Life in Full Spectrum: Unfiltered. Unmasked. Unapologetic.

  This is what it looks like when a society values productivity over humanity. A system built by the powerful, feeding on the silence of the masses. We weren’t made to serve the machine—we were made to live, to connect, to be. When did we start believing the lie that our worth is tied to how much we can earn, grind, and give away to the top of the ladder? At our core, we are simply human. We weren’t created to labor ourselves into exhaustion just to make rich men richer. That system? It was designed by man—sold to us slowly, quietly, like a drug slipped into our morning coffee. So gradual, we didn’t even notice. And now? We defend it like it’s sacred. We have people being told that if they can’t “contribute” to this system—this machine—they’re not viable, not valuable, not worthy of the very life they were given. Capitalism has warped our thinking so deeply that we’ve forgotten how to measure worth outside of dollar signs. If someone disrupts the flow—if they challenge the system, ...

I’ve been autistic my whole life, even before I had the words to explain it. And the more I’ve learned about myself, the more I’ve looked back—not just on my own childhood, but on my parents and family members—and I see the signs. The behaviors. The patterns. The sensitivities. The social struggles. The brilliance in the quirks. The depth behind the silence. I believe autism runs in my family. Not because of a shot. Not because of a moment in time. But because of a complicated, nuanced mix of  genetics ,  environment , and  individual neurobiology  that we are still learning to understand. I don’t know if vaccines ever played a role. I’m not a scientist. But I’m also not going to pretend the only path to understanding autism runs through a syringe. That narrative is too simple for something this complex—and too dangerous for something this human. What I do know is that autism didn’t suddenly appear in this generation. It didn’t explode overnight. It’s always been her...

  Before curfews mattered and before the world got loud—this was us. Laughing under streetlights, sipping whatever we could sneak, and swearing we’d never grow old. We didn’t know it yet, but those nights would stay with us forever. We were born in the 80s—back when phones had cords,  TVs had knobs, and Saturday morning cartoons and bowls of cereal in front of the tv were sacred. We were raised in the 90s, where our hair was big,  our jeans were baggy, and our lives were anything but small. We made mixtapes—real ones—waiting with our fingers on the record button, trying to catch our favorite song on the radio without the DJ talking over it. We flipped through cassette tapes, then CDs,  burned our own playlists long before Spotify existed. And somewhere along the way, our Walkmans turned into iPods, and now everything’s just… an app. We were the generation that had to grow with the world,  not ahead of it. We didn’t come with manuals or screen time limits. We wer...

There’s a kind of grief in missing a world that no longer exists… and knowing it never will again. Some mornings, I wake up and still feel like I’m in my twenties. My mind is sharp. Curious. Hopeful. I still dream. I still have ideas that make my heart race a little. I still want to build something meaningful. But then my body reminds me—quietly and cruelly—that I’m not twenty anymore. My knees ache. My spine protests. My energy takes longer to gather. I stretch before I even stand. And I find myself whispering,  “When did this happen?” Forty-four came fast. Faster than I ever thought it would. I blinked, and decades disappeared. The memories play on loop—first jobs, first apartments, young love, heartbreak, hope, loss, laughter that made my stomach hurt. Half a life, just… gone. And now I sit with the uneasy awareness that there may not be another forty-four ahead of me. Or maybe there will be—but what will they look like? What will I look like in them? What parts of me will still...

  People love to talk about how men are the problem. How they’re the predators, the aggressors, the ones to fear. And sometimes, yes—they are. But I’ve learned something else in the past two years that no one really talks about. Women can be just as cruel. Not in the same overtly violent, physically intimidating ways—but in words. In manipulation. In shame. In whispers, screenshots, comment threads, and anonymous DMs that slice deeper than any blade could. Since being on the show, I’ve been sent messages so vile they could rot your soul. People—mostly women—have told me in graphic detail how I should unalive myself, and why. Why? Because I’m  disgusting. Because I’m fat. Because I have the audacity to exist in a body that they think shouldn’t be seen, let alone celebrated. There are entire communities— groups of people who gather and bond over the belief that fat people don’t deserve to live. And if we dare to exist anyway? They demand that we do so while hating ourselves. The...