This guest essay is by Riley Brooks (a pseudonym).
Published under a pseudonym at the applicant’s request. The accompanying image is a stock photograph.
Static filled my ears when I was young, even though people around me acted like they heard music. Voices reached me broken, like signals underwater – present but warped. Words to describe this never came easily during those years. Instead, sound hit harder, time moved quicker, chaos blended into daily scenes others walked through calmly.
What helped me grasp my own life most? Realizing my mind works on a different setup. Not faulty – just built unique. So tasks smooth for many demanded years from me to figure out, yet stuff tricky for others clicked fast in my head. That balance shaped how I move through days.
Back then, little things slipped past me – like when to jump into talk or spot a smile that wasn’t real. Words bounced around while others just knew where they landed. Turns out, unwritten codes ruled those moments, ones I kept missing. Faces changed shape but meant nothing clear. Sounds carried hidden weights. Nobody handed out maps for any of it.
Staring back? That often hit too hard. Like juggling thoughts with both hands tied behind my back. Sounds most people never noticed – the flicker of overheads, mumbles down the hall, static from a far-off room – they piled up fast. Where someone else might tune it out, I caught every thread, tangled together. Focus slipped easier when everything insisted on being heard.
Strange how the mind works, mine especially. It caught things most people walked past without seeing. Order in chaos stood out clearly, like hidden signals meant only for me. Focus arrived suddenly when curiosity struck, pulling me into worlds few bother exploring. Others called it obsession, but really it was peace wrapped in knowledge. Joy lived inside those quiet fixations, steady and true.
Back then, standing apart seemed more like a flaw than anything else. It left me feeling misplaced. Others called me reserved, focused – or just odd. Hanging around people wore me out since I stayed busy tracking each move, reading cues, thinking twice about what to say next. Reaching out mattered to me, even when the path wasn’t clear.
That difference stood out clearly back then. In class, success came fairly easily – particularly when problems had definite solutions and followed reason. Yet friendships never seemed to sync quite right. Team tasks brought extra strain; concern wasn’t missing, just the ability to read hidden cues in shared effort. Speaking up carried risk – it might land poorly – and so silence grew heavier over time.
At first, I blamed myself for getting it "wrong". I thought I have to become someone else just to belong. Slowly though, things shifted inside how I saw it.
It started to make sense: how I saw things might be unusual, yet still had worth. Where others caught small cues easily, I could dive into thought, build ideas, notice what most missed. Over time, it became clear these parts fit together – what felt hard and what came naturally belonged to the same whole.
That moment came because someone stood beside me. Not one of them pushed to fit in. Each let silence sit when I needed it. Questions grew easier because they listened without rushing. Help showed up not as fixing but as waiting. Needing another person never meant falling short. Growth hides in those moments we admit we cannot do it alone.
It took me years to realize: sharing thoughts works differently for each person. At first, I thought failing to speak just like everybody else meant something was wrong with me, like I was calibrated wrong when they were setting up my brain. But I learned flawless delivery isn't always the better way. Overtime, I discovered my own rhythm. Expression thrives when it fits who you are.
It started small, just me saying what I needed. When things felt off, I found ways to speak anyway. Each explanation – like needing more time or a quieter space – made something inside settle. Turns out, being clear about how my mind works didn’t push people away. Instead, it opened doors I hadn’t noticed before. My voice, quiet at first, began to hold weight. Even when my thoughts moved differently than others’, they still belonged.
Here’s something worth saying. What you see isn’t wrong – it’s just yours. Others might miss small sounds, bright lights, sudden changes – yet these shape your day deeply. Feelings can hit harder. Silence might be necessary before answering. Not broken. Just wired distinct. Your mind moves through life another path.
Hard times show up now and then. Sometimes it feels like nobody gets you, like you don’t fit in anywhere. Still, those feelings aren’t the full picture. What makes you different also gives you power: sharp observation, truth-telling, deep concentration, original thinking, a vision of life that belongs only to you.
Back then, when everything seemed too loud and confusing – like colors crashing into each other – I’d whisper: nothing is wrong with you. Figuring out life on terms nobody explained takes courage, especially when the rules keep shifting without notice. Later on, what once tripped you up begins to feel familiar, almost natural. Funny how the quirks people didn’t get turn into strengths no one else has.
Starting out wasn’t smooth – yet every step carried weight. Lessons came slowly: how to bend without breaking, wait without fading, feel without fear. Shape never mattered much anyway; truth lies in knowing what fits your bones. Living well means crafting days that follow your rhythm, not someone else’s outline.
Just because something isn't a perfect copy of something else doesn't make it worse. Seeing things unlike anyone else does – your view carries weight simply by being yours.
This essay was submitted to the KFM Making a Difference scholarship program, founded by Dr. Kerry Magro to support autistic students pursuing postsecondary education.
