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I miss the old me.
I miss her capacity. Her spontaneity. The whirlwind. The version of me who could say yes without first calculating the cost.
But I also understand her differently now — the adrenaline, the overriding, the overwhelm, and the crashes that I didn’t yet have language for.
In this Autistic Musing, I’m sitting with one of the contradictions of late identification: grieving parts of who I used to be while also loving the slower, quieter, more truthful life I have now.
Maybe I don’t want the old me back. But I do miss her. And perhaps both can be true.
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