Skye, this is gorgeously written, and it is deeply sitting with me, in this moment. Not just the ache of it, but the way you frame that ache as both origin and drive. I recognize it—the drive to be seen not just as emotional hunger, but as structural force. For me, it’s shaped how I build language—less to express the wound, more to map it, make it comprehensible, give it contour and clarity it was never offered. But it’s still exposure. Just… filtered through recursive alignment rather than narrative unraveling.
I say this with full awareness that I’m speaking from outside the clinical world you’ve spent years immersed in. I don’t pretend to match that experience. But from where I stand—autistic, structurally-minded, writing through my own trauma-shaped lens—your writing here feels like a resonance. A deeply familiar one. Like different facets of the same strange reality we’re all just trying our best to exist in, with maybe a little less friction if we can manage it. I’m grateful you wrote this. It helps me reflect on where my own voice is coming from, and why.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Michael. I appreciate your point about mapping and clarity, that's another layer. It's quite hard to express what it is to not have the language to describe yourself, but also the two minds involved experience the world differently and so much is lost in translation. Even when my mother got her hearing aids, bless her, I felt like our communication was two people shouting from opposite ends of a bridge in a howling wind. Trying so hard to catch what we could, sometimes succeeding, often just ending up frustrated at the futility of the task.
Certainly, there are risks involved after such beginnings when one writes on an algorithmic platform!
Skye, this is gorgeously written, and it is deeply sitting with me, in this moment. Not just the ache of it, but the way you frame that ache as both origin and drive. I recognize it—the drive to be seen not just as emotional hunger, but as structural force. For me, it’s shaped how I build language—less to express the wound, more to map it, make it comprehensible, give it contour and clarity it was never offered. But it’s still exposure. Just… filtered through recursive alignment rather than narrative unraveling.
I say this with full awareness that I’m speaking from outside the clinical world you’ve spent years immersed in. I don’t pretend to match that experience. But from where I stand—autistic, structurally-minded, writing through my own trauma-shaped lens—your writing here feels like a resonance. A deeply familiar one. Like different facets of the same strange reality we’re all just trying our best to exist in, with maybe a little less friction if we can manage it. I’m grateful you wrote this. It helps me reflect on where my own voice is coming from, and why.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Michael. I appreciate your point about mapping and clarity, that's another layer. It's quite hard to express what it is to not have the language to describe yourself, but also the two minds involved experience the world differently and so much is lost in translation. Even when my mother got her hearing aids, bless her, I felt like our communication was two people shouting from opposite ends of a bridge in a howling wind. Trying so hard to catch what we could, sometimes succeeding, often just ending up frustrated at the futility of the task.
Certainly, there are risks involved after such beginnings when one writes on an algorithmic platform!
"What if all of it — all of it — was only ever about longing to be noticed, to be understood, to be loved?" Yep.
I'm equal parts grateful and sorry that this line resonated with you, Maggie. Thank you.
Me too. Beautifully written ❤️