• 06 Nov, 2025 *

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A Wash of Feelings

“I worry about you, Nia, all alone out there in the world. You’re too nice, and it’s too easy for people to take advantage of you.”

She said this in a singsongy tone, my sister, not too dissimilar to how one might excite a child, but with a grimace leaking through. Let’s call her Claire during this journal.

I should be ecstatic. She thinks I can’t care for myself. She thinks I’m not capable. Kids aren’t capable. She thinks I’m a kid!

Except it didn’t feel that way, and I couldn’t figure out why on our walk home from the park. I was visiting Claire in New York City, and there were these moments where I felt askew from her. I hated what she was saying! Maybe I didn’t enjoy being treated like a child after all. If I didn’t enjoy it, then am I lying to myself about my deepest desires? Am I not a kid?

These anxieties flooded through my brain as we entered the apartment. I had to reflect for a while to recover my sense of self. My stomach was shaking. Eventually, I re-realized: No, it’s not true. I do like being treated as a kid. I like it so much!! My partner Autumn talks to me this cozy way all the time, and my therapist now too! Autumn will make my stuffies talk to me, and my brain is actually fooled. I give them each big hugs. And my therapist recently switched activities because what she had planned wasn’t age-appropriate for our current headmate fronting. That felt really good.

No, there was something else off with the way Claire talked. She knows I’m a system with little headmates. I even told her the day before that we experience age dysphoria. Regardless of the knowledge she now had about my identity, we weren’t on the same wavelength. She does not actually believe plurality is real. She definitely doesn’t think I’m a kid. So the intonation, the subtle personhood behind her words, did not feel near me. And yet that exact difference in tone is hard to place! Especially when you’re flustered in the moment, how do you know what actually feels good, and how do you know if you’re asking too much?

Another Story

It was later that same day. We were seeing the musical Maybe Happy Ending on Broadway. The music was really good. Being autistic and musically-inclined, I was wiggling in my seat. I was really happy!!

“Stop the dancing,” Claire whispered.

It should have been simple feedback. That’s not how my brain worked. My face squinched. I cried silently in my seat.

The show was so good that eventually, I forgot the pain. I needed to stim, so slowly I reintroduced a little wiggle, but this time with a smaller radius.

After the show, we’re heading to the subway, and we’re both gushing about how good the show was. My inside was still shaken talking to her. Despite that it would upset our joy, I needed to bring up what she had said because it had hurt me. Hopefully it’ll be quick talk, and I’ll feel comfortable again.

“By the way, what you said about me ‘dancing’ really upset me. I’m autistic, and it felt anti-stimming.” We were waiting for the train.

“Oh that? It’s rude to the people behind you. When you’re at a Broadway show, you need to take up as little space as possible.”

Oh I was enraged. My autistic sense of justice flared; I knew she was partly right: people deserve to have nothing distracting their view at an expensive show. But it just felt so neurotypical that you need to sit still and quiet for an extended duration. My dysphoria-induicing long legs were already squished tightly by the small space between rows! I should have brought my stuffie Mittons for self-regulation. I didn’t because she meows if you squeeze her paw, and I didn’t want to risk it. I could have brought a different stuffed animal, but I just hadn’t thought of that.

All these thoughts were burning through me in the heat of anger. Meanwhile, my headmate Aurora was trying to solve the entire future of Broadway. Maybe there should be neurodivergent-friendly showings or sections of the theater. But what if some neurodivergent folks scream during the show? Would that be okay? At least having the option between show-types could be nice. Whatever—my wiggling was fine!, my headmate Lily felt. We were out of it.

Claire saw my intense scowl. “Nia...you should be thankful I told you. I know someone who was screamed at for just drinking water.”

This didn’t help. It was more things wrong! I was getting upset and upset. I didn’t want to be born in a neurotypical society. I was crying again.

“Don’t cry in a subway. Can’t you wait until we get home?” She offered this desperately.

No, I couldn’t!!

“Shut up!” I said. Not a very nice comment. I was having a meltdown.

On the ride home, I wanted her to stop talking to me. I was overstimulated— any more words would make me cry, the thing she didn’t want. Claire didn’t get this, and I wasn’t able to communicate my needs, and it was a huge mess. She said things, I winced. We were feedback looping. Claire would later say she hate seeing me cry. She just wanted me to feel better.

Why did I have to be so autistic? Why did I have to be a child inside, too? I’m making this all about me. I’m not controlling my emotions. Claire is in the wrong with her stimming thoughts, yet I’m not regulating myself. I am causing harm to everyone, I feared.

At last, the train reached our stop. We were walking home, and we began to make up. I cried again for who knows what reason, and Claire told me to wait a little longer. Honestly, i ignored her. I didn’t need to be offended anymore. I was raw, and we had just a block left.

That evening, we went out for Ethiopian food. I had never eaten it before, and it was amazing! And this time, I remembered to bring my stuffie Rambley with me to the table. We had a good night.

The Subtext in Words

For a lot of us in queer, therian, and adjacent spaces, much of our friends and family will never fully get it. Their brains are not wired the same as ours, and they may also lack the open-mindedness to really feel our identities. Your mother may be proud of not saying any snide remarks, but that’s the bare minimum. I want affirmation and praise. I want my mother’s hand to nuzzle my hand and her to call me by actual name. I want her to tell me I’m a beautiful girl. I’m a little girl, but if I’m not even seen as a woman, that’s beyond an ask.

Claire has called me by my name for at least a couple years now. Yet her comments often make me uncomfortable. She was accidentally condescending, and despite her acknowledgement that I’m autistic and struggle with emotional regulation, she didn’t seem to get that I have different needs. So let’s analyze what it was in my sister’s words that didn’t sit right for the child I really am.

“I worry about you Nia, all alone out there in the world.”

What is it here that feels patronizing rather than loving? I think it’s the intent. What is she trying to say? Why do I need to hear this worry? Because she wants me to be worried as well. She wants me to be alert, because “it’s too easy for people to take advantage of [me].” It’s meant to be a wake-up call.

I don’t want to give the context of why she thinks I’m gullible and too kind. That’s not the point. I already know my strengths and weaknesses. She does not need to project her anxiety on to me.

So this intent feels less like a gentle parent’s warning of a child on a high ledge and instead a plea for me to change. Her singsongy tone doesn’t cancel out her words’ content. For if I was actually a chronological child, would she say these things? No, because it’s not a child’s job to become “less nice.” We need more support instead. Sure, as a child trapped in an adult body, it’s useful for me to become more aware of danger in order to protect myself. But right now I am a vulnerable person, it’s not changeable with a single speech. Who I am is me, with its pros and cons. I’m liking me now.

I don’t think there’s any way to deliver her message in a child-appropriately because I didn’t need to hear it. But here’s my best attempt of what she could have said:

“Aww, Nia, that’s upsetting that <insert X thing> happened. If you ever need help saying no to someone, talk to me!”

No worry projection. Just an offer if I need it, and a tone that matches how I want to be treated.

“When you’re at a Broadway show, you need to take up as little space as possible.”

I’m thinking of what it would feel like if this was phrased in the most caring way possible:

“Nia, remember to sit still during the show! It can distract the performers.”

Placing the reason on the actors rather than the people around is a nice way to trick me. Instead of feeling rage at other people controlling how I sit, I might think, “Oh yeah, I wanna help the actors out!” It’s a cute solution.

I still think there’s some ableism in the very ask of the message, that I should be allowed to wiggle slightly, that I should be allowed to cry in public. But the above wording is certainly a lot more friendly.

These nuances in languages, the tiny way we word things that can go from condescending to affirming—it’s fascinating, right? I’m interested in what we age-dysphoric people actually want. How do you respect someone’s intelligence and also affirm their support needs? Well, I think I’ve offered a lot of suggestions. 🥰

How We Interact

It’s hitting me here what my discomfort is really about. It’s the relationship between a younger sister and her older sister. How do I want to be treated? Claire is chronologically two years older than me. Do I really want my own sister that I “grew up” with to treat me like I’m so much younger?

Honestly...yes. I don’t want to care how “cringe” it is. I like being treated as a child. Not an uncapable adult. An autistic little girl who needs support. And I already knew all this!! See the previous posts on this blog detailing exactly what makes me happy. It’s just so easy to believe you’re ridiculous when you leave your affirming home and visit your past.

Heading Forward

Our sibling dynamic is destined to become more complex. For Claire wants to have children herself. It’s the most adult thing one can ever do.

On that same morning walk in Brooklyn, she asked me, “How will my future child refer to you?”

I would be an aunt. This dysphoric prospect had never occurred to me.

It sucks because of course I want my sister to have a child. This is about her, not me! Still, all the time that’s passed is throwing me. My sister is an adult, we are no longer chronological children, and she wants to have someone who is biologically a child, and that new person will see me as older and responsible.

I am not an aunt. I am a child. Claire sensed my discomfort and offered a solution: I could just be Nia, my system’s name. Not Aunt Nia, just Nia. I didn’t need a title. It’s different from what I called my own aunts, but it also sounded much better.

Still, I can’t imagine being with the child for long periods. Claire has told me she wants to raise a child in a traditional household, and I’m not traditional.

Time will pass. Our bodies will age, and hopefully I stay true to myself. We will enter new scenarios that challenge how we be sisters while our age gap only grows wider and wider in identity. But, to be cliche, we’ve made it this far. I don’t want to place myself in dysphoria-inducing scenarios. Yet I want to believe we will find ways to interact if we both enjoy it.

Today, I’m home again with my stuffed animals and my partner. I snuggle my shark, and I write for my blog. We rewatched Over the Garden Wall, gorging on Sour Patches under a full moon. Tomorrow, I may call Claire, for she is on her own trip to Boston this week, our childhood home. For now, I’m here, myself, dozing in the moonlight.“

Keep picking those berries~ 🫐🍓🍇

#article