Life in Full Spectrum: Adventures in Creative Living

  Papa as I knew him. I remember Thanksgiving at my Papa’s house. How anxious I was to get there, bolting out of the car as soon as we arrived, my parents hollering for me to slow down. “You’re going to fall!” they’d yell, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to throw my arms around that fat, happy old man and hear his laugh. He did it every time. The moment I walked in, the smell of wood greeted me—cedar and pine from the pieces Papa had crafted over the years. He was a carpenter, and his home carried the essence of his work. Mixed with that was the smell of food. Papa was a big man who loved to cook and loved to eat—but more than anything, he loved feeding his family. Watching us enjoy what he’d made brought him so much joy. It wasn’t just a meal for him. It was tradition. It was ceremony. It was delicious. Thanksgiving at his house was always special. Papa was a musician, too, and after we ate, he’d pull out his guitar and sing. My Uncle Teddy often joined him, and sometimes othe...

  Standing out in a world that demands conformity. Today, Aiden had a rough day at school. It wasn’t because he wasn’t trying or being disruptive—far from it. His only “offense” was not following along like a good little robot during a reading exercise. While his classmates were reading aloud, Aiden was listening attentively but not looking at the book. This alone was enough to trigger his teacher’s frustration, as she assumed he wasn’t paying attention. When she called him out and told him to follow along, he calmly responded that he was paying attention but simply wasn’t reading along in the book. Not content with his answer, she tried to challenge him, asking where they were in the text to prove her point. Aiden responded confidently with the correct page number—28—but she snapped back, trying to insist he was wrong. The rest of the class confirmed that Aiden was correct. She then corrected him with a spiteful “Nope. The first sentence on page 29,” as though being right to the e...

  Living simply, together—sharing the land, supporting each other, and finding freedom in community. As I navigate life in a fast-paced world brimming with technology, constant notifications, and the never-ending cycle of “hustle culture,” I often find myself longing for a simpler time. And no, I don’t mean easier—I mean a life where simplicity reigns, like the days of pioneers who built their homes with their own hands and lived close to the land and one another.  For a neurodivergent person like me, this simplicity isn’t just appealing; it’s grounding. It offers a way of life that feels more human, more connected, and more in tune with my soul. At the heart of this longing is a belief I’ve held for as long as I can remember: that existing in this world shouldn’t come with a price. We should have an inherent right to live freely, to wake up under the sun, breathe the air, and feel secure without needing to pay for the basic privilege of being here. Somewhere along the way, so...

The Christmas season, with all its twinkling lights and festive cheer, can be difficult for many people. While some are surrounded by warmth and joy, others face an entirely different reality—one where the struggle to keep everything together makes it hard to feel any holiday magic. This year, I find myself in that space, and to help others who might feel the same, I want to share my story. To understand what this year has been like, I need to go back more than 20 years to where it all began. I met Johnnie, my husband, in 2002. Our story feels almost surreal, with paths that crossed so many times before we finally met. We connected online on December 12, met in person on January 2, and from that day on, we were inseparable. We married that October, full of hope for the future. Starting a family wasn’t easy. For two years, we tried, and I was told by doctors that I’d never carry a child due to my weight and hormonal imbalance. But miracles happen, and in August 2004, our first daughter ...

I stare at the orange bottle in my hand, its label printed with clear, bold letters that seem to shout at me louder than they should. Stimulant medication for ADHD. It’s supposed to help my son, to quiet the storm in his mind, to offer him the tools he needs to thrive in a world that demands focus and calm. But then, my mind takes off, a runaway train fueled by fear and relentless overthinking, racing toward every possible worst-case scenario. The side effects, oh, the side effects. Sleeplessness, appetite loss, mood swings, potential growth stunting, even the faintest, most terrifying whispers of future dependency or cardiac risks. I’m instantly transported into a whirlwind of worry, my brain—a neurodivergent brain itself—becoming a hyperactive factory of anxiety, churning out “what ifs” faster than I can keep up. What if it helps now but harms him later? What if I’m failing him by hesitating? And just as quickly, what if I’m failing him by going through with it? This is the battle I ...

Meeting new people can be challenging for anyone, but when you're a neurodivergent parent, these encounters come with an added layer of complexity. For me, these situations aren’t just about making a good impression; they’re about holding my own for my child’s sake, even when every instinct is to pull back, stay quiet, or simply escape. The Pressure to Be “Normal” and Present Every time I walk into a room full of unfamiliar faces—whether it’s a classroom, a therapy session, or just meeting other parents for the first time—I feel like I’m stepping onto a stage. The environment suddenly becomes louder, brighter, and full of potential triggers that I have to manage, all while trying to make genuine connections. It's not just about overcoming my own anxiety or discomfort; it's about doing my best to pave the way for my child, who needs me to help them build relationships, fit into new routines, or get the support they deserve. It feels like I’m constantly analyzing myself: am I...