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It’s been three decades since I last saw Karl. More than thirty years since I decided I wanted to be a writer. In that time, I’ve gone through I can’t even guess how many wallets, but each time I get a new one, I remove the wrapper from the old and slip into the new. And whenever I feel discouraged or on the verge of quitting, I reach into my wallet, carefully unfold the now brittle paper, and remind myself of the journey I embarked on more than thirty years ago.

I received an email from my publisher informing me that Unsolicited Press accepted my memoir—Fire and Ice: A Nepalese Travelogue—for publication. The release is currently set for 2028, although that could possibly change.

I frequently wrote in mirror images. I didn’t do it to be defiant. In fact, I have no memory of it being a conscious act at all. It’s simply the way my brain works. I set the words down on paper as instructed, but when my dad checked my homework at night it often made him apoplectic.

The publishing world is not kind or accommodating to people like me, people on the spectrum who struggle to navigate the neurotypical world and form meaningful connections with others.

Ever since I can remember, I have disliked  comedy. Maybe ‘dislike’ is too strong of a word. Perhaps ‘indifferent’ is better.  I find movies that are categorized as comedy either boring or frustrating because I perceive them too literally and the plots tend to irritate me. Stand up comedians make me feel as if I am lost in a crowd, trapped in a maze designed by the chaos of words that confound me.

As of January 1, 2026, I am no longer an Assistant Scoutmaster for my son’s Boy Scout troop. While I enjoyed my time as a leader, it is apparent that it is time to move on. I

The evidence my eyes saw did not at all match the rhetoric of the government. Immediately, I thought of Orwell’s well known quote from 1984, “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” I was not the only one. Within hours, the quote was trending on social media. My second thought was, “Damn, I’m teaching the wrong novel.” 

I am part of a lost generation of autistic women, girls who never really fit in socially but functioned well enough in school to be overlooked. Girls who could perform academically, even if they struggled to make friends. Girls who were labeled as being shy because making eye contact and conversations were difficult.

Undoubtedly, many of the issues regarding student performance and capability can be traced to COVID. This, however, is not the same as faulting COVID, which is what society tends to do.

Why am I bold and brazen when it comes to embracing one identity, but sheepish and borderline embarrassed when it comes to the other?

On the other hand, I am incredibly concerned that this new social media policy wishes to silence me, wishes to prevent me from speaking out against a woman who wronged my son. This policy is meant to protect the perpetrator by muzzling the voice that chooses to expose the way in which she attempted to destroy a scout’s self-esteem and his experience in scouting.

I hate that this question has even entered my thought process, but is it possible that I’ve asked too much of them?

I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to be noticed. If I could have made myself invisible I would have—I still would—because it’s the act of being seen that made me self conscious. A byproduct of being noticed was that I couldn’t just be. Others observed my awkwardness, my mistakes, my differences, and they commented on them.

Why did my commentary about the Committee Chair (amended to read ‘troop representative’) piss you off so badly, but you are unbothered by her false accusations toward G3 and her attempt to have him ousted as Senior Patrol Leader? Why are my words so egregious, but her actions are acceptable?

Now, I think G3 still likes going into the city because it reminds him of you. Saturday morning, before we left, G3 looked through the bin of hats and gloves that were once yours, looking for something to wear, a piece of you to bring with him.

I stepped away from my original lesson plan and invited my students into my very messy, confused, neurodivergent brain. I may have multiple graduate degrees, a book to my name, and an unquenchable desire to read, but that doesn’t mean reading is easy. I still struggle.

That’s when my friend leaned in, set her elbows on the table, and very gently asked, “Have you considered that you might be autistic.”

Although, there is a tiny voice in my head questioning if it is wise. Has my dream of being a writer brought more pleasure or pain?

It’s so unfair that Dad didn’t live long enough to be able to celebrate G3’s success. He dreamed of his grandson being an Eagle, but died before he got to see him take flight.

But now that my book is out, now that the anticipation and initial celebrations are over, what comes next? Where do I go from here?