You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
Dear Little T,
I’ve wanted to meet you again, here, between words. To show up gently, shapeshift into a vanilla-scented presence who could slow the jolt-thump of your heart, a cool pillow you could run your thumb across as you drift off. It’s okay to close your eyes; I promise you won’t wake up to find people pointing and laughing or the world permanently tipped on its side. And I won’t let anyone leave you behind.
We have time. No one is waiting for us to do anything. We can sit on the porch and count the passing cars or drink cold IBC straight from the bottle while people buy flowers at the shop across the street. They tend to enter slowly, looking, no rush, and leave holding long stems wrapped in fancy paper, the kind that crinkles when you touch it. Do you wonder where they’re going?
I’m not here to warn you or tell you what I regret. Who am I to magic-wand your days? I’m only asking to sit with you, to feel your full, Jergens-soft cheek against mine, let the plastic barrettes that snap your braids shut dig into my skin, leave an imprint on my chest: a tiny circus elephant, a bouquet of balloons. Which color is your favorite? Not pink. But little girls’ hair ties don’t come in gray yet. You’re lucky to find an electric blue.
Does it all still feel new to you? This world? You come from Mom, yes, but you come from a big place of nothing, though it wasn’t scary then. How does that work? One day, you’re not here, you’re nowhere, and then God whispers about you, calls forth a mix of brown legs and bendy arms, a handful of freckles, a round belly, and a sparkling grin. Then you’re awake, and there’s music and talking and shots at the doctor’s and giant carwashes to drown you in foam and elevator doors that close without pinky swearing they’ll open back up.
Do you ever want to shut it all off? I’ve been thinking about this music-filled scene from a movie called Sinners you’ll appreciate one day, even if it freaks you out. It starts slowly, just one guy on his guitar, and then, other voices and songs get folded in, and the whole space blows wide open, everyone dancing, a bunch of notes playing at once. You can watch it ten times and still not catch everything. For people like you and me, maybe our brains spend a lot of time in that loud, busy scene, and even though it’s gorgeous, we’d rather be driving in an old-fashioned car down a long dirt road.
Though we don’t want to be alone always.
You might not believe me, but your noticing—the little notepad you keep in your head—isn’t bad. It’s not a curse or mistake. But I can see how you might think that.
You take in so much. At night, the train’s horn splits the sky clean in half with a warning. How close is the danger to you? Does the conductor know where you live? When you look at photo negatives in the drug store envelope, you see monsters, where others see funny faces in reverse. Which way is right?
No one has told you the rules and why you are here, feeling like this, rushing to keep up with two sisters, a mother, a father. You see them most, know them best, and they are safer than any teacher or stranger or bank teller who asks your name for a lollipop.
You want to tell your safe people what you see. But when your mouth won’t stretch to say “squirrel,” how can you show them the way it skitters across the yard? All you want is to share. To say, “I am here” and “See what I notice? Notice it with me.”
“What is it, sweetheart? Can you tell me again? You see a CURVE?”
They are desperate to know, and you are desperate to make your sounds match the animal’s name. And that’s why you burst like a pipe, turn away in tears. Because there is a world out there and a world inside you, and why can’t the people who straddle these worlds share every piece of it with you?
Can I tell you, noticing and remembering is still your—our—gift? You will listen and stash pebbles of conversations with friends and loved ones in your mind. Then two weeks or three months or six years later, you’ll find a shadow or replica or enhancement of the thing they mentioned. Look, I heard you and remembered. Maybe it’s a particular sneaker or T-shirt or perfume or meme. It doesn’t really matter, does it? As long as the two of you notice together. That feels a lot like love that you can touch.
Not every three-year-old thinks like you. Girl, let me tell you. The layers. The depth. Remember the time Mom was folding towels upstairs and, suddenly, you stopped dead in your tracks, staring at the linen closet? That thought rose up full and haunting, like a blood moon, casting a glow across the secret ridges of your brain.
What if I get pregnant?
I get it. You weren’t ready to be a mom, but you could envision it. The bubble would grow behind and around your belly button Mom cleans with Q-tips and alcohol. And there would be pain, too much pain for you, even with Tylenol or a heating pad. What would you do with a baby, even if you survived giving birth? How would you pick her up and hold her while walking down that orange shag-carpeted hallway? How did women poke out their hips just so?
And remember what Mom said? Yep. “Don’t worry, you have lots of time before that happens,” and “I’ll buy you a book on it.” It’s funny now, but I’m also not surprised. You love books. The rhyming lines, the sound of Mom’s wet finger unsticking a page, how her tongue hits behind her teeth when she says certain syllables. You like to prove the sounds you know, how letters make sense in your brain, your memory sharp and hungry, even if your tongue and voice don’t always follow. Here’s the secret you and I know. When you’re quiet—not proving, not showing, just being—that’s when you feel safe. Your mind unfurls, and you collect rhythms and patterns and lights and sounds because you want to. Because you are curious, baby girl, and not just about any old facts (though you’ll slay the times tables come third grade, even with the teacher’s egg timer ticking off seconds as you work).
A brain like yours fueled by curiosity? It’ll make you tired, but, my God, Taylor, don’t you trade it for anything. Sometimes when you’re not plunging deep into delight or uncovering injustice, the world feels far away and fast. Like you’re trying to collect leaves from trees you can only see from the back seat of the car, your window rolled up. That’s okay. You were made to sit under the tree. Maybe more so than your friends or your sisters, the two you copy most. You’re not wrong to take one leaf and twirl the stem between your fingers, make its veins dance in your hand.
It’s okay to lay your brain down some days. Imagine putting it to bed. Watch ThunderCats or Press Your Luck (Supermarket Sweep will blow your mind! Jesus, be some Windex, canned tuna, and box of cornstarch—all for $7.99).
Take a nap. Drink flat Coke with Simone next door. She likes books, too, and says lots of long words. But don’t you despise that mind of yours for long, because it’s magnificent, even by God’s standards. You were born to see and connect and share, and that doesn’t change, no matter what. People talk about growing up as finally not needing anyone. Doing life on your own. Proving you can be independent. I don’t know a bigger sham, T. Don’t believe the easy things, the words people say often that cost them nothing. Keep asking questions. Keep digging.
And remember, you know things, too. Deep inside. You’ll question yourself. We all do. But you have a gut-level knowing that would rise up and out from that sweet belly, even if you were the last person on Earth, walking around with your Nuk and the last bag of Doritos. Just make sure it’s not the blue bag, am I right? Cool Ranch will always be nasty, even once they make self-driving cars and phones with no cords.
And, please, stay. You stay. You were meant to be here.
Love,
me
ALT
