The Way I See It

 The world feels different to me than it does to most people. I’ve always felt that way. Objects have feelings, silence can scream, and things other people overlook stand out to me.

As a kid, I believed everything had emotions. I couldn’t leave a single stuffed animal out of bed because I didn’t want them to feel forgotten. Now, I catch myself apologizing to old appliances when it’s time to replace them. I know they’re not alive, but I can’t help it. They worked so hard—they didn’t deserve to be tossed aside.

Growing up, I tried to hide the things that made me different. I stopped stimming in front of people, stuffed my feelings down, and tried to blend in. I didn’t want to be noticed. I didn’t want anyone to see the parts of me that didn’t fit.

But now, I’m trying to let myself be—to unmask, even if it’s messy. It’s not easy, and I don’t always get it right. Some days, I want to crawl back into my shell and disappear. But then there are moments—like when my son Carson reminds me how it feels to face the world on your own terms, or when Calvin helps me untangle my hair and tells me it’s okay to need help—that I feel seen for who I really am.

My view of the world may not always make sense to others, but it’s mine. It’s full of empathy, connection, and a little bit of magic. I’m learning to love that about myself, even if the world doesn’t always understand.