I saw the below meme recently of a stretched phone screen, a ridiculously long message, and a caption outlining the neurodivergent trait of sharing every detail to avoid miscommunication.
I laughed at first because I’m known for doing this. It's exactly how my brain works. I talk, write, text, email, and explain everything. Yet it also hit a nerve.
I silently celebrated thirty years since I was first diagnosed with a condition on Saturday.
It’s a strange milestone. It’s not a birthday or anniversary, but a reminder of a moment that changed my life. I was thirteen when a doctor told me I had Polymyositis, an autoimmune condition that didn’t fit my age, body, or story. Knowing what we know now, I can see why they said it, it partially explained why my muscles were weakening, I walked differently, and struggled. They told me I might not live past sixteen. At thirteen, I knew what that meant, but I didn’t understand it — not the way I do now.
I’ve always preferred Easter to Christmas. Christmas has grown into something bigger, busier, and more frantic than it ever was when I was a child. Yes, I do realise how old I sound saying that. Easter still feels rooted. It remains focused on why we celebrate, and that grounding means even more to me as I move through the ordination process.
