How I Story the World: A Neurodivergent Love Letter to Storytelling
Sometimes I forget how different my experience of the world really is… until I try to explain it.
For me, storytelling isn’t just a passion. It’s how I process, how I feel, how I understand. Reading stories helps me breathe through emotions I can’t always name. Writing stories helps me be, without having to mask.
This piece is a love letter to that experience. To the quiet magic of noticing. To the deep pulse of pattern. To the sacred way my mind finds meaning in ink.
My first two book babies…
I experience the world through story.
Stories are how I breathe. How I process. How I understand the overwhelming beauty and chaos around me. When the world feels too fast, too loud, too demanding, stories meet me gently. They give me space to feel… without drowning. They give me language when I don’t have words yet. They help me make sense of things I’ve carried for years.
Reading stories lets me feel safely.
I can explore grief, joy, wonder, betrayal—without being consumed by them. I get to experience people deeply without needing to perform. I see myself in characters who are allowed to be different, allowed to be whole. I carry their stories like memories. Their emotions become maps for my own.
Writing stories lets me find myself.
Every sentence I write is a form of stimming. It’s regulation. Restoration. A remembering. I can finish a thought without interruption. I can craft a world where I don’t have to mask. Where my sensitivity is sacred. Where my feelings are spells. I write what I wish existed—relationships, safety, healing, truth. And in doing so, I realize: maybe I already hold it all inside me.
I see stories in patterns.
Tiny details. Recurring symbols. Emotional echoes. Things other people miss, I remember. The unspoken becomes visible to me. I don’t just read stories—I sense them. I build them. My strange brain was made for this.
In stories, I don’t have to explain myself.
I don’t have to make eye contact. I don’t have to mask or modulate. I just am. I speak in metaphor, magick, and memory. And it’s enough.
Stories are not an escape.
They are a return. To the truest version of myself. To the rhythm of my own knowing. To the place where my neurodivergence is not a problem to fix— But a gift to be honored.
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