Welcome. You Found Us.
A letter to new subscribers—from a writer always in training.
First: thank you.
Truly. If you’ve just joined this publication, whether through a friend’s share or a quiet search for something that speaks in your direction—I’m glad you’re here.
Not just for me. For us.
This is a publication grounded in autistic thought, true kinship, and the long work of translation. It’s not fast. It’s not tidy. It doesn’t chase virality or collapse complexity into clickbait. Instead, it asks:
What if we slowed down? What if we listened differently? What if we took the time to write ourselves into being?
For many of us—especially those who are autistic, gestalt processors, AuDHD—writing isn’t a luxury. It’s not branding. It’s not flair.
It’s survival.
It’s training.
I’ve written elsewhere about a graphic that haunts me. Two timelines. One for athletes: train, train, train, perform. One for professionals: perform, perform, perform—with “that one training day” tucked in as a joke. But for autistic professionals, there is no joke. There is only the truth of it. We are expected to show up fluent in a language that never came free, to navigate systems that punish silence and reward speed. Writing is how I train for those systems. How I prepare for conversations I will not be given time to process in real time.
And what you see—these essays, these reflections, these deep, thoroughly researched dives into education, power, care, and kinship—they are the teal. They are the training arc. They are the hidden hours I put in so I can show up in the red zones without falling apart.
That’s why I write so much.
And why I’ve made so much of it freely available.
Because I know that many of you reading this are navigating similar terrains—late-diagnosed, misread, surviving institutions that weren’t built for us. You deserve access to language that doesn’t flatten you. You deserve theory that begins with lived experience. You deserve to see yourself—not just studied or serviced—but reflected.
And if that has value to you—if reading this work has offered resonance, recognition, or relief—I’m asking, gently but directly:
Would you consider becoming a paid subscriber?
Even just for a month?
Your support doesn’t go to ads, or algorithms. It goes to time. It goes to rest. It goes to sustaining the teal—the invisible labour that makes this kind of writing, connection, and care possible.
Paid subscriptions help fund:
Archival access and policy analysis
The deep, script-heavy drafting required to say it right
Free access for those who can’t afford it
Quiet mornings of building bridges—between languages, between worlds
The refusal to rush truth
What Paid Subscribers Support—and Receive
There’s no secret vault. No exclusive posts. Everything I publish is made freely available—because access shouldn’t depend on income, diagnosis, or proximity to power.
But paid subscribers do receive something that can’t be mass-produced:
The ability to comment directly on essays and join unfolding conversations
The option to message me—and receive thoughtful replies, not automation
A front-row seat to this ongoing project of writing, building, and becoming
And my sincere, personal gratitude—for making this work sustainable
This is not a transaction. It’s a relationship.
A shared investment in autistic craft, in longform thought, in language that resists flattening.
But more than perks, paid subscriptions are a signal. They say: autistic writing matters. Autistic labour deserves support. And translation—real, embodied, care-full translation—is a professional skill worth resourcing.
We are fluent only because we’ve trained.
And training takes time. Time takes support.
So if you’re able: consider subscribing. Even for one cycle. Even if you switch back after. It helps. Immensely.
Alternatively, if you can spare only a wee bit of change, here are my Venmo and CashApp IDs.
And if you’re not in a place to do that right now—thank you anyway.
Read. Share. Stay connected. You’re welcome here, always.
With care and clarity,
Jaime
they/she