Jordan Beaven

I’ve been trying to write a life update for a while now, but every time I start, I realise the same thing: my life lately doesn’t fit neatly into paragraphs. It’s messy. It loops. It doubles back on itself. Some days it’s unbearably heavy, and other days it’s strangely quiet — like the pause between breaths, or the awkward silence when someone asks “so… how are you?” and then immediately regrets it.

The heaviest thing in my life right now is trauma resurfacing, and the realisation that home isn’t actually a physical building anymore.

When you spend over two years living in hospital, something shifts. You stop associating home with walls or keys. Home becomes routines, people, objects you can carry, moments where your nervous system unclenches just enough to breathe. Alongside that comes grief — for the time that’s passed, for everything I’ve missed, and for not knowing when this chapter will end.

Which is, frankly, a wild thing to try and emotionally process before breakfast.

A Typical Day Living in Hospital

My days run on a schedule so precise it sometimes feels less like healthcare and more like a very polite prison sentence — if prisons had worse chairs and an emotional support Kindle.

I wake up at 5am for morning medication. Every single day. After that, I go outside for a vape (less about nicotine, more about breathing air that hasn’t been recycled) and read on my Kindle while the world is still quiet. That early morning time is mine. Peaceful. Grounding. Very “main character in a low-budget indie film.”

Between 7:30 and 8am there’s a 1:1 support handover. Breakfast usually happens around 8:30am, and then I head back downstairs where I spend most of the morning reading. At this point, my Kindle isn’t a hobby — it’s a coping mechanism and a personality trait.

Around midday I head back upstairs. Lunch is at 12:30pm, medication at 1pm, then back downstairs again. The afternoon is mostly me going up and down like I’m training for an extremely niche endurance sport called Surviving Institutionalisation. At 5pm — and I mean on the dot — I’m back on the ward for medication. Miss it by thirty seconds and it feels like you’ve committed a minor crime.

Evenings are unpredictable. Sometimes I eat dinner around 6:30pm and fall asleep straight after like a pensioner at Christmas. Sometimes I’m awake until 2am. Sometimes insomnia shows up uninvited. Sometimes night terrors wake me up. Sleep and I are in a very complicated situationship.

The Hardest Parts of Hospital Life

One of the hardest parts of living in hospital is the rigidity. Everything is timed. Controlled. Repetitive. You live by medication rounds and meal times. You don’t really get to opt out.

I’ve spent longer in hospital than some people spend serving prison sentences — a sentence I never thought I’d write, yet here we are.

Another hard truth is how unprepared systems often are for autistic and ADHD patients. There are individual staff members who are incredible, but systemically the understanding, awareness, and compassion can be inconsistent at best. Like Wi-Fi that drops out exactly when you need it.

Being autistic in an environment that’s loud, unpredictable, and sensory-heavy is exhausting. Having to constantly explain your needs or mask just to get through the day takes a toll. Some days it feels like the system sees behaviours, not people — which is ironic for a place that loves a clipboard.

Comfort, But Make It a Bear

Comfort right now isn’t glamorous.

It looks like my emotional support bear — the one my friend Chelsea bought me for my 21st birthday almost four years ago. He’s been with me throughout this entire hospital stay. He’s seen things. He’s emotionally qualified. Honestly, he deserves his own care plan.

He’s familiar. He’s safe. He’s proof that someone loved me enough to give me something to hold onto — literally.

And I’m genuinely excited because I get to see Chelsea next month. Counting down the days like it’s a tour date.

What Hope Looks Like Right Now

Hope used to feel big and abstract. Now it’s smaller. Realer. Much less “vision board” and much more “this is actually happening.”

Right now, hope looks like knowing one of my best friends is coming to see me for my birthday. A real plan. On a real date. With a real human being. Not a “maybe,” not a “we’ll see,” but something solid to look forward to. That matters more than I can explain.

Where I Am, Honestly

Most of my life exists in the in-between — between surviving and living, grief and gratitude, wanting to advocate loudly and wanting to disappear quietly with my Kindle and my bear and zero expectations.

I’m still here. I’m still trying. I’m still creating, reading, writing, and finding small moments of calm where I can. I’m learning that my life doesn’t need to look impressive right now. It doesn’t need to be inspiring. It just needs to be honest.

This isn’t a comeback post.

It’s not a neat ending.

It’s just me, exactly where I am.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for sitting with me in it.

All my love,

Jords xxx