The Ink Chapel

I made a picture of myself walking through a bookstore holding hands with a little girl. ((Please survive the fact that I used AI for a symbolic image.)

It’s not my daughter.

It’s me.

Or maybe it’s the version of me I wish somebody had understood sooner.

Which sounds deeply emotional and poetic until you realize what I essentially did was create fan art of my own unresolved childhood trauma.

Very normal behavior. Extremely chill. Ten out of ten mental stability. No notes.

But seriously, I kept staring at the image because it captured this weird feeling I’ve never really known how to explain to people before.

I don’t necessarily wish I could go back in time and literally raise myself. Although honestly? Tiny me would’ve had snacks, emotional support, books, and significantly fewer people yelling at her, so let’s not rule it out entirely.

What I mean is this:

Sometimes I wish little me had someone like me.

Someone patient.

Someone soft.

Someone who would’ve looked at an overwhelmed child and thought, “Hey maybe this kid is struggling,” instead of immediately jumping to, “Clearly this seven-year-old is masterminding evil.”

Because now that I’m older and understand autism and ADHD better, I look back at my childhood completely differently.

Especially as a woman.

Because girls were missed constantly.

Back then, if a little boy bounced off walls and hyperfixated on dinosaurs for six straight months, adults went:
“Oh, maybe he has ADHD.”

Meanwhile little girls were over here internally combusting while quietly organizing their emotional support pens by color and dissociating through math class.

And nobody noticed.

Or if they did notice, they called you dramatic.

Too emotional.

Too sensitive.

Too intense.

Too talkative.

Too quiet.

Too weird.

Too much.

Always somehow too much.

And honestly? Looking back now, I don’t think little me was “bad” nearly as often as adults thought she was.

I think she was overwhelmed.

There’s a difference.

A huge one.

Because when autistic kids get overstimulated, it can look like defiance. When ADHD kids get emotionally dysregulated, it can look like attitude. Especially in girls who are masking constantly and trying desperately to seem “normal.”

And if nobody explains what’s happening to you, you grow up believing your struggles are personality flaws.

You start thinking:
Why can’t I handle things like everyone else?
Why am I so sensitive?
Why do sounds bother me so much?
Why do I feel exhausted after socializing?
Why do I either feel everything at once or absolutely nothing at all?

Why does existing feel like a group project I forgot to prepare for?

It took me years to realize my brain wasn’t broken.

It was just different.

And honestly? That realization changed the way I see little me completely.

I don’t look back at childhood photos and think:
“What a difficult kid.”

I think:
“Jesus Christ somebody hug her.”

Because once you understand autism in girls, suddenly things start clicking into place like the world’s saddest IKEA furniture assembly.

The sensory overwhelm.

The shutdowns.

The hyperfixations.

The emotional intensity.

The rehearsing conversations beforehand.

The feeling of never fully fitting in socially no matter how hard you tried.

The exhaustion from masking constantly.

The way certain fabrics felt like personal attacks from Satan himself.

ALL OF IT.

And I think that’s why I made the picture.

Not because I’m trying to rewrite history or live in some fantasy world where I travel back in time like an emotionally unstable Ms. Frizzle.

But because there’s something deeply healing about imagining little you finally being safe.

Safe enough to be loud.

Safe enough to stim.

Safe enough to ask questions.

Safe enough to cry without fear.

Safe enough to exist without constantly trying to earn love through perfection, silence, or people-pleasing.

And honestly, I think bookstores became part of that image because bookstores feel peaceful in a way the world rarely does.

Nobody bothers you.

Nobody expects eye contact every four seconds.

Nobody thinks you’re weird for wandering quietly for two hours holding six books you absolutely do not need but suddenly feel spiritually connected to.

Bookstores are one of the few places where existing softly feels acceptable.

And I think little me would’ve loved that.

I would’ve let her take her time.

I would’ve told her the things adults mocked about her would someday become the exact things that make her creative.

I’d tell her she grows up to write.

A lot.

Like an actually concerning amount.

I would’ve bought her books without making her feel guilty for wanting them.

I would’ve explained that being sensitive isn’t weakness.

I would’ve told her her brain wasn’t something to be ashamed of.

I would’ve told her she wasn’t failing at being a person.

I would’ve told her one day she grows up into someone funny and resilient even after life tries very hard to turn her into a taxidermy exhibit of depression and anxiety.

And maybe that sounds sad.

But honestly?

It doesn’t feel sad anymore.

Not really.

Because the beautiful thing about getting older is realizing you can still become the person you needed back then.

You can speak to yourself gently now.

You can stop punishing yourself for struggling.

You can wear comfortable clothes.

You can leave loud places without guilt.

You can rest.

You can stop apologizing for the way your brain works.

You can finally learn the difference between being “too much” and simply being unsupported.

And maybe healing isn’t becoming a completely different person after all.

Maybe healing is looking at the younger version of yourself and saying:

“You were never hard to love. People just didn’t understand you yet.”

And honestly?

I think she would’ve felt safe with me.

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Copyright 2026 The Ink Chapel. If you related to this a little too hard, please invoice your childhood for emotional damages accordingly.

Footnote: To every woman currently realizing she wasn’t a bad child, just an overwhelmed neurodivergent girl with untreated anxiety and access to books… I see you.