On Saturday, I wrote about loneliness and last week about friendship and the barriers I’ve built around myself.
Writing has always been therapeutic, but I hadn’t reached the end of that reflection. It’s been stirring around me constantly. A thought that’s become an itch that moves whenever I scratch it.
Last week, I wrote about how friendships change.
Originally, I was reflecting on something I’d noticed with my parents and experienced myself, but the next few days changed that.
One of my birthday presents this year was a new light box.
That might not sound particularly exciting, but I've wanted one for a while. My old light box broke and I'd been borrowing Midge's. Unfortunately, hers only works when plugged in and, even then, it's temperamental. It stopped me from doing more when I last drew. Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped drawing altogether.
Yesterday was my birthday and, while it technically started in the morning, the celebrations really began on Saturday.
As I write this on Sunday afternoon, I've been reflecting on my birthday tomorrow (the day I’ve posted this).
I'll be 44 years old.
I’m not the best Christian. At least not in the way people expect. In fact, many of my old friends used to describe me as “The Best Worst Christian.” It’s a title I’ve carried with pride, especially through the ordination process.
Recently, a friendship and professional relationship changed for me. It started me reflecting on disability, inclusion, and something I hadn't really considered before.
I didn’t sleep at all Wednesday night. After trying my sleeping rituals, breathing techniques, and prayer, I ended up reading blog posts to help drift off. I didn’t. Pain kept me awake, my mind was active, and my body wanted positions it can no longer rest in.
The idea of doing a Placement has floated around for almost a year now. It first appeared in my Carousel Conversations feedback. I fumbled a question about how I’ve tested my calling. Instead of explaining fifteen years of discernment, challenge, and growth, I spoke about being put on the spot and thriving in an area of my existing church life. Subsequently, they suggested a placement to give me breadth, experience, and space to see how things fit. I didn’t mind. Experience is valuable.
Spoiler Warning: This post contains plot details from Avengers: Endgame Encore.
Midge and I went to see Avengers: Endgame Encore last week. It promised four minutes of new footage that would link Endgame to Avengers: Doomsday. We were curious. Maddy Time is our thing. We do other activities, but cinema trips are where we mostly connect. This felt like something we had to see, even if it was only for those extra minutes.
This week has been a lot. Good, important, exhausting, and revealing.
I’ve written about ableism for years, naming the quiet harm disabled people carry, the assumptions people make, the jokes people think are funny, and the way systems misunderstand us long before they understand our needs. I’ve written about privilege, accessibility, independence, autonomy, participation, equality and equity. Topics that need discussing. Today I’m writing about something harder. Complicity.
Disability Sunday is next week. For the first time, I’m pleased to say, my church will theme a service around it, and I’ll be preaching.
As someone halfway through the ordination process, preparing to serve as a priest within the Church of England, the news surrounding the Prime Minister, the King, and the future of the establishment feels heavier than usual. It’s not just politics. It’s the ground beneath the institution I’m joining.
I’ve played War and Order since 2019. Throughout the last seven years some of us bounced between several realms. It started with me, “Minotaur” (now Bigwig), a guy called “Longhorn” from Texas, and a guy called “Moocifer” from Australia. We created an alliance called COW (Children of War) and took on COW‑related names. Over time we picked up others too. Some players drifted away, but a few of us stayed. We’re now in STG (Stronger Together).
Everyone enjoys their alone time. I do get some. Hannah, as my carer, still goes off and does things with her friends and pursues her own calling at church as church warden and eco champion, although the latter not as much as she’d like. In those moments I get space. The kids may still be around so it’s not completely alone, but I can write, watch a show, play chess, or lose myself in a game, like WAO. That’s one kind of solitude, but not the type I want to talk about. There are two moments in my week where I feel genuinely free.
Five months have passed since I wrote about the meeting with my DDO and ADDO regarding my discernment process for ordination. It feels longer. So much of this journey has been shaped by waiting, discerning, and understanding how calling and institution meet in real life. Those early months were hard. I was still processing the February meeting and learning how to navigate a system that had not yet learned how to navigate me.
I thought getting my diagnosis would be the end of the story. It felt overdue and strangely comforting. Autism explained parts of my life and early childhood and filled in the gaps left by the personality disorder diagnoses that never quite fit. When the assessment arrived, I felt relief. Not floods of tears, because that isn’t me, but the quiet version of emotion that makes me withdraw and process.
Names carry stories, hold memories, and people that shape us. Growing up, I had many different names. Many that I didn’t value until adulthood.
