I look across everything I am carrying, and it feels like a heavy, interconnected web of isolation, grief, and overwhelming frustration. It starts back at Dawson High School. Being on the autism spectrum meant operating on a completely different wavelength than the people around me. I was the isolated "nerd," constantly trying to decode social expectations while feeling completely disconnected. The sheer fatigue of trying to navigate that environment left me with a deep baseline of feeling misunderstood, like no matter where I go, I'm stuck looking in from the outside. Layered on top of that baseline is the enduring grief for my maternal grandmother. Born on August 14, 1947, she was a steady, grounding anchor in my life. Losing her in 2009—when she was only 61 or 62 years old—left a permanent void. Navigating that loss was made so much harder by the insensitivity of people who didn't respect how sacred she was to me, leaving me feeling exposed and lacking that safety net. Then there