Being neurodivergent, for me, means my brain doesn’t always move at the same pace as the world around me.

I fight too hard for things I believe in. I speak before I’ve fully thought through every consequence. I operate on autopilot more often than I’d like, and planning ahead has never been my greatest strength.

When I’m in an unhealthy or toxic environment, I don’t always make the best decisions. I can become impulsive, chasing anything that temporarily makes me feel free or alive. Looking back, I can see those patterns much more clearly than I could while I was living them.

What has never changed is my commitment to honesty.

I fight for what I believe is right with every ounce of my being. I am honest to a fault. If I choose someone to share my life with, I don’t want secrets between us. Looking back over my life, I realize honesty has always been one of my strongest values.

My mother taught me something she probably didn’t even realize she was teaching: how to soften the truth so other people felt more comfortable. Sometimes that eases someone’s mind. Sometimes it becomes manipulation. The difference is intent.

I can honestly say I have never intentionally used that ability to harm another person.

I’ve learned that our thoughts, actions, words, and choices ripple outward in ways we rarely recognize until they come back to us. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is stand in front of the world and simply say:

“I made mistakes. I hurt people. My choices brought me here. I’m sorry.”

Owning your life isn’t weakness.

It’s freedom.

People often think I’m putting on a show because I’m loud, expressive, emotional, and animated.

The truth is, I’m mostly just music and movement.

At my core, I love people.

There were times my father struggled to see that. My mother forgot it for a while too. But I also know both of my parents did the best they could with what they had.

As a child, I used to say I never should have been born.

Yet I also had this recurring feeling—almost like a dream—that someday I would have something important to say. That someday my project would exist. That somehow my voice would matter.

Maybe I’m broken.

Maybe I’m overwhelming.

Maybe I’m too much for some people.

Sometimes I’m even too much for myself.

Maybe I really do belong traveling in a van or caravan with a community of people who gather to create, teach, dance, heal, and spread kindness wherever they go.

Maybe I simply need people who understand that my intensity isn’t meant to exhaust them. It’s just the way my brain experiences the world.

I know I’m a lot.

Because of that, I assume loving me probably isn’t always easy.

There was a time in my life when I experienced a severe mental health crisis after unknowingly consuming a substance. I ran barefoot down the road, frightened my neighbors, and behaved in ways that were completely unlike me.

I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.

I wasn’t stealing.

I wasn’t fighting.

I wasn’t trying to destroy anything.

I was simply disconnected from reality and incredibly vulnerable.

Looking back now, I’m grateful I survived.

That experience reminds me how important compassion is—because people don’t always know what someone else is going through.

Being my friend can be exhausting at times.

If I’m not pouring my energy into something meaningful, my mind searches for somewhere else to put it. I’ve learned that I need purpose.

When I have purpose, I thrive.

Without it, my energy can become overwhelming—for myself and for the people around me.

That’s why I dream so much about creating things that help others.

The world has spent far too long feeding anger.

I’d rather spend my life bringing people back to music, nature, dancing, spirituality, history, science, mathematics, creativity, and healing.

We don’t have to reject modern technology.

We simply have to stop letting hatred define us.

Forgive the people who genuinely learn from their mistakes.

Hold accountable those who continue causing harm.

Let justice do its job instead of revenge becoming our purpose.

Sometimes we lose people we love because we spend so much time pretending we’re happy that we never realize how deeply unhappy we’ve become.

I know.

I once believed I was happy too.

Back then I was trying to be everything for everyone else.

I was parenting my parents.

Carrying my brothers.

Raising my children.

Supporting extended family.

Trying to hold everyone together.

Eventually, I realized I’d forgotten how to simply be myself.

Maybe this chapter of my life is finally my chance to experience some of the childhood wonder I never really had.

When people told me, “Go have your fun,” I don’t think they realized how seriously I would take those words.

Because that’s exactly what I intend to do.

Not recklessly.

Not at someone else’s expense.

But fully.

Joyfully.

Honestly.

Even if not everyone understands the journey.