“I’m pretty sure I’m autistic,” I told my godmother, Anna, a couple of weeks ago.
Anna was present for my birth. She has seen me through every stage of my life since then, exemplifying such humility and grace throughout it all that I trust her completely.
I was thus certain she’d greet this statement with curiosity instead of dismissal. It’s how she rolls.
“Hmmm,” Anna replied from the other end of the line. “You don’t match my picture of autism. This may mean my picture is wrong. Tell me more!”