Life keeps moving after things that should have stopped it.
Not cleanly. Not neatly. Simply on.
I’m writing from inside that continuation. Not healed. Not finished. Not speaking from distance or resolution. Just living in ordinary days that still carry weight.
This writing isn’t meant to advise, inspire, or fix. It isn’t here to turn pain into lessons or endurance into virtue.
What it is instead is language. Noticing. Naming what tends to go unnamed. Staying honest about limits, capacity, and cost.
The themes here move through grief, autism, burnout, boundaries, and rebuilding because they are not separate in lived experience. They press against the same edges. They ask the same quiet questions about what a person can carry, and for how long.
There isn’t a takeaway here. This is simply an orientation. A way of saying where this writing is standing, so you know how to read what follows.
