Issue 5: September 15, 2025

AWG is an online support group for late-identified autistic women and all other members of marginalized genders. The meeting format is designed to reduce the sensory, social, and executive function burdens that normally come with socializing. Our members are clinically-diagnosed, self-diagnosed, and questioning. AWG is volunteer-led and not associated with any other umbrella organization or company.

Please consider joining us on Zoom. Our member profile is inclusive. Meetings are always free and no registration is required. Members share by speaking or typing. We also have many members who come just to listen. You never have to turn on you mic or camera if you don't want to. You don't have to come to every meeting, or stay the whole meeting, in order to be a full member. Disclosure of diagnosis/gender identity is welcome but never required for participation.

Click her to learn more about attending a meeting. You can also...

See upcoming meeting topics
Sign up for meeting reminders (scroll the homepage to find the signup form)
Join the AWG subreddit

I hope you enjoy AWG Shares Magazine. And please do join us in a meeting sometime if you can.

Annie Mydla

Founder and facilitator, AWG

Quotes of the month

Do you have a quote relating to autism or AWG values? Send it for inclusion!

"My soul longs for connection, but my body craves isolation. There’s a disconnect between what I relationally desire and what my sensory system can tolerate."

―
Megan Anna Neff, Attachment, Affection, and Porcupines

"What I wish to say is this: the value of a person shouldn’t be fixed solely by his or her skills and talents—or lack of them. It’s how you strive to live well that allows others to understand your awesomeness as a human being. This miraculous quality touches people. Via this 'how,' people consider the sanctity and validity of everyone’s life, whether special needs are involved or not."

― Naoki Higashida, Fall Down 7 Times Get Up 8: A Young Man's Voice from the Silence of Autism

Inverted Mountains
by Alëna Korolëva
alenakoroleva.com

The Borba region of Portugal, known for its rich marble deposits, is dotted with over 400 pit mines, all but 50 are abandoned. In 2018, a massive collapse in one of the largest quarries claimed five lives in a landslide. The history of mining is etched into the landscape, visible in the deep scars left by extraction. Over time, these wounds have been reclaimed by nature as non-human species adapt to the ruins, turning them into homes.

Four years after the landslide, I found myself at the bottom of this quarry as the sun set. Above me, pigeons circled the lower levels, filling the air with the continuous whistle of wings, while starlings gathered near the mouth of the pit, 50 meters above.

This colony of starlings had a few tunes they repeated again and again. The sounds reminded me of sirens and the beeping of excavation machinery from the nearby quarries. Masters of acoustic mimicry, the starlings took these simple melodies and created variations on the same notes, not just repeating but unfolding new songs, their own regional dialect.

Recorded in marble quarries near Borba, Portugal, October 2022. Released March 4, 2025 on Biodiversità Records as a part of 14 Soundscapes compilation.

Top 20 Signs You Might Be Masking Your Autism

Heather Cook, Autism Chrysalis Life Coaching

https://www.autismchrysalis.com/

Are you hiding your natural Autistic reactions from people? Maybe you've done that so much, for so long, that you don't even notice anymore. Here are the top 20 signs from everyday life that you might be masking your autism.

See a full transcript of the video at https://www.autismchrysalis.com/2024/05/11/top-20-signs-you-might-be-masking-your-autism/

Visit Autism Chrysalis and follow Heather on social media:

Website: www.autismchrysalis.com
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@autismchrysalis
X/Twitter: https://twitter.com/hmm_cook
Mastodon: https://universeodon.com/@hmm_cook
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/autism_chrysalis
BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/autismchrysalis.bsky.social

Autism Stories Podcast: An Interview with Autism and ADHD Advocate Michelle Borowski

Michelle Borowski, https://www.instagram.com/iammichelleborowski/

Doug Blecher, https://www.autismpersonalcoach.com/autismstories

Episode description from Doug Blecher, creator of the Autism Stories Podcast:

"For me, I have the sacral authority, which means I have a gut reaction. If you say, 'Hey, Michelle, do you want to go to the carnival tonight?' It's either going to be a heck yes or a heck no! In finding out this part of myself, that plays in big with the autism, because if I don't want to do something, if I'm not lit up about it, I'm just gonna get to that burnout stage so much faster", says Michelle Borowski. Michelle joins this episode to discuss discuss transitioning to a career in coaching, facilitating a support group for women, and the impact of human design on her life.

Ladies Call it a Commode

Emmie

Or at least my grandmother did. I don’t think I ever heard her say toilet, and she was one of the most ladylike women I’ve ever known. This might seem inconsequential, but the words we use to describe and surround something matter. My grandmother, with her pleasant words like billfold and commode, spoke with a dignified clarity that came with knowing exactly what she wanted to say and even more what she didn’t want to say, which she considered equally important.

Now why am I bringing up commodes you might ask. Well, I’m typing this out after just leaving my commode. I’ve had diarrhea for the past three days as a result of taking a medication at the recommendation of a physician’s assistant in an attempt to relieve the feeling of my throat closing up due to a hiatal hernia. As Michael Scott from the tv show The Office once said, “Too much information? That’s what I thought, but here I am using it.”

Back to the commode. As I sit there, I begin to feel dizzy, and I lay my head against the cool tiled wall and close my eyes. It’s hard to believe at 26 that I would be dealing with unidentified nausea, vertigo, chronic fatigue, POTS and a hiatal hernia. That’s not all, but I’ll leave the list there for now.

This was almost a month after having emergency appendectomy, and my body had not yet “bounced back” as I had hoped it might. I’m beginning to think that bouncing back is a concept invented by able-bodied people to guilt those who are chronically ill into pushing past the pain and discomfort and reentering everyday life, once more to be judged by their output and productivity, and ignoring the limits of their bodies and minds.

Some days I wonder if I could ever claim the label disabled. I feel like an imposter. My disabilities are invisible, and often cloaked by a high pain tolerance and an unwillingness to say when something is wrong. But sitting there in my bathroom for what felt like an eternity with my vision spotting and my motion sickness kicking in, I felt the designation fit.

I was sitting there after a day of waiting in an ENT’s office, having one ear cleaned out which caused tears to flow and left me speechless with the pain, and spending over an hour performing hearing and dizziness tests to see if we could determine what was causing my persistent nausea.

Unsurprisingly but disappointingly, my mom and I walked out of the office and back to the car with no answers and a note to schedule an appointment for an MRI to see if this could be something neurological.

This was one more appointment in a long line of medical appointments, and for months not a week would pass by without some form of testing or clinical conversation in a hospital or doctor’s office.

I was exhausted. I hadn’t been sleeping, and I knew that at some point in the day the disappointment and fatigue would kick in and I would lose my composure.

As I sat on the commode, it began to sink in, clinging to my skin like an invisible film, sticky and suffocating. My shoulders hunched over, my head drooped against the wall, and my hands were shaking. It felt completely overwhelming, and so totally isolating. At that point in my life I knew no one who walked with chronic and mental illness as I did, and I felt tired of talking and explaining what was wrong. I needed community. People who would speak a language of understanding, who would recognize and know that sometimes despair settles in like an unwanted house guest and you’re just not sure how to ask it to leave.

When writing this I know community exists. I know there are others just like me, who often feel like they are surviving instead of really living. Bound to a bathroom, a tub, a couch, a heating pad, or a bed. Toting a list of medicines as long as their arm with symptoms carefully documented and ready to walk into another appointment, unsure if it will provide any help or serve to exhaust them further. There are others who understand, and I wanted desperately to find them.

The journey is a long one, and even when surrounded by family members who love unconditionally and walk in to hospitals with you and hold your hand as a nurse digs trying to find a vein for an IV, you can feel desperately alone.

As I said earlier, the words we use to describe and surround something matter, and I needed to enter into a language that spoke deeply and honestly to disability and chronic illness. I needed someone who understands what it is like to be bedridden, exhausted, nauseous, and yet when it comes time for the day to end, unable to sleep through the night. I needed someone to tell me it was ok to feel like giving up was the best option, and I needed someone to remind me that there is life outside of hospitals and appointments, and that I still had wonderful days ahead of me. I needed to be reminded that I still had something to offer, even on my lowest days.

I’m not going to stop my search for community (especially within AWG), and I’m not going to forget that I still have a full and joyous life ahead of me. But sometimes all you can do is sit on the commode, lay your head against a cool wall, and close your eyes, and that’s ok too

Metamorphosis: Ecuador Stories Part 2

Stevie Lou Díaz

https://stevieloudiaz.com/

Trigger Warning: Harassment, alcohol

Read Part 1 here

Photo by Stevie Lou Díaz

While awaiting my connector flight in Bogotá, I spent the night in purgatory. That is to say, I spent the night sitting in a chair of the airport with two friendly nightshift cafe workers while a few security guards mentally tormented me every so often while holding rifles. I will forever be grateful to those cafe workers that I could spend the night near them, like a tiny moth hoping bats cannot hunt near light. Luckily, my flight came in on time.

I was now advancing towards my next mission: Meet the volunteer coordinator in Quito at their address the next day. I had another 24 hours of solo travel ahead of me. You might wonder how a girl so afraid of leaving an airport is going to get this done, let alone spend 5 weeks in Ecuador. But, it wasn’t fear that drove me to spend the night at an airport cafe like a cockroach with moth-like tendencies. I was mostly driven by saving money and not missing my connector flight. You can’t miss your flight if you never leave the airport. With my decision-making skills called into question, but stubbornness intact, I got out of the starting gate.

I hailed a cab from the airport curb. A man stopped for me and placed my backpack in the trunk of his car. I gave him the address to a hostel in a part of Quito that was in proximity to the meeting location with a good blend of tourists and residents. Quito’s airport is located north of the city. The city is broken up into different sections like Old Town, New Town, Metropolitan, etc. [As a reminder, this is before smartphones or even cell phones that could be used globally. I had a Lonely Planet Guidebook, took photos on a digital camera, and sent emails to family about once every couple weeks by going (out of my way) to an internet cafe. I have spoken to no one about my last 24 hours.]

We drove out of the airport and he took us up on a road that was above the city. I immediately went on high alert, scanning the city below me, looking at the road ahead, the locks on the doors, his face in the rear view mirror. I tried to play it cool, but my eyes could not stop the circuit of the city below, the road ahead, the locks on the doors, his face. He interrupted my fretful scanning when he told me this way was faster than the traffic in the city blocks down below. We locked eyes in his rearview mirror. I tried to read him, to weigh his soul even though it was through a reflection. The eye contact was painful. It went both ways. It was like a poker game only it was obvious I did not have a good hand. His explanation made sense, somewhere in the back of my mind behind all the fear and hyper-vigilance. We got to the hostel and with his hand on the trunk of his car asked for what my Lonely Planet Guidebook stated to be ‘tourist prices’. I paid him and in exchange got my backpack.

Quito is 2850m or 9,380 ft in elevation. Before I left the U.S. I updated all my vaccines and acquired anti-malaria pills (just in case I went to the jungle) and medication for altitude sickness. I did not use the altitude sickness pills because I have a bit of a medication phobia. The sidebar in my Lonely Planet guide titled ‘Andean High’ did not make altitude sickness sound that bad.

Maybe it was the past 24 hours with no sleep, the one beer, the multiple adrenaline rushes, or all of the above, but after checking into the hostel I started crashing. Hard.

The hostel was mostly empty because it was still early in the day. I was about to spend four weeks in the cloud forest so I decided to take a shower while it was still a sure thing. I brought all my stuff to the bathroom that had the flimsiest lock and took the last warm shower I would have for 4 weeks. The altitude sickness crept up on me while in the bathroom. The little sidebar in the guidebook didn’t seem so little anymore.

I could barely move. It felt like my body was drowning from gravity. Every task from dressing to opening a door was incredibly difficult. I remember trying so hard to hide my utter weakness. I decided I would not tell anyone I just landed, lest they know I was easy prey. I made it back to the hostel sleeping quarters, which was a shared room with bunkbeds for whichever travelers show up (see photo). I chose a lower bunk because I could not climb to the upper one. I pinned my backpack between my body and the wall and wound my arm into the straps so I wouldn’t be robbed while the inevitable sleep took hold. Kafka’s Gregor woke up after his metamorphosis. I was pulled down into mine.one beer, and one battle behind me.

Queer! AuDHD! BIPOC!

TQ
https://www.rewilding.cc/book

Image description: This is a graphic with a baby pink background showing the Queer! AuDHD! BIPOC! eBook cover in an e-reader and the podcast on a smartphone. Text reads: “A book and podcast to help queer and/or AuDHD BIPOC folks feel seen, less alone, and supported while living in multiple margins. Sales go to project costs, the Autistic People of Color Fund, and disabled Palestinian Nara’s family!” There is a dark red, rounded rectangular button with the link: rewilding.cc/book

Hi there, I’m building something close to my heart called Queer! AuDHD! BIPOC! It’s a crowdfunded eBook and limited podcast series centering queer neurodivergent BIPOC stories of survival, joy, and daily life.

I hope you’ll support us in showing the world that our stories matter. Help us build a resource of belonging and care for queer AuDHD BIPOC folks.

Find out more here - or read on for a preview of the book.

* * *

“Oh yeah, you definitely have ADHD,” Dr. L. nodded vigorously.

I sat across from him in his tiny, brightly lit office located near the shopping district in Singapore.

My hands fidgeted under the desk.

“Okay, so what happens now?”

He prescribed Ritalin, the only stimulant available in Singapore because of our strict drug laws.

What followed was weeks of tweaking my meds.

Trying different doses.

Trying the immediate release form.

Trying the extended release form.

As a chronically ill person, I’m no stranger to meds having terrible side effects, or in this case – no effect on me.

Weeks went by as I became convinced I was a lost cause.

I slept through seminars like I did in high school.

Starting and finishing tasks was still a nightmare.

And as a high school Literature teacher, I still struggled to climb my biggest “wall of awful”:

Grading hundreds of handwritten essays. Every. Single. Week.

It was this “wall of awful” that brought me to my psychiatrist, Dr. L., whom I’d also been seeing for depression.

I’d explained how difficult it was for me to focus while teaching my students.

How I procrastinated grading papers till the very last minute.

How it was becoming a problem during exam season, when we needed to key in grades by a strict deadline.

Dr. L. saw the ADHD right away.

In fact, it was teaching at a school with a high number of neurodivergent teenagers that led me to recognize neurodivergence in myself.

We both needed tasks broken down into the smallest possible steps, in ways that neurotypical adults couldn’t even conceive.

We both needed multiple modes of learning to stay engaged during lesson time, including plenty of photos, videos, games, and hands-on activities.

We both struggled with the relentless task-switching that takes place every time the school bell rings.

I was also an Art teacher, and task-switching between the two subjects literally made my head hurt.

Did the meds help in the end?

To a certain extent.

When we finally found the right dose, it was like someone flipped a switch in my brain.

I started tasks with less friction.

I moved from activity to activity with less distress.

Oh, and grading papers was less painful.

Now that was a miracle!

But a few things persisted – which I now recognize to be my Autistic traits.

See, Art and Literature are my Special Interests, which I’ll explain more in a moment.

But I could never just sink deeply into one of them and enjoy myself.

Why?

The staff office was too bright, too loud, too cold, and worst of all, open-concept.

Anyone could walk up to anyone and tap them on their shoulder for anything.

I was always on high alert for interruptions – even with my noise-canceling headphones on.

And being unable to focus deeply on my Special Interests was very distressing.

Plus, there were so many meaningless meetings.

Before school.

In between classes.

After school.

So much relentless small talk – and so little of it had to do with what I felt really mattered: our students.

Then there was being in the classroom itself.

Standing before 30 pairs of eyes, staring back at me.

I spent six years talking to the wall behind them and hoping no one noticed.

And even on meds, I still couldn’t focus while teaching.

I was overwhelmed by every sound and movement my students made.

I do NOT blame them, of course.

I know they’re just being teenagers cooped up in a classroom for hours on end.

Instead, I blamed myself for not being more patient.

Because sometimes the sounds became too much.

The hot and humid classroom became too much.

The stress of getting through a lesson plan became too much.

The stress of surviving Singapore’s exam-obsessed pressure cooker education system together, at breakneck speed, was too much.

Everything was too loud, too hot, too fast.

And to my great horror, I would melt down.

I would yell at a student to sit down.

Yell at a class to quiet down.

Or sometimes, downright break into tears.

The classroom would get still.

And in the stillness, shame oozed down my throat.

The shame says:

“I’m a hypocrite. I’m hurting my students. I’m doing to them what all the abusive adults did to me when I was a kid.”

At the time, I had no idea what a meltdown looked like in an Autistic adult, even though I’d seen my Autistic students melt down many times. I had no idea what sensory overwhelm was, either.

All I knew was a desperate urge to get away from the sounds and sensations.

I would leave work as soon as humanly possible and head to 7-11 to grab a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and a bag of chips.

Then I’d return home, sit in the dark, and watch a show I’d watched a million times on mute with the subtitles on, crunching away on my chips.

I thought myself pathetic at the time.

But where I once saw pathology, I see survival.

And I thank myself for doing the best I can with limited self-knowledge at the time.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because it’s so confusing to have NO idea how your neurotype works.

To be told you’re this entire thing – in my case, ADHD – when it’s only HALF the picture.

Even with my ADHD diagnosis, I was still struggling with all my unmet Autistic needs.

Being both ADHD and Autistic is confusing AF!

What makes it all even more confusing is when we don’t see ourselves reflected in official narratives about Autism or ADHD.

Especially when the authority figures who decide don’t see the AuDHD in us.

* * *

You just read an early draft from the second chapter of my upcoming book, Queer! AuDHD! BIPOC!

As I mentioned earlier, it’s a crowdfunded eBook and limited podcast series where my collaborators and I talk about what it’s like to be AuDHD while living in multiple margins.

So far, I’ve written the first 2 chapters and the project is 30% funded!

It feels amazing. I’ve missed writing in long-form, and this book gives me the space to do that - while hyperfocusing on my Special Interest in AuDHD.

I know I can’t do this alone, especially as a disabled AuDHDer and Asian immigrant living in diaspora, which is why I’m asking for community support. By supporting this project, you’re:

Uplifting queer, disabled, neurodivergent BIPOC lives

Co-creating a resource that says to queer AuDHD BIPOC that we are real, valid, and not alone

Investing in something our communities need - work created by us, for us.

Will you join us today?

Mausoleum of Cheetos: An Autistic Child’s Guide to Surviving Spontaneous Closet Volcano Birth

Stephanie Stockmeister

A previous version of this poem was a Finalist in the 2025 Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest from Winning Writers

Steve Irwin was my favorite person.

I loved Discovery Channel

collected National Geographic

had dinosaur bed sheets

introduced myself:

I can spell Tyrannosaurus Rex:

T-Y-R-A-N-N-O-S-A-U-R-U-S-R-E-X.

I’m going to be an archeologist.

I watched a documentary on volcanoes

and learned about two things:

the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius,

perfectly preserved Pompeii;

and that time in 1943 when a cornfield

gave birth to a volcano in Mexico:

a farmer was tending his field

when the ground punched

six feet into the sky

lava oozed out of the corn

geologists came like wise men

to witness for the first—and only—

time in modern human history

a seismic virgin birth.

“Congratulations,” they said,

“it’s a volcano!”

They named her Paricútin,

after the farmer’s village she consumed,

watched her grow for nine years,

leaving only the church bell tower

standing. She reached for the sky with 1300 feet.

No one died

(except for three people

struck by lightning

caused by ash clouds)

but what's important is this:

a six-year-old learned

volcanoes burst forth

from the ground, anywhere,

completely at random.

The next day at day care,

I sat on the cool linoleum

creating my scientific report

meticulously bound with yarn:

a red construction paperback

including a page of curled

vaguely embryonic shapes

a two-dimensional daguerreotype

mausoleum of Cheetos

ashy grey with dust &

given a caption as close as I could

to a professional museum description:

These are the victims.

They are dead.

As the crayons wore down

I imagined the wax melting

instead of coloring

the flaming page

like the floor was lava

& I was immune, could part it

With my rhythmic rocking

like some kind of molten Moses;

lava is liquid, I thought.

Moses could stop a volcano birth for sure.

I proudly showed my work to my teacher,

who told my mother

I was emotionally disturbed

and drawing pictures of corpses

What she thought was

the birth of a serial killer

was actually the birth of a historian

(I'm sure that, to this day,

the FBI agent

responsible for monitoring

my Google search history probably

struggles with this distinction):

those corpses were plaster casts

with bones inside, negative

space, holes left by

fossilized roommates

who held each other for

comfort as ash clouds closed in

over ancient Pompeii.

I laid down to sleep that night

with fascination turned to fear.

When the sun went down

I forgot about the lava immunity

of Molten Moses & me,

forgot the force of my rocking

possessed a type of power

that pushed the lava away,

parted that red sea;

it had been 24 hours

since I saw the documentary.

By now, in 1943,

Paricútin had grown 165 feet.

Deep into the night,

I called out to my mother.

An emergency was at hand. Mom, exhausted, appeared

& I, with deadly seriousness,

a small child

bravely speaking to a 911 operator

about grandpa’s heart attack,

briefed her on the crisis:

a cinder cone volcano

was being born in the closet, the door

holding in the lava. For now.

A pause. A beat. A sigh from Mom:

“You’re on the second floor.”

I persisted: “Baby volcanoes make

mountains so fast that it

could be buried below

the closet—below the basement—

and encase me in ash while I slept

before I could wake up for school.”

Mom didn’t feel the urgency,

went back to bed without

even looking in the closet

to make sure there was no lava

oozing up from the carpet

and burning my binder of

Pokémon cards, mint first editions

carefully sorted and sleeved

in plastic sheets of nine,

nonetheless on the floor but surely

worth something in the future.

But then I fell asleep and now

I’m thirty-three. My parents still live there,

the closet still exists. I am happy to report

despite my knowledge, research,

day care publication, peer review

from my teacher,

my data misled me.

The danger has passed.

The world is safe

for another day, another decade,

from the once-imminent threat

of the random closet volcano baby

That I was certain chose my closet

in particular. It wasn’t a close call.

I didn’t know I was the volcano:

the only thing erupting in the closet

was me all along

She was never the girl you thought she was

Elle Obregon

She was never the girl you thought she was,

She was understood by very few.

The stillness and quiet in her room

As she locked herself away

A prisoner of her own mind at an age

when kids were having water balloon fights and playing M.A.S.H

She knew she was different,

And wondered why no one ever thought the same.

If she could go back in time,

She would cry on the flowers that lived just outside her window.

Because then the flowers would be able to grow alongside her.

The flowers handle all types of weather,

and she thought that was relatable,

considering in one day,

she could have a thunder storm, hurricane and a tornado all carry through her

mind,

but somehow still stand.

When she played with her barbies, it wasn’t just play.

She was creating internal family systems and creating

a safe space for her mind.

The barbies, the stuffed animals, the polly pocket’s,

the little trinkets were her dearest friends. It’s not sad,

because it made her happy.

Behind closed doors the mask came off and her

little voice could sing, her little fingers could

play the piano, her little body could dance because

being perceived was not a fear in her little room.

“Every child is like this” echoes and echoes and echoes

When she was dropped off at school every morning,

her body felt immense weight,

and school was the worst possible place,

her safe space ripped away from her.

She had to be brave every day,

and no one knew that walking down the halls,

asking the teacher to use the restroom,

figuring out where to eat at lunch

were big, scary moments every single day.

Some days the scary moments were not conquered,

and she kept everything inside.

There were small moments where she felt proud,

But neurotypical people around her were doing these things just fine,

So why was she making such a fuss?

She was never the girl you thought she was

Her internal battles had to be flattened down well under the rug.

Only her stuffed animals and her best friend (Tilly the dog)

were safe spaces for meltdowns.

They didn’t ask why, and that comforted her.

Crying was never about attention,

It was a way to let the weight of it all go.

Outside, crying wasn’t acceptable

(so she couldn’t release)

Outside, sucking her thumb was deemed weird in public and at school.

(So she couldn’t self soothe)

Outside, being sensitive to everything around her wasn’t possible.

(So she couldn’t be herself)

“that happens to everyone” echoes and echoes and echoes

The big feelings, and oh they were so very big,

were only safe to feel when she closed her door to her magic place.

No bullies, no judgement

she could be at peace, while also being at war with herself.

One day she was full of personality, on stage performing,

And within a blink of an eye she realized,

“This world was not meant for you.

You will not survive if you are you.

So stop it

now”

And the mask went on.

She learned it all by myself.

Her internal family systems saved her

over and over and over.

(thanks barbie)

To have woken up every morning,

masking herself as though she belonged,

while burying her true self

turned every struggle into two.

masking made each wound feel

deeper, each step harder.

Next month, she turns 30,

And wouldn’t you believe it, She got diagnosed with autism in June.

She may seem very very very very very high functioning to you,

but her own story tells much different.

her story is of survival amongst

humankind with brains unlike her own,

who aren’t kind,

all the time.

She is understood by few

But that doesn’t stop her from working on herself,

and learning how to keep the bedroom door open.

Birds will be birds

Sol Iacob

I don't need your love anymore

enough hands have reached me to lift me

out of the hole that you had so carefully dug

I do not need your love anymore

Confirmations of being something

more than a mirror to your illness

Confirmations that I'm human

not

an object

I don't need your love anymore

I just realized today, like an ordinary thought

I realized and nothing stopped.

My anger did finally sprout, flowers bloomed, so painful

fruited into tears that watered the plant

We do that, those of us for whom

rain is only a luxury for others

we give birth to ourselves like chimeras

That’s fine

I now look at you and feel sorry,

not because I did not save you

but that you will never know

How you lived

You will never know

Me

I gave you way too long the power of confusion

Put up with the claimed innocence of your monstrous oblivion

– that people do, in fact, have feelings –

Oh Exception, what an illusion, what a weapon

but it has become cliché, predictable, distasteful

unfortunate how it all got wasted

how much you are missing out on

as you wreck havoc in your world

I don’t think I really need to understand, though

I won’t pretend that it was fine

for you to treat me like I’m not a human being

I don’t think I want to normalize the way you have been living

But I kept my promise, and I am past you

past your mutually reinforcing madness

past the insults, past the silence

past the way you sacrificed me

the way that you decided my existence was for others

how you locked that fact in with double standards

used my disabilities to keep me so dependent

Past the belief that I don't matter

enough to be respected

to not always be seen as less than

a voice that can be interrupted

I no longer take for granted

that I’ll never see my thirties

Am I late? Embarrassing

for how long you have affected me

As I watch you age, you think you know me

happy in your decision of oblivion

It makes me sad, but I don't

need your love

anymore, to placate the pain

that you created

There is a land beyond your island

with stolen wood I made my boat, sailed on my own, it broke, I almost drowned

There is a land and I now live there

with those who chose to raise above the violence

A bird born in a cage is born alone

A bird born in a cage is told

that it deserves it, nothing else for you in this world

"Aren't you grateful it's made of gold?

You took the seeds though, didn't you? Whore?"

A bird born in a cage just does not know

of other birds sharing their song

As we always share this time with strangers

who would understand us

I swear they would understand us

I could swear the purpose of this life

is only to grow stronger than the lies

that we are made to interiorize

all this system does is just gaslight

such a relief to no longer be so young

I swear there are not sins but just mistakes

that nature makes so that god remains immaculate

When disappointment breaks you down

it won't go back, don't put it back, just be undone

so be it, I am sorry, it's gone.

Time won't heal but a warm voice will

You are not the pieces you are the eyes

that can look at them and smile

with a corner of your mouth

and your people on your side

if you can stretch

wide enough to fill the hole they dug inside you

Sorry

If you survived it

if you expanded into living without hope

and you are still human in your chest in spite of that

How little did we know before

Is it too dark? Is it a luxury or a virtue

to forget about the struggles of this world

I do not know

I mean look at what is going on

I don’t need your love anymore

what's lost is past, I've let you go

There surely will be an echo still, sometimes

just like love can't just be accepted

it needs reiteration, to be tested

check if it's lasting, if it can be trusted

A bird out of the cage gets dizzy

A bird out of the cage hits things

ungracefully teaching itself how to fly

by watching those birds who are up in the sky

being so late to the flock

it attracts all those disconcerted looks

blindly flapping wings it had forgotten

Do you ever remember things you've never known? I do

crazy how that works

It's over

You keep one in your garden, don't you

A bird

You still keep one in your garden

They sing at the top of their lungs

You think they sing for you

You never did learn that you can listen, did you

The Witch on the Hill: Part 2

Nadia T.

Trigger warning: References to the persecution and oppression of autistic-coded characters, references to injury and illness

Read Part 1 here

Adele’s thirteen birthday arrived quickly.

The day had begun the same as any other: changing out of her pyjamas and having breakfast with her parents and Benjamin, then walking to Valeria’s house. It was mid-February, and the deep chill of winter seeped through her thick coat and stockings and made her teeth chatter.

Her lessons with Valeria instilled an increased awareness and appreciation of the cycle of life: birth, vitality and decay. The skeletal trees of the orchard greeted her, their branches like twisted limbs. Adele didn’t dare to conjure toadstools or flowers; the frigid temperatures would immediately make any life she created wither away in an instant. Instead, she ran her hands along the bark of the barren trees, enjoying the transition from rough to smooth.

The path to Valeria’s house was easy to find, even though tall snowdrifts covered the ground. The fastidious witch was certain to keep a clear walkway, her spell automatically moving piles out of the way every time more snow fell.

On impulse, Adele flopped down on her back into a nearby pile of the stuff, giggling as the fluffy coldness molded around her. The joy she felt made the pale blue of the winter sky seem brighter, the red berries on the coniferous bushes nearby more vivid.

When she arrived at Valeria’s house, red-faced and beaming, the witch greeted her at the door.

“Why, Adele! It seems you had a fun journey.”

“I did! I love the snow.”

“Happy birthday, my dear.”

Adele hugged the witch tightly, and she returned the embrace. She smelled like rosemary, sage and sandalwood, and her deep green dress contrasted beautifully with her greying hair. The apprentice witch didn’t see her extended family very often, and so when Valeria celebrated her birthday with her for the past two years, it was like she was at a party with her favourite aunt, Theresa. Theresa and Valeria would get along, Adele thought. Yes, they were both unique souls with unbreakable spirits. “Come in, come in! I have something special planned. A new lesson that we’ve never done before.”

“What is it?”

Adele’s eyes sparkled with excitement as Valeria led her to her sitting room.

They weren’t alone. At Adele’s kitchen table there sat a person with lavender hair that was cropped close to their head. Their skin was warm in the candlelight, and there was a softness to their form that was quite elegant. They were engrossed in a book that appeared to be an obscure tome, likely about alchemy, from the illustrations inside it.

“Almost done!”

Their voice was loud and cheerful, contrasting sharply with their intense look of concentration. The villagers might be unnerved by such a person, Adele thought, but not me. She understood the look of complete absorption, a feeling she knew all too well; the object of fascination was their entire world right now.

“Okay!”

The book snapped shut, the heft of it thumping against the oak surface of the table.

“Well, I’m not great at introductions,” the stranger said.

“That’s okay. Neither am I.”

The scholar laughed, their husky voice gentle. “I’m Fionn of Inverness. But, ah, you can call me Fionn. Valeria and I have been friends for ages.”

Valeria coughed. “We were more than friends for a time, if memory serves me.”

“Hmmm, that’s true!”

Fionn ran the pad of their thumb over their fingernails, grinning sheepishly.

“It’s all right. I’m just giving you a hard time,” Valeria said, a touch of mischief in her voice.

Fionn swatted the witch’s arm playfully, and the woman chuckled.

“So, Adele! I heard it’s your birthday today! Valeria, kind heart that she is, had me come to teach you something special.”

Fionn stood, and for the first time, Adele noticed that they had pointed ears. At their full height they were tall, and they hovered a few inches from the floor. “You’re a fair folk!” Adele gasped.

“That I am!”

“So I’m going to learn fairy magic?”

“Yes! Today, I’ll be teaching you my hovering technique.”

Adele spun in a circle, her arms outstretched. “This is… This is the best day of my life!”

She spun and spun.

Suddenly dizzy, she sat on the floor and Fionn grinned at her enthusiasm, hands on their hips.

Adele had taken well to her lessons over the past three years, despite the material growing steadily more difficult. She learned to mend minor injuries, soothe people’s hearts and brew medicines that cured even the nastiest flu. But there was an untapped side to magic that she longed for; one of mischief and daring. A colourful and beautiful world she had not yet seen.

“Are you ready?”

Adele nodded.

“To start, what do you know about life energy?”

“Everyone has it and everyone person’s is different. It’s the core of each person’s being, but witches are the only ones who can use theirs to power magic.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. I want you to picture your life energy as a stone in a slingshot. The slingshot can be aimed at any target, but the stone inside of it is small. Focus your energy in your mind and imagine a target: that’s your Focus. Once you find your Focus, I’ll move on to the next step.”

The student witch’s brow furrowed as she thought. Truth be told, her mind’s eye was always blank, her mental imagery absent. She had never thought about it before, but it soured the moment, leaving her frustrated.

“I can’t picture anything.”

“That’s okay! We can work around that.”

“I have the same block as you,” Valeria said. “We witches call it the Wall. Many of us have it, but there are lots of alternative approaches to Focusing.”

“Birds of a feather, eh? Well, how about this? How does your life energy feel in your body when you use magic?”

Adele tapped her chin with a finger.

“It feels like a warm bath. And like pins and needles.”

“The warmth is the heat from your life energy and the pins and needles are it moving through your body. Now, I want you to move that warmth and tingling so most of it rests in your feet.

This, Adele could work with. Soon, her feet felt like they were walking across warm sand, coupled with a familiar tingling sensation. The floor was cold under her feet.

She turned to Fionn and they continued.

“Imagine the wind lifting your feet off the ground.”

The wind is invisible, Adele thought. So I don’t have to see it in my mind. How does the wind feel? Like the brush of a hand, or pressure, sometimes gentle, other times fierce. She felt it rise beneath where she stood.

Suddenly, Adele was hovering an inch above the floor, so stunned she was silent. Then, just as quickly as she had gained air, she was standing on solid ground once again.

“You did it!”

Fionn was amazed.

“I did it. I did it!”

Adele jumped in place, laughing brightly.

“You’re a natural! Keep practicing and soon you’ll be able to sustain it.”

A wave of fatigue hit Adele and she yawned. Valeria guided her to her couch, putting a pillow under her head and covering her with a warm, soft blanket.

“Now rest. You’ve worked hard today.”

She fell asleep instantly.

* * *

Adele awoke to the sound of murmuring voices.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. He’s got that quack of a doctor, Dane Morris, working for him.”

“This is very troubling.”

“You can say that again! He thinks all witches are using the Devil’s magic and Morris’s leeches, tinctures and mustard powder cure all ills.”

“Oh, King Thalus. What a thorn in my side!”

Adele walked over to where her friends were sitting at the kitchen table. She knew a few things about their king. King Thalus was an ineffective ruler, often resorting to extreme measures and trickery to win over his subjects. The story of the emperor’s new clothes fit him well: a man who surrounded himself with sycophants, never seeing his own incompetence.

“Adele, you’re just in time for tea!”

Valeria puttered around her kitchen, using a spell to boil water and pouring it over a mixture of dried berries and herbs.

“She made you a black forest cake,” Fionn whispered conspiratorially.

“That was supposed to be a surprise!”

Valeria called from across the room.

“That’s all right. I don’t like most surprises.”

The fairy let out a guffaw at that.

They ate cake and drank tea, and before they knew it, it was close to sunset. Adele was curious about King Thalus, but Valeria skillfully derailed any conversation about him until Adele gave up, admitting defeat. Fionn evaded the topic, too, using humour to distract her.

Adults were so strange, hiding things from children. And she was thirteen now: definitely old enough to understand politics.

Are they protecting me? Unease churned in her gut.

“Adele, you should probably start heading home,” Valeria said.

The witch noticed her preoccupied look and sighed.

“Let’s talk about Thalus another time. There’s a lot of history to get through, and I don’t want to upset you on your birthday.”

So that’s what was going on: more persecution of witches. Adele was not exactly surprised; instead, it left her feeling profoundly weary.

“I had a wonderful birthday. Thank you, Valeria. And it was nice meeting you, Fionn. Thanks for the lesson.”

She hugged them both.

“Wait! Before you go, wear this.”

Valeria brought out a wool scarf that was the same bright red as the winter berries outside. Deep maroon tassels decorated each end.

Adele grimaced. She didn’t like the feeling of wool touching her neck.

Valeria chuckled.

“I know that wool isn’t your favourite thing, so I charmed this scarf to always feel like silk. Try it on!”

Sure enough, the scarf was somehow warm, smooth and cool to the touch. Adele brightened at its comforting texture.

“I love it!”

“I’m glad. Now hurry, get home before the sun sets! Or you’ll make an old woman worry.”

As she turned to go, Adele vowed to remember this day forever.

Years from now, she would swear she could still feel the exhilaration of her first flight and the warmth of Valeria’s hug. And if she closed her eyes, she could taste the rich flavour of chocolate cake.

* * *

          Adele burst through the front door of her family home.

          Both her parents were reading by candlelight, and Benjamin was whittling a small piece of wood in the corner.

          As soon as he saw his older sister, Benjamin ran over to her, hiding a hand behind his back.

          “Happy birthday!”

He handed her a roughly carved rabbit, its tiny face shaped into a permanent smile.

          “It’s beautiful!”

          She put the rabbit beside the colourful teapot her parents had given her that morning. Ivy and flowers decorated the teapot’s pale surface, the bright hues complementing her wooden friend.

          “How was your birthday lesson?”

         “Amazing! I learned to hover above the ground!”

          Agatha and Samuel exchanged a worried look, knowing how accident-prone their daughter was. Surely, they were picturing broken arms and bruised knees.

          “Just be careful.”

Samuel shook his head with a grin.

          “I’m always careful,” Adele said.

          “Your scars say otherwise.”

          “Fair point.”

          Adele walked to the kitchen to fix herself a glass of warm milk.

“But you know Valeria heals me when I get hurt. It’s not that big a deal.”

          “We still worry,” Agatha said.

          “I guess that means I need to get better at magic so you won’t worry anymore.”

          “I suppose so, smarty pants.”

          Later that evening, when Adele was tucked into bed beside Benjamin, she couldn’t sleep. The day’s events swirled in her head in a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She didn’t know much about the world, but she did know one thing: she wouldn’t rest until Valeria told her more about King Thalus and his nefarious plans.

          Wealth and family status were said to be the real measures of might in this world, but there was a quiet strength in healing magic. It was a strength corrupt kings and their lackeys would never understand.

          After tossing and turning, Adele finally gave up trying to sleep and went over to her carved rabbit. It was cool to the touch, and somewhat bumpy. Her brother’s clumsy work was obvious, but it made her adore it even more.

          She peered out the kitchen window, thinking, and wondering what kind of world she was inheriting from her mentor. It was an unjust world, but one she vowed to protect.

          She kissed the rabbit’s head, put it back next to her teapot and crawled back into bed.

          Benjamin was sound asleep, his little face the picture of peace. She smiled and smoothed his hair.

          Yes. There was much to protect, but love gave her strength, whatever the future would bring.

Autistic woman to diagnose heart disease by staring into people's soul

Sol Iacob

Daria Petrova, 34, has been granted an honorary position in a prestigious medical clinic, for being able to diagnose heart problems with a simple gaze.

Petrova, despite not having any medical degree, discovered her gifts while she was focusing on maintaining eye contact with an elderly relative. "I have no clue what they were telling me", she reports, "I just felt like I was staring into their soul, I saw their entire life, subconscious fears and innermost desires, then it went so deep that I started seeing the mitral valve prolapse in their heart. It was very obvious, so I just called the doctors straight away. I was then told that apparently this is not a normal thing. They also asked me how I knew what a mitral valve prolapse is. I thought that was common knowledge."

In her first 2 weeks of work, Petrova has diagnosed 5 patients and 3 colleagues who attempted to do small talk during breaks. "I felt a bit uncomfortable at first", a colleague said, "she was staring silently at me like an owl as I was trying to tell her about the barbecue I had last week, so I started thinking I had sauce on my chin, but then she suddenly whispered 'Arrhythmogenic cardiomyopathy'. I knew there and then she had saved my life."

Bathrobe Comics: Sounds

Sarah Jane Cody

https://instagram.com/bathrobe_gal

When people say they don’t “hear” stuff like the fridge––like, they’re not bothered by its constant slow drilling away into their eardrums––it’s still a bit hard for me to comprehend. Can you imagine? Not hearing, and often feeling somewhat (or very) attacked by, all this stuff? I end up wearing my noise-canceling headphones or loops much of the time, but I long to just turn it all off. Or else run deep, deep into the forest where there are no human sounds.

Sticker: Friendly Universe

Elissa Fox

ContentsSeptember 2025 • Vol. 1, Nr. 5

About Autistic Women's Group

Quotes of the month

Inverted Mountains by Alëna Korolëvaalenakoroleva.com

Top 20 Signs You Might Be Masking Your Autism

Autism Stories Podcast: An Interview with Autism and ADHD Advocate Michelle Borowski

Ladies Call it a Commode

Metamorphosis: Ecuador Stories Part 2

Queer! AuDHD! BIPOC!

Mausoleum of Cheetos: An Autistic Child’s Guide to Surviving Spontaneous Closet Volcano Birth

She was never the girl you thought she was

Birds will be birds

The Witch on the Hill: Part 2

Autistic woman to diagnose heart disease by staring into people's soul

Bathrobe Comics: Sounds

Sticker: Friendly Universe

Contents
September 2025 • Vol. 1, Nr. 5

Inverted Mountains
by Alëna Korolëva
alenakoroleva.com