Writing to Be Heard in a World That Won’t Listen

Reflections on Being Necessary, Yet Invisible

Being both necessary and unseen is an exhausting paradox. Today’s article explores the tension of creating space for others whilst being denied space myself—writing as survival, not rebellion, in a system not built for me.

Introduction

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being both necessary and unseen. It lingers in the spaces between expectation and exclusion, a quiet, grinding weight that does not announce itself, but accumulates all the same.

The last few days have been a study in contrasts. I have walked the halls of my school, where my presence is mandated by law but my existence is barely acknowledged. I have observed students, watching them drift through classrooms with a detachment that feels almost deliberate, as if learning were something happening to them rather than something they might claim for themselves. I have greeted colleagues, offered my name and pronouns—again—and listened as it was disregarded in favour of something easier, something they decided upon without me.

And then, later, I have walked the path to my mailbox, where the land does not misname me. Where the jackrabbit flicks its ears in recognition, where the crows acknowledge my passing, where the brisk wind carries no indifference. The chaparral does not tolerate me; it simply accepts that I am here.

This is the liminality I live in—moving through a system that demands my labour but withholds belonging, a world that insists I must be present but refuses to truly see me. Today’s article and poem was born from that tension, from the weight of a name unspoken and the quiet relief of being recognised, if not by people, then at least by the land.

My Yesterday

The classrooms are not classrooms, not in the way they should be. They are holding spaces, cacophonous arenas where the purpose of education has slipped into something unrecognisable. Learning does not happen here—not as it should. Instead, there is a slow unraveling, a thousand fragmented conversations bouncing off the walls, a hurricane of sound and movement, each voice competing for attention in a space already drowning in excess.

This is the iPad generation, raised on distraction, trained to expect constant stimulation, their engagement tied not to curiosity but to consumption. They do not connect to the space, to the subject, to each other in any meaningful way. Instead, they entertain themselves at each other’s expense—jostling, laughing too loud, voices climbing over one another in a relentless surge, more about presence than about understanding. Learning is incidental, accidental at best, drowned beneath the ever-present need for novelty.

For me, it is a sensory onslaught, an unrelenting flood that my autistic brain cannot filter. My nervous system is inundated, frayed by the sheer volume of unmanaged chaos. The space is not designed for learning, nor for thinking—it is a whirlwind, a storm of unchecked energy, and I am caught in its centre. My mind searches for patterns, for structure, but there is none. Just waves of noise, of movement, of expectation without foundation.

And these are not my spaces. They are managed by others, dictated by forces I cannot move. I have no say in how they function, no ability to shift the tide—not for myself, not for the students on my caseload who are left to fend for themselves in the noise. The law mandates inclusion, but this is mainstreaming at its worst—a façade of access without the infrastructure to make it meaningful. My students sit in the chaos, unaccommodated, unseen, expected to thrive in an environment that does not acknowledge them. Just as I am expected to function in a system that does not acknowledge me.

And in all of this, I am expected to create safety, but I am not safe. I am asked to build inclusion, but I am not included. I am told to advocate for student voices, but my own voice is dismissed, unheard, erased.

I walk through the chaos, a required presence, a necessary function—but not a person. I exist in the gaps, in the expectations unspoken, in the obligations unreciprocated.

And the weight of it settles deep—the exhaustion of trying to create something meaningful in a place that does not seem to want it. The realisation that, despite everything, they do not see themselves as participants in their own education. That they are present, but not engaged. That I am present, but not seen. And that somewhere in this, something vital has been lost.

Reflections

I do not belong here.

The system may require me, but the space itself has made its stance clear—I am an outsider, tolerated at best. And I am not alone in this. The female staff move through these halls with the same weight pressing on their shoulders. They are not respected here. Our authority is questioned, our presence dismissed. We do our work, hold the line, and yet we are met with the same undercurrent of disregard that permeates the walls.

Here, adults are an inconvenience. A nuisance. Something to be navigated around rather than engaged with. The students do not view us as mentors, guides, or even obstacles—just background noise in the soundtrack of their day. Classes are interruptions in the flow of social existence, unwanted and resented. This is not a place of learning.

Here, the iPad generation expects bread and circuses, not logarithms and poetry. They do not write—they type, they text, they stream their thoughts into existence without pause, without punctuation, without breath. Writing is not craft; it is transaction, a fleeting stream of words meant only to convey enough to get by. And yet, when their scores reflect this, they protest. Not at the habits that shaped them, but at the mere suggestion that they are anything less than exceptional.

I feel all of this. Too much of this. My alexithymia dulls my ability to name it in the moment, but my hyper-empathy ensures I absorb it regardless. The undercurrent of disregard, the thinly veiled hostility toward structure, the way respect is an afterthought rather than a given—it seeps in, unfiltered, settling heavy in my bones. I cannot name it then, but I must name it now.

Because if I don’t, it will engulf me. If I don’t pull the words from the haze, if I don’t shape the weight into something I can hold at arm’s length, it will consume me whole. Writing is not reflection—it is survival. A way to siphon the excess, to pour out what would otherwise drown me. The words come later, always later, when the noise has receded, when I can breathe again. And only then do I begin to make sense of it.

By the time the day drags itself to an end, I have spent every ounce of energy just existing in it. And so I write—to make sure it does not take what little I have left.

So I leave. I must. I step away from the fluorescence, from the tide of voices that will not hear me, from the exhaustion of being necessary but unwanted. I make my way back to my little yellow house on the ridgetop, where the wind does not argue, where the land does not protest my presence.

And then, I write. I must. Not as a choice, but as an act of preservation. If I do not spill these words onto the page, they will sit heavy in my mind, looping, repeating, refusing to quiet. My GLP brain demands release—the words must be spoken, must be written, must be given shape outside of me before I can finally let them go. Before I can sleep.

This is what keeps me from drowning. Not dulling drugs. Not forced forgetfulness. But prose, poetry—words that will outlast the day, that will hold the weight so I don’t have to. Because if I do not name this, it will consume me. But if I do?

Then maybe, just maybe, I will rest.

A Stroll Through the Hallways

The distance is short,
a corridor stretched between moments,
lined with fluorescent flickers
and the hush of shuffling feet.

I step softly,
barely a ripple in the tide of motion,
yet they do not see me—
a student calls out,
"Hey, Mister!"
The syllables land heavy,
a name not mine,
a weight I did not ask to carry.

"Good morning," I say,
my voice thick with the hills of home,
West Highland edges rounding the vowels,
strange to their ears,
unnoticed, like my name.

Through the day, I move,
past staff who glance and nod,
past students who do not meet my gaze,
past the silence where my presence
is tolerated, but not kept.

I am required here,
but not welcomed.
Needed,
but never known.

But the mountains know me.
The chaparral calls me kin.
This expat space—
my home beyond home,
where the earth remembers
what the walls forget.

The jackrabbit knows me.
The crows call my name as I pass.
The quail scatter,
but not in fear—
in recognition.

In the chaparral,
I am not a mistake.
I am not a question.
I am not a thing to be tolerated.

I step outside,
the sun on my skin,
the wind in my lungs,
and for a moment,
the weight of the hallway lifts.

For here,
I am seen.

But …

It is risky to write this, to name these things aloud. It is always risky to say what one truly sees, especially when it concerns one’s employer, one’s place of work. I could keep a journal. Keep these thoughts locked away. I could whisper them only to myself, let them churn in the solitude of my own mind. But I have spent too much of my life in the shadows, in the quiet suffocation of closets both literal and metaphorical. To keep silent now would be its own kind of violation.

Perhaps I should know my role, my station. To remain where I have been placed, as Sir Anthony Hopkins’ character did in The Remains of the Day—to perform the duties required, to maintain the structure, to not allow my thoughts or feelings to disrupt the order of things. To be steadfast and silent, a presence that does not intrude. That would be the proper way, wouldn’t it?

But my superiors do not truly see me—so is there risk at all? If I speak, if I name what I observe, if I lay bare the exhaustion, the contradictions, the unbearable weight of being both necessary and unwanted, will anyone notice? Or will my words slip into the void, swallowed by the same indifference that has made me invisible in the first place?

Or perhaps this—this act of writing, of speaking aloud—is the only thing that might cause me to be noticed. A cyber alarm ringing in the background, a blinking light somewhere in an administrative office, some unseen observer suddenly aware that I have strayed beyond my station, that I have not kept to my place in the hierarchy.

And yet, if I have already been unseen, does it matter?

Either way, I write. I must.

Final thoughts …

This is not a critique of my employer, nor of my colleagues. This is not an exposé, nor an act of defiance against any individual or institution. These are just my observations. My feelings. The quiet thoughts of one person who, for the first time, has the ability—the new ability—to write them down.

I could take advantage of my employee benefits, of course. They offer “mental health” support, neatly packaged in corporate-approved sessions, reassuring employees that there is help available if we just reach out. But these supports are not built for people like me. They gaslight the employee into believing that the problem is personal, that it is our reaction to the system that needs adjusting, not the system itself. They do not understand what it means to be autistic in a world not designed for us. They do not understand gestalt language processors, how we process trauma, or the way alexithymia leaves us drowning in feelings we cannot yet name. They do not understand that sometimes, the only way to survive is to externalise the experience—to take what overwhelms and give it shape in words.

And so I write.

Not as an act of rebellion, not as an accusation, but because this is how I make sense of it all. Because if I do not write it down, it will stay inside, looping endlessly in a mind that cannot let it go.

Perhaps someone will read this and see it for what it is: not a criticism, but a cry for help. Not a condemnation, but a quiet plea for recognition.

Perhaps no one will notice at all.

Either way, I write.