76 drafts

Unraveling fear + writing about new things

There are 76 drafts in a folder on this Substack account from the past year or two. Seventy-six times I’ve opened a new empty screen with an inkling of a thought and then abandoned it because some voice whispered in my ear, “You can’t publish this. What will they think? This is terrible. Who do you think you are?”

I believed the voice every single time. Shame and fear are palpable dictators.

Thing is — before my autism diagnosis, I used to write without much regard for that voice. I overthought many things in my life but when it came to writing The Thread, this was my lovely little space to tell the truth. To unravel questions. To poke at life and love and faith with curiosity. I didn’t yet know WHY I loved all these things so much. All I knew is that I loved observing life and wondering out loud through words. Hitting publish felt…light, playful, and carefree.

But now?

Autism is a lightning rod kind of thing.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

People either love it, feel neutral about it, or have significant stereotypes, baggage, and prejudice around it.

Which places me in an awkward spot as a recovering life-long fawning human who masked autistic traits to survive.

It feels pretty terrible that a label like autism makes many deeply uncomfortable but it is the very thing that’s saved me. It’s set me free. It’s given me my life back. It’s healed massive amounts of confusion. That’s why life is the way it is…

In my ungrounded moments, I’m tempted to equate everyone’s discomfort with autism to discomfort with me.

And that’s hard to make sense of.

Do I want to be autistic? Not really. There are things I truly love about my neurotype but it’s awful to be wired one way while living in a world entirely made for people not like me.

It’s jarring that the thing bringing me all kinds of peace and joy is equally the thing people don’t understand and in some ways, actively deny.

It sends me back into masking land.

Don’t fidget so much.
Look in their eyes.
Smile. You look disinterested.
Stop talking about that. You’re boring them.
Stop asking for so much support. Just suck it up.
Do the song & dance they’re used to.
Remember when they ask, “how are you?” it’s just a phrase, it’s not a literal question.
Get control of your emotions.
Go with the flow, for God’s sakes. Appear chill at all costs.

Photo by 胡 卓亨 on Unsplash

At my core, I know that their discomfort isn’t actually about me. It’s their own stories and bias and fear, but it still feels like a dismissal of me as an actual human who has lived in an autistic body my entire life.

Sometimes late-diagnosed autistics go through a weird transition where people around us think this is something new we’re just now experiencing. Which makes sense because it lived mostly underground (especially for many women). But I’ve been autistic since the day I was born.

Over the past year or two, I’ve spent a little time reflecting on pictures of my younger self. That young girl didn’t know she was autistic. She just tried to keep up. She was a pretty happy kid, most of the time, which I’m so thankful for. And. There was a lot going on under the surface, especially as life got more complex.

As I reconcile these competing realities, I’m aware those around me are doing similar work. They’re trying to make sense of who they understood Jenny to be and the unfolding stories post diagnosis.

I have a lot of compassion for all of us. It’s confusing.

Growing up in Ohio in the 80s

A Christmas at home in Alaska with my brother, Jeremy

Back to these 76 drafts. There’s so much I want to say and express and unravel.

But a voice of fear keeps me from hitting publish. What’s animating that voice?

These people didn’t sign up to hear you talk about autism.
Write about all the things you used to.
No one wants to read this.
How can I freely write about the very thing I spent decades ensuring they never saw?
How can I intentionally upset people who are uncomfortable with autism?

Maybe the question under the question is:

Will they love me if I’m not who they always thought I was?

Photo by Yaoqi on Unsplash

Maybe that’s a core question so many of us hold as we journey. I see this fear walking around in human form. We protect, hold back, and shy away from vulnerable connection because we’re tucking away our real questions from view. Hoping no one gets too close. Hoping they don’t see the very real fears we’re arguing with. Hoping none of it’s actually true in the first place.

But it is.

We’re all holding something that scares us.

I wish we had more spaces where telling the truth felt normal. Encouraged. Desired. I wish more people understood that telling the truth is how we get free. I wish more people stepped inside their fear with compassion and curiosity, instead of locking it away for lifetimes.

One day (soon?), I hope to cultivate a different relationship with my Publish button. Maybe what feels sad, dangerous, and heavy can one day feel light, playful, and carefree again. But I know getting there invites me to pull some threads. I’m invited to step into a few of my fears with you, my dear readers. It’s one thing to write about courage and vulnerability. It’s quite another to practice it in real time with you.

Thank you, dear readers, for the ways we walk together. It really is a beautiful thing. Even when it’s oh so hard.

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From the Archives

• Living in the terrible beautiful middle - Making sense of inheritances, down payments, new neighbors & my grandfather’s passing

• Loving the ones closest to us - Chocolate milk + the long slow work of love

• That must be really hard - Unraveling toxic masculinity

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We camped on the Oregon Coast for Memorial Day weekend! This is my husband entertaining the kids (and adults) with our epic bubble recipe from his mom!