Jordan Beaven

Life lately feels… grey.

Not in a dramatic, end-of-the-world way. Just quietly heavy. The kind of heavy that settles into your shoulders and makes even getting to the afternoon feel like an achievement. Today the sky matched my mood so perfectly it almost felt personal — as if the weather had checked in on my nervous system before showing up.

I feel tired. Not just sleepy-tired, but existing tired. The kind where fighting feels impossible and yet somehow I’m still masking, still performing “I’m fine” to the people who are around me constantly to support me. The irony of that isn’t lost on me.

The truth is, I don’t actually know what support I need right now. I’ve spent so long being taught to avoid my feelings — distract, redirect, keep busy — that I don’t know how to just sit with them. Everything is about quick fixes. Put something on. Do something else. Think about anything except what you’re feeling.

But when you never let yourself feel the bad stuff, it doesn’t disappear. It waits. It builds. And when it finally hits, it hits hard.

Lately I keep asking: what’s so wrong with just feeling sad?

Sadness isn’t dangerous. It isn’t negative. It’s human. And yet it’s often treated like something that needs fixing immediately. Like it’s inconvenient. Like it makes other people uncomfortable. But life isn’t all rainbows and fluffy clouds, and I shouldn’t have to minimise my feelings just to make someone else feel better about them.

This week has been especially a lot. It started with a big incident — an autistic meltdown that somehow turned into me being labelled as aggressive and violent. That label couldn’t be further from the truth, but the lack of autism and ADHD awareness in hospital settings makes moments like that incredibly damaging.

That one interaction sent me spiralling. It made me want to go home. It made me feel done with constantly fighting systems that are supposed to help. Being in an environment that’s meant to be safe but feels terrifying when your needs aren’t understood isn’t healing — it’s exhausting.

What I need is understanding. Not labels. Not assumptions. Autism doesn’t have an on/off switch. Meltdowns aren’t choices. They’re a nervous system in overload.

Instead, life lately has left me feeling self-conscious about being autistic. Like it’s a barrier to care. Like I’m the problem. Like I should feel ashamed because my reactions don’t look neurotypical in high-stress situations. As if being autistic means I deserve less compassion.

My thoughts are messy right now. This isn’t a neat conclusion or a lesson learned. It’s just where I’m at.

So this is a life lately update in its truest form:

grey skies, heavy feelings, and me learning — slowly —that it’s okay to sit with them instead of rushing past them.

Some days, that’s enough.