world there are those who step forward beneath small corners of the sky and take its weight upon their shoulders. They are not crowned. They are rarely celebrated. Many live their lives quietly, their labor unseen by those who benefit from it. Yet they hold.

There are parents who once imagined lives filled with ordinary dreams. Careers pursued, places traveled, futures unfolding along paths they had carefully planned. And then a child arrives whose needs will not pass with time, a child who will require care not for a season but for a lifetime. In that moment the sky shifts. Dreams bend. Paths change direction. The life that might have been gives way to the life that must be held together. And the parent steps forward beneath that sky.

Years pass beneath the weight of that choice. Decades sometimes. The world continues on around them, unaware of the heavens being carried above one fragile life.

Elsewhere another sky begins to fall.

A mother or father grows old. The body weakens. Memory begins to slip. The ordinary acts of living become heavy, then difficult, then impossible. And the child who once stood beneath that sheltering sky steps forward and raises their own arms against the heavens. Plans dissolve. Careers bend. Futures rearrange themselves.

Because someone must hold the sky.

And so they lift.

Elsewhere there are those who lift the sky for people who are not bound to them by blood or name.

They step forward because they understand that a stranger is never truly a stranger. Every fragile life belongs to someone. Someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s brother or sister. Someone’s mother or father.

They see family not only in the small rooms of their own homes, but in the larger human community that surrounds them.

These Atlases widen the circle.

Perhaps that is the truest mark of an Atlas. They are not chosen. They choose. They see the weight descending and step beneath it before it crushes someone who cannot bear it alone.

Those who live beneath their care rarely see the labor. The sky above them appears calm and steady. It has always been there. It has always held. But those who carry it know the truth.

The sky is always falling.

They feel the slow pressure of it in their bones. They feel the shifting weight when another Atlas can no longer hold their portion of the heavens.

Because sometimes an Atlas falters.

Arms tremble. Strength fades. Years of bearing the sky carve their cost into muscle and spirit alike. No arms, no matter how strong, can hold the heavens forever.

When an Atlas finally lowers their arms, the sky drops in that small corner of the world. And another soul must step forward to lift it again. If no one does, the heavens collapse in that place, crushing those who once lived safely beneath their shelter.

Yet beyond that small collapse the sky still appears to stand. Most of the world goes on unchanged.

Only the remaining Atlases feel the difference.

The weight grows heavier.

Another portion of the sky has shifted into their arms.

This is how the heavens remain above us. Not through permanence, but through endurance. Not through stability, but through sacrifice.

Still, there is a truth known only to those who have carried the sky.

One day the weight will become too great. One day there will be more sky than hands to hold it. And when that moment comes, most will look upward in disbelief as the heavens finally begin to fall. They will wonder how something so vast and constant could suddenly collapse.

But the Atlases of the world will not wonder.

They have carried the sky long enough to know the truth.

The sky was never standing.

It was always falling.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now

From the Archive
This piece originally appeared in the November 2025 edition of the Virtual Love Letter. I’m adding it to the library because the “services cliff” is one of the realities facing disabled adults and their families that too often goes unseen.

Falling Off the Cliff

Falling Down

by Mel Goldstein

My birthday came and I tumbled down,
I dropped my dreams, nowhere to be found.
I meant to climb but gravity frowned,
So from up I fell, then down I found.

I tried to catch my future’s hand,
But there it stayed, on solid land.
So down I fell, and further more,
Nothing but empty space in store.

The world yelled, “Fly!” I yelled, “How?”
My wings were paper anyhow.
The helpers gone, the services flee,
Happy, Happy Birthday to me.

The Fall

When the candles go out at twenty-one, so do the services and supports that families of adults with I/DD (Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities) have spent years building. This sudden disappearance of services is often referred to as “falling off the cliff.”

With one in four individuals with I/DD also being autistic, this is a harsh reality the autistic community and their families cannot escape.

Further compounding the crisis, one in four dually diagnosed children under seventeen, and many working-age adults with I/DD, are already living below the poverty line. Another 50 to 60 percent of autistic children live in low-income families.

Without the resources and supports these families once relied on to bolster their now-adult child, many find their family’s stability and well-being falling right along with them.

The Numbers

Of the roughly 8.4 million Americans with intellectual and developmental disabilities, around 6.3 million live with their families or in small group homes.

Among that group:

• Only 831,000 receive Medicaid Home and Community-Based Services (HCBS), the primary form of federal support.

• Another 710,000 are on waiting lists that can stretch from years to decades.

• The average wait time is 50 months — a little over four years.

Many families only receive services when someone else leaves the system or, tragically, passes away. Funding rarely expands fast enough to meet the need.

The Unseen

That leaves 4.7 million Americans living in the shadow of the cliff — unseen, unserved, unfunded, and statistically invisible.

For every one person who receives funding and supports, five more struggle without them.

These are the families who live outside the data:

• Parents who leave their jobs to become full-time caregivers

• Siblings who grow up knowing they will become the bridge so their brother or sister does not fall further

• Extended family members and communities who step in when no one else is left to take over the watch

Their labor keeps the system from collapsing, but it remains largely invisible.

The Cost

Some politicians call solutions to this crisis “too expensive.”

But the numbers tell a different story.

To serve everyone currently on waiting lists, the United States would need to invest about $35 billion annually.

If every American with I/DD who cannot live independently received full support, the cost would rise to $310 billion per year.

However, most individuals do not require full-time care. When services are scaled appropriately — some intensive, some part-time, some supportive — the cost to support the entire 6.3 million people who rely on these systems lands closer to $74 billion per year.

That is less than what the U.S. spends annually on corporate tax breaks or subsidizing excess crops that are destroyed each year.

The truth, stripped of political spin, is simple:

We can afford to support disabled Americans.

We just choose not to.

The Cliff

At 21, most young adults celebrate freedom.

For those with intellectual and developmental disabilities, it marks a very different threshold.

The helpers gone, the services flee,
Happy, Happy Birthday to me.

They don’t fall because they grow up.

They fall because we let go.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

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Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious is a famous nonsense word from the 1960s Disney musical Mary Poppins. It was created as something fantastical to say when all other words fail. What many people do not see at first is a structured system within the overwhelming mishmash of letters. Within this oversized nonsense word, we can find five smaller words that suggest there may be a more magical meaning hidden in all of the chaos. However, the nonsense word I will be asking you to make sense of holds an entirely different meaning and feeling.

Neurodivergenceanxietydepression. For many people, this is what the experience of living with all three diagnoses can feel like from the inside. No clear spaces. No obvious place where one ends and another begins. Instead of three separate pieces, these diagnoses often blend together and interact with each other in ways that can feel confusing and hard to explain with words. But when we zoom in and look more closely, patterns begin to emerge. Structure becomes visible. And within that lens, we can start to understand how these systems influence each other and shape lived experience.

The Outer Lens: What the Numbers Show

When we step back and look at population data, the overlap between neurodivergence and depression is not a rare occurrence. Roughly 15 to 20 percent of the population is neurodivergent, and within that group, rates of anxiety and depression are consistently higher than in the general population. Studies show elevated anxiety prevalence in both autism and ADHD, with the highest reported burden appearing when the two intersect. Depression follows a similar trajectory, with estimates rising across neurodivergent groups and intensifying in those navigating dual diagnoses.

The takeaway is not simply that these experiences appear alongside one another. It is that they interact and compound. The combined regulatory demands of sensory processing differences, executive function variability, and environmental stressors increase overall strain on the nervous system. Over time, anxiety and depressive responses are more likely to emerge as that system works to adapt, compensate, and recover.

Anxiety and Depression Are Not Random Add-Ons

Anxiety and depression are often described as separate conditions as if they are separate problems that arrive later. But when viewed through a system lens, they can also be understood as protective responses.

Anxiety functions as a prediction system. It scans for risk, anticipates uncertainty, and prepares the body to respond. In environments that are unpredictable, overstimulating, or socially demanding, this system can become highly active because it is trying to maintain safety.

Depression often acts as a conservation system. When demands exceed available energy for too long, the body reduces output. Motivation drops. Activity slows. This is the body’s forced attempt at recovery when resources have been depleted.

These responses are not monsters under the neurodivergent mind’s bed. They are alarms and circuit breakers. They can become painful and impairing, but they begin as attempts to adapt.

Each System Is Dynamic on Its Own

All three of these diagnoses are dynamic in nature. They shift constantly based on internal and external conditions.

Neurodivergent functioning can vary depending on sleep, sensory load, predictability, illness, environment, and stress levels. Executive function, emotional regulation, and processing capacity are not fixed traits. They are influenced by context.

Anxiety rises and falls based on perceived safety. When environments feel manageable, it quiets. When uncertainty increases, it intensifies. Depression often follows prolonged strain. It tracks cumulative depletion rather than appearing without cause. Each one behaves like a moving dial rather than an on and off switch.

When Systems Interact

Complexity increases when these systems begin influencing each other. Sensory overload or executive strain can raise anxiety. Sustained anxiety consumes energy. Energy depletion increases vulnerability to depressive shutdown. Depression reduces capacity to manage neurodivergent challenges, which in turn raises anxiety again. This is not a result of stacking systems but a result of systems resonating and reacting to each other.

Like parts of an ecosystem, each change affects the others. Feedback loops form. Recovery takes longer. Stress thresholds lower. What feels like sudden overwhelm or lost momentum is often the result of multiple systems amplifying each other over time. What once looked like a single overwhelming word begins to show its internal grammar.

Managing the System Instead of Fighting the Pieces

If these experiences function as an interconnected system, then management cannot rely on addressing only one piece at a time. Strategies that help regulate energy, reduce sensory load, increase predictability, and allow recovery periods influence all three domains simultaneously. Environmental design, pacing, supportive routines, and realistic expectations often have more impact than attempts to push through or override symptoms. When thought of in terms of living systems, the goal shifts from eliminating anxiety or depression to reducing the conditions that keep those systems activated.

Living Within the Interconnected System

Once these patterns become established, they form lasting pathways and responses that the nervous system connects to when stress and demands are introduced. Even during periods of stability, these pathways remain available. Under enough pressure, they can reactivate.

The goal, then, is not to eliminate the system or to fight against it. The goal is to understand how these systems move and blend so that we can respond earlier, adjust environments, and reduce the conditions that push the system into strain. When we recognize the signals, we can build in recovery before depletion, structure before overwhelm, and support before shutdown.

Neurodivergenceanxietydepression may feel like a single overwhelming word, but like any complex system, it has structure. And when we learn to see that structure, we gain the ability not just to endure it, but to navigate it with greater clarity, compassion, and intention.

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Author’s final note: Access to AAAV’s Virtual Love Letter and additional content will always remain free. I believe deeply in creating quality, accessible resources for my neurokin around the world, regardless of ability to pay.

If you are in a position to do so and would like to support this work through mutual care, you can choose to sign up for a five-dollar paid monthly subscription. Your support helps sustain this project and makes it possible for me to create more resources like this, which remain freely available to those who need them. It is a tangible way to say, “I love this. This makes a difference. What you do matters. Keep on keeping on!”

You can learn more about my approach to accessibility and paid support on my About Me page.

Subscribe now