In the Stillness of Chaos Preview: Expat from Værensland

Hormone replacement therapy (HRT) has profoundly transformed how I experience identity and existence, as both an autistic and transgender woman. As my body changes, the way I inhabit it shifts, and with these shifts come new challenges in navigating a world not designed for me. I often think of Erich Fromm’s distinction between “having” and “being.” In the land of “having,” society demands that we possess the right names, credentials, and appearances to fit into predetermined categories. My journey with HRT is not just about conforming to an external standard of womanhood—it’s about reclaiming my right to be.

Yet, as a Gestalt Language Processor, I often find myself grasping for scripts when words fail me. Poetry becomes a lifeline, a way to craft the language I need to process these shifts in identity. But in Værensland—the land of being—words aren’t necessary. There, I am free to exist without explanation, without the weight of trying to fit into a verbal world. But here, in this foreign land, as an expat, I must practice the ways of the “locals.” The weight of communication bears down, requiring me to translate my very essence into something recognisable. And while the words I gather are often borrowed, my journey toward self-definition continues, shaped by the tensions between being and having.

On Feeling foreign

Feeling foreign in this land of having is an experience that runs deep. I hear the voice of George Bernard Shaw in my head, as clear as when I first encountered his recordings, demanding that people justify their existence every few years. This modern world, driven by endless metrics of worth, leaves little room to simply be. Everything is measured, accounted for—there’s always a need to prove, explain, and defend. How rare it is to find those moments where I can just exist, without feeling the weight of external expectations.

It becomes even more evident during the quiet moments when I try to tune out the noise. Sometimes, I attempt to watch a sports match, hoping for a brief respite from the constant pressure to perform. Yet, even then, I am reminded of my place as an outsider. The game becomes a backdrop for the vile political ads that intrude, spewing hatred toward people like me—attempting to infect my consciousness with their callous disregard for my existence. It’s as if they’re saying, “You don’t belong here.” How could I possibly support a world that thrives on the destruction of my identity?

These moments leave me longing for Værensland, the land of being. A place where the pressure to justify myself dissolves, where I can exist without explanation, without needing to filter through layers of societal expectation. In Værensland, words don’t matter. There, I can rest, simply being, free from the relentless demands of this foreign land.

This poem is part of my new collection of poetry, In the Stillness of Chaos, available now.

Expat from Værensland

I am from a land not drawn on maps—
Værensland,
where the air hums with quiet,
and words grow slowly, like moss.
Here, I exist as being,
not pressed into the shape of having.
They ask,
“Where were you born?”
but the question slips,
falling between the cracks of years
I cannot remember.

There’s no name for the place
I came from—
an empty cradle,
a snake in my playpen.
I am scattered across timelines,
with two names and none,
my birth a glitch in the system
where records cannot hold me.
I was misplaced in this world of stone,
a river misrouted to desert shores.

I speak with the voice of old broadcasts,
Scottish echoes carried on SoCal airwaves.
I was non-verbal,
but the BBC whispered to me,
gave me words
I could become.
My voice is borrowed—
it carries my grandmother’s laughter,
and the static of a channel
I never quite tuned into.

I measure the cost of this foreignness,
weigh the toll I’ve paid in silence,
in strange glances and misplaced questions.
Each interaction is jagged,
scraping against the soft edges of my being.
I carry the fragments of answers I’ve never given,
like stones in my pockets,
waiting for a world that speaks the language
of who I am, not what I have.

But I gather myself,
an expat from a distant land—
where words flow without expectation,
and identity is worn like skin,
not paper.
I do not belong in this grid of numbers and names,
but I live here, nevertheless.

I will always be foreign—
not because of where I was born,
but because I am of Værensland,
the place where being is enough,
where the question isn’t “where,”
but “who.”

Final thoughts …

This Substack, The AutSide, has become something of a “behind enemy lines” broadcast to my fellow foreigners, those of us who find ourselves living in a world that feels entirely alien. Here, I send out words, thoughts, and reflections to others from Værensland, hoping that even across the vastness of this foreign land, my message reaches those who understand. It’s not easy to navigate this place where being is overshadowed by having, but there’s comfort in knowing we’re not alone.

To those of you who support my work with your hard-earned money, I want to express my deepest gratitude. I know how much each pence represents, the effort behind it, and I do not take it lightly. Your support makes it possible for me to continue sharing these broadcasts, these glimpses into our shared experience of feeling foreign in a place that constantly demands justification. It’s not just the monetary support that matters—it’s the recognition, the acknowledgment that someone is listening, that someone out there shares this sense of dislocation.

Though my following may be small, I am content knowing that there are at least a few who tune in, who hear the voice of an expat from Værensland and feel a sense of connection. We are a scattered community, but we exist, and in our existence, we push back against the forces that seek to erase or diminish us. Thank you for reading, and for sharing this journey with me.