I was slapped with the AuDHD label before that acronym had even settled into the public lexicon, I’ve lived my entire life feeling the seams of things—emotions, systems, people—long before they split. Pattern-recognition isn’t a skill. It’s my native language. The neurotype doesn’t define me, but it does explain a few things: the x-ray vision, the high-definition empathy, the inability to tolerate small talk or social rituals that lack integrity. I can’t do masks unless it’s Halloween. And even then, I’ll probably psychoanalyze the symbolism. I carries complex trauma in my bones, not as a brand, but as a blueprint. My nervous system knows the sound of doors slammed in love’s name. Knows the taste of silence in rooms where the truth went to die. But healing is no longer a project—it is artform. A reckoning. A calling. A reclamation. I write because there’s no other way to metabolize the everythingness. The ache. The awe. The joy so bright it feels like betrayal. The sadness that never really left but no longer tries to colonize my entire chest. I write not to fix, but to witness. Not to transcend, but to inhabit. My path never moved in straight lines. It looped, spiraled, dissolved, reassembled. I walked away from institutions that mistook performance for purpose. Built a home inside nuance. Chose presence over polish. Now, I hope to tell the truth the way some people light candles—because something sacred needs air. This space isn’t for the faint of heart. But if you’re here to make meaning from the wreckage, to sit in the glorious, uncomfortable, unpolished now—you’re in good company. Every word is a breadcrumb back to the self you thought you had to abandon to survive. I can’t promise clarity. If you’re here to bypass pain, this probably isn’t your corner of the internet. Come in. I saved you a seat. I am so thankful you are here. Valerie