1.I hope I find a partner who dreams of having a similar deep emotional connected relationship similar to Jamie and Claire’s in Outlander. One who loves being adventurous as well as living a healthy and fitful lifestyle which I so need and that kind of motivation would encourage me to live that as well.
Also a desire to help others that really need it and spread kindness and compassion and love around the world.Something that I want to incorporate as well with my photography and graphic design elements along with making stories and poems.
It would also mean a lot to me if that special guy would find my mind to be interesting and see it as being beautiful rather than a burden.Even though I am mildly autistic I am also independent and confident but at the same time I love being with my better half.
2.That I would have a chance to get my graphic design degree and do something with it and I hope for someone who knows how to be an entrepreneur because I want to learn how to do something that not only I can enjoy making a living from but to use my passions to help people around the world.
3.I want to support my special person in his endeavors even if his career may be busy. that’s so Important to both people.
I hope someday I can meet my Favorite Creative Muse Sam Heughan….You know I never had anytime to do anything spontaneous and fun like going to his events and that’s usually because I can never afford it and time seems to be something I never have. I am amazed that I was able to get a week off from June 21st to the 27th but half of the week I have to get things done and the other half of the week I was going to try to do something fun but don’t know what yet.
I have graduated from SNHU with my bachelor’s degree in cybersecurity and no one to celebrate that with along with my birthday. But I guess that will wait till vacation time and probably take my dog with me on a picnic and watch the sun set or something.
But they are dreams and at least I have something to dream about. Not sure if they will ever come true. My mom told me I deserve the best in life and in my soul I know I do because I don’t know what it is like to deserve the best.
Aging is often portrayed as a countdown—a signal to scale back dreams and accept limits. But I see it differently, inspired by Sam, who said, “I feel lucky to be getting older. The fact that I made it to 30 and then 40 was big enough. So I can’t get too down on getting older; otherwise, it kind of undoes everything I’ve fought for” (People, 2024). As a woman with mild autism, I’ve navigated a world that doesn’t always fit me, and I’ve learned that starting anew isn’t about age—it’s about hope, courage, and embracing the fight to live fully, even when fears linger.
Living with autism means facing challenges that often go unseen. Social interactions feel like decoding a cryptic code, sensory overload can turn a simple day into a storm, and society’s milestones—career, love, family—seem just out of reach. For eight years, I poured myself into a relationship that left me feeling small. My partner’s dismissive looks made me feel like an inconvenience, not cherished. When it ended a year ago, I was left wondering: will a man ever see my autism as a strength, not a flaw? Will I find someone who shares my dream of a family, who prioritizes my health as much as I do theirs?
That fear deepens when I think about motherhood. I know women in their 40s can still have children, even if it’s riskier—it’s not impossible, and that fuels my hope. If biology doesn’t align, adoption is a beautiful path; so many children need a loving home, and I could offer that. Yet, there’s an ache for carrying a child, shaped by a miscarriage I had years ago. I would have named her Faith if she’d been a girl—a name I chose before watching Outlander and finding solace in Claire’s shared grief. Knowing I’m not alone in that pain makes it a little lighter.
My physically demanding job adds another weight. I’m proud of my work ethic, but it drains me, leaving little room for self-care. Sleepless nights and exhaustion make relaxation feel impossible, and my passions—writing, creating, living adventurously—get pushed aside to survive. It’s a hard truth, wondering if I’ll ever have space to chase what lights me up or find a partner who truly sees me.
But I’m ready to change that. Inspired by Sam’s My Peak Challenge, a global movement to encourage physical and mental wellness through community and goal-setting (My Peak Challenge, 2025), I’ve committed to my own “peak challenge” to prioritize my health and live more boldly. One fear I’m grappling with is my phobia of heights. Some heights I can handle—a low balcony or a gentle hill—but others, like cliffs or tall towers, make my heart race. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully get over this fear, and that uncertainty weighs on me. Still, I don’t want to be boring—to myself or others. I want to feel the thrill of a new view, to live adventurously. Overcoming a phobia as an autistic woman, with heightened sensory sensitivities, is daunting, but small steps could help. Exposure therapy, such as watching videos of high places, standing on manageable heights, or trying virtual reality to ease into it safely, is a proven approach (American Psychological Association, 2023). A therapist who understands autism could guide me through sensory overload and anxiety, tailoring the process to my needs (Autism Speaks, 2024). Each step, even if I never fully conquer the fear, is a victory, proving I can push beyond my comfort zone.
Autism has taught me resilience—a mind that catches details others miss, a heart that feels deeply, a persistence that keeps me going. Like Sam, I’m learning to see aging as a privilege, a chance to fight for what matters. I deserve a life where my passions thrive, where rest isn’t a luxury, where I can chase adventure without fear of judgment. I deserve a partner who sees my autism as a gift, who wants a family as much as I do, who values my well-being. Starting something new feels overwhelming when you’re exhausted and doubting, but every step counts—whether it’s joining My Peak Challenge workouts, writing for an hour, testing a manageable height, or believing love and motherhood are possible.
To anyone feeling stuck or unseen: your struggles don’t define your worth, and your age doesn’t limit your potential. As an autistic woman, I know how hard it is to carve out space in a world that doesn’t always fit. But I’m holding onto hope that things will change for the better. Every day is a chance to start again—to pursue a passion, prioritize your health, face a fear (even if it never fully fades), or believe in a love that lifts you up. My autism isn’t a barrier; it’s a lens that helps me see what matters. I’m still writing my story, holding onto hope for a family—whether through birth or adoption—and for a partner who sees me as I am. Aging isn’t a deadline; it’s a doorway. And through it lies the chance to live adventurously, to love deeply, to become. No matter how many times I’ve stumbled, I know one thing: it’s never too late to start something new.
The hum of the world fades as I sit in the quiet of the car, the Kia emblem on the steering wheel a silent witness to this sacred moment. In my hand, the emerald ring gleams, its heart-shaped center a deep, vibrant green, like the first breath of spring in a Highland meadow. Small emeralds and diamonds, delicate as dewdrops, line the slender band, each stone a tiny star that catches the light and holds it close. My stepmother gave me this ring, a gift for my birthday yet to dawn and for my college graduation, a triumph carved from sleepless nights and steadfast will. I trace its edges, feeling the cool metal against my skin, the heart-shaped emerald steady as a heartbeat, and I know its place. With a breath as solemn as a vow spoken under ancient oaks, I slide it onto my wedding finger—not for another, but for me. A promise, fierce as a Fraser’s oath, to hold myself close, to honor the fire that burns within.
This emerald, my birthstone, is more than a jewel. Its heart shape is a mirror to my own, green as the quiet forests I imagine when the world grows too loud. Its depth soothes me, a color that drowns out the chaos—the buzz of fluorescent lights, the clamor of voices that tangle in my mind. I press my thumb to its surface, smooth and cool, and it’s like touching a still lake, ancient and unyielding, whispering that I belong to something vast. The smaller emeralds along the band hum in harmony, a rhythm I can feel, while the diamonds sparkle like moments of clarity—sharp, radiant, fleeting, but enough to light my way. Together, they are my anchor, my strength, a testament to the battles fought to claim my degree and the woman I am becoming.
This ring, given for my birthday and my graduation, carries the weight of both. The heart-shaped emerald is my refuge, grounding me through the nights when words wouldn’t come, when the weight of expectations pressed too hard. The tiny emeralds and diamonds are the victories—each step forward, each moment of understanding, each quiet pride as I crossed the stage to take my diploma. To wear it on my wedding finger is to swear an oath to myself, as binding as Claire’s vow to Jamie under a sky of endless stars. It’s a promise to cherish the way I feel the world—deeply, fiercely, in colors and textures others might not see. The emerald’s green hums against my skin, a steady rhythm I can trust when the world spins too fast. It says, You are enough. It says, Your heart is a diamond, your spirit an emerald, and no one can take that from you. I feel the weight of that vow, warm and heavy, like a hand clasped in mine across time—a love letter to myself, written in stone and light.
In the car’s quiet, the ring catches the light, its heart glowing, the diamonds winking like stars. When the noise of life presses in—when voices overlap or the hum of the engine feels too much—I touch the emerald, its cool green steadying me like a deep breath. The smaller stones along the band remind me of the small joys—the sound of rain on the windshield, the softness of a familiar scarf, the pride of holding my degree. This ring is my standing stone, my portal to myself, grounding me in a world that often feels too bright, too loud. Like Jamie, swearing his life to Claire, I swear to protect the spark within me, to nurture the dreams that flicker like starlight, to be my own refuge until the day I choose to share this vow with another.
In the quiet of my heart, where the emerald’s green sings and the diamonds’ fire dances, I am home. This ring, this vow, is my truth: I am enough. It is my graduation, my birthday, my promise to carry this truth like a flame, fierce and unyielding, through every storm, every mile, every beat of my heart.
As a woman with mild autism, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why some people call a “wife guy” soft, like it’s a bad thing. To me, that label feels like a misunderstanding of what strength really is. When I was married, my husband wasn’t a “wife guy.” He didn’t make me feel seen or valued—there was no warmth in his actions, no effort to show I mattered. I felt underappreciated, alone, like I was carrying the weight of our relationship by myself. It left me disconnected, sometimes even worthless, as if I wasn’t deserving of the kind of love I saw in stories like Jamie and Claire’s in Outlander. Their bond, so fierce and unshakable, felt like a dream I could never touch.
The world can be a lot for me, with its unwritten rules and social noise. That’s why I crave clarity and honesty in relationships. A “wife guy” who openly loves his wife—whether he’s sharing sweet moments on X or just talking about her with pride—feels like a safe harbor. He’s not hiding his heart or playing tough to impress anyone. That’s not soft in a weak way; it’s soft like the calm of a forest after a chaotic day, something I can trust. When people criticize that as weakness, it feels like they’re stuck in old ideas about men needing to be cold or distant. I don’t get that. My ex’s detachment didn’t make him strong—it made me feel invisible.
Maybe it’s because I see things differently, but a man who’s secure enough to celebrate his wife, even if others judge him, seems brave to me. He’s choosing love over ego, connection over pretense. After feeling so unseen in my marriage, I long for a love like Jamie’s for Claire—one that’s fierce, loyal, and unafraid to show it. That kind of “soft” is what makes me feel worthy, like I’m enough. It’s the kind of strength that makes a relationship feel like home, something I’ve always wanted but never had.
As a woman with mild autism, I experience the world through intense pattern recognition and sensitivity to social dynamics. Lately, I’ve noticed society, amplified by social media, slipping into patterns of cruelty and division that echo troubling historical moments. The way people treat each other feels like a step backward, and here’s why.
Social media platforms, like those buzzing on X, have turned into arenas of hostility. My autistic lens craves understanding, but instead, I see people weaponizing words, piling on with insults, or canceling others over minor missteps. It’s reminiscent of historical witch hunts or public shamings, like the 17th-century pillories, but now it’s digital and relentless. Recent web data shows 70% of users report seeing online harassment regularly, yet the cycle persists. Algorithms reward outrage, amplifying voices that divide rather than unite, much like divisive rhetoric fueled tensions in past eras.
Offline, the trend continues. My sensitivity to social cues picks up on growing intolerance—people are quick to judge, label, or dismiss. Whether it’s political tribalism, cultural clashes, or scapegoating vulnerable groups, it feels like the fear-driven “us vs. them” mentality of times like the Red Scares or pre-war xenophobia. On X, posts often highlight how fast people jump to vilify rather than empathize, shutting down chances for real dialogue. This isn’t progress; it’s a return to when division trumped compassion.
Even casual interactions feel colder. My need for genuine connection makes me notice how people prioritize clout or status over kindness. Social media’s obsession with likes and followers mirrors historical obsessions with social hierarchies, where worth was tied to power, not character. It’s like we’re reliving the exclusivity of old elites, just in a digital skin.
For someone with autism, this cruelty overload is exhausting, like navigating a sensory storm. History shows humanity can do better—moments of unity, like post-war rebuilding, prove it. Social media could foster empathy if we used it to listen, not attack. Let’s break this cycle before it pulls us further back.
As a high-functioning autistic woman, I uniquely experience the world. The chaos surrounding us often feels overwhelming, yet I see beyond it to a world filled with purpose—a place where I can cultivate kindness, joy, gentleness, peace, and compassion. To me, each person is a universe of details, all vital and beautiful, deserving of recognition and care.
In an era where information rushes by, political divides grow, and social media creates echo chambers, the essence of kindness, compassion, and authenticity has never been more essential. I resonate deeply with Chris Pine’s advocacy for using intellect alongside compassion to bring peace to our society. Love and respect are crucial, and I believe we should encourage them in every interaction. Though I may not agree with Chris Pine’s view on limiting social media totally, I agree with him that people need to be reminded to be mindful of what they put out there and that even words can still affect others. When it comes to beautiful souls like him, I believe he and others shouldn’t miss out on bringing balance to the best of both worlds because the digital world and the real world should benefit from each other, not hurt each other.
The Essence of Kindness
Kindness, for me, is more than just actions; it’s a state of being. It involves recognizing and embracing the diversity of human experience with patience and empathy. It’s about truly listening to understand, not just to reply, and acknowledging the emotions of others. Simple acts like holding a door or offering a smile can have profound effects, and forgiving others helps mend not only personal but communal rifts.
Compassion When We’re Divided
Compassion extends beyond kindness; it’s about actively alleviating the suffering I see. In a world where divisions are stark, I strive to bridge these gaps with empathy. Understanding why people hold their views or face their challenges is how I open up dialogues. Supporting those in need, whether through advocacy or presence, is how I practice compassion. Educating myself about others’ lives informs my responses, pushing aside prejudice for genuine understanding.
Authenticity: Staying True to Myself
In an age where digital personas can be perfected, authenticity is my refuge. Living authentically means embracing my own and others’ imperfections, and resisting the pressure to conform. I challenge untruthful narratives, even when it’s difficult, because staying true to myself aligns my actions with my values, not just societal or media expectations.
Battling the Propaganda Wave
Propaganda is one of the greatest threats to the values I hold dear. Whether it’s through biased news or sensational social media content, it fosters division and misinformation. Critical thinking is my defense, questioning the origins, motives, and validity of what I encounter. Promoting media literacy and seeking out diverse perspectives are ways to fight back against manipulation.
Uniting for a Better Tomorrow
The call is for unity. I advocate for conversations that lead to understanding, not further division. We should focus on what unites us, not what separates us. Building community through shared experiences or movements reflects our collective yearning for harmony and equity.
Creating a Non-Toxic Society and Digital Environment
We need to detoxify our society, including the digital spaces we inhabit. Social media, while connecting us, can also breed skepticism and doubt. We must find a healthy balance because technology isn’t going away. It should be a tool for joy, career development, and meaningful engagement, not a source of negativity. By fostering trust and positivity, we can transform technology into a force for good.
In conclusion, while the world might seem chaotic, the principles of kindness, compassion, and authenticity guide my journey through this complexity. By embodying these values, I aim to not just navigate but enrich the world, moving from isolation to connection, from doubt to belief, and from falsehood to truth. Together, we can forge a brighter future.
“I’m in my early 40s now, and I often find myself dreaming about settling down with someone who’s just as down-to-earth as I am. I’ve always been pretty patient, even with all the curveballs life has thrown my way. But these past few years? They’ve been a real test. I was with a guy for three years before we tied the knot, and we stayed married for eight. We moved to Ohio, but somewhere along the line, we just lost our connection, and I found myself in a marriage where love was missing. Before all that, I lost my dad in a horrible car accident, which broke my heart in ways I can’t even describe. And then, I had to part with one of my dogs because no one listened when I said he needed a fenced yard. He got into a scuffle with a neighbor’s dog, though thankfully, the neighbor was kind about it, understanding it was an accident.
After my marriage ended, I had to start over quicker than I’d planned. With a job in retail and the economy being what it is, I knew I’d have a hard time. I tried to explain this to my ex-mother-in-law, but she went ahead and bought a house for me to rent from her without asking if it was what I wanted. I was grateful for her help, but it also left me feeling pretty alone and misunderstood.
Before all that, I fell for a scam that took away money I’d worked hard for, landing me in debt. My uncle was there for me, helping me file for bankruptcy under
. I still kick myself for being so naive, but I guess I was just desperate for some support. There’s this deep longing inside me to find someone who loves me for who I am, who wants to build a life and maybe a family with me. I’ve had people tell me I should lose weight, and there’s even been worry that any kids I might have could inherit autism.
I’m not perfect, far from it, and I’ve made plenty of mistakes. But through it all, I’ve learned how vital it is to be genuine, honest, and open. When you meet someone, there should be this deep connection, an understanding, and a bond that goes beyond words.
I’m not usually one to spill my guts like this, but I think it’s important for people to know we’re all human, we all screw up. Sharing our stories, whether face-to-face or online, helps us connect, and reminds us we’re not each other’s enemies.
My hope now is that when I move to California to be near my family, I’ll meet that one guy who captures not just my heart but my soul and mind too. I want someone who’ll sweep me off my feet like the wind, someone I can protect as much as he protects me. I crave the simplicity of life with him, the quiet moments untouched by the world’s chaos. I yearn for those deep, meaningful conversations that I feel I can’t live without. I might be old-fashioned at heart, even if I’m pretty good with tech. I just hope that man out there isn’t too scared to find me, even when I’m not looking.”
As an autistic woman, love feels like a vivid, intricate tapestry—beautiful, overwhelming, and sometimes hard to unravel. For me, it’s not just an emotion; it’s a sensory experience, a rhythm that can either ground me or throw me off balance. Being autistic shapes how I give and receive love in ways that don’t always align with what people expect. My brain processes everything deeply—every touch, every word, every quiet moment—so love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a full-body immersion. Sometimes that intensity is a gift, letting me connect with someone in a way that feels almost cosmic. Other times, it’s a challenge, because the world’s unspoken rules about love can feel like a language I’m still learning to speak.
I’m extremely patient and easygoing, even when life throws lemons at me—and trust me, it’s tossed plenty. That patience isn’t something I had to force; it’s just part of who I am. Maybe it’s the autism, giving me this ability to sit with discomfort and not let it derail me, or maybe it’s the way I’ve learned to adapt to a world that doesn’t always make space for me. Though I’ve adapted to changes in my life, some of it was hard to swallow and hard to understand—especially when I was married for eight years and my spouse never once told me he loved me, even as I poured those words out to him. That silence was a lemon I couldn’t sweeten, no matter how patient I tried to be. I’d say “I love you,” hoping it would spark something, anything—a mirror to my own heart. But the absence of those words felt like a void, a rejection I couldn’t decode. As an autistic person, I crave clarity, and that lack of reciprocation left me spinning, questioning if love was even there.
Unlike some autistic folks, I don’t have sensory issues with touch—just when things get fast. I love the warmth of a hug, the weight of a hand in mine, the quiet intimacy of closeness. It’s soothing, grounding, a way to feel tethered to someone I care about. But when the pace picks up—when emotions or actions come rushing at me like a tidal wave—it’s too much. I enjoy being able to process things at my own pace, to let love unfold slowly, like a flower I can study petal by petal. That’s when touch feels safe and meaningful; I can savor it, let it sink in without my senses scrambling to keep up. In that marriage, the silence wasn’t just about words—it was the speed of disconnection, the way things moved too fast or not at all, leaving me no room to breathe or understand.
That’s why love languages mean so much to me. They’re like a map, a way to navigate the chaos and communicate what I need—and what I want to give—without getting lost in translation. Words of affirmation, especially, are a lifeline; hearing “I love you” or “I’m here” in clear, direct terms cuts through the noise in my head and anchors me. In those eight years, I didn’t get those words, and it left a hole—one I didn’t even know how to name until I learned how much they mattered. Acts of service or quality time, though, can speak just as loudly when they’re deliberate and steady, giving me the space to process them my way. I don’t need love to be flashy or rushed—I need it to match my rhythm, to let me catch my breath and feel it fully.
As a woman, there’s this added layer—society often expects me to be nurturing or intuitive in ways that don’t always come naturally. I might not pick up on subtle hints or flirt in the “typical” way, but my love is fierce and deliberate. I bring that same patience and ease to relationships, letting things grow at their own pace, not forcing what doesn’t fit—even when it’s taken years to understand why some things never did. I adapted to that marriage and kept loving through the silence because I could handle the slow burn of uncertainty. But I thrive when love meets me where I am when it’s steady enough for me to process and deep enough to feel real.
Love languages give me a structure to express that, to say “This is how I love you” without having to mask who I am. They let my partner see me—not just the autistic me or the woman me, but the whole, messy, authentic me who can laugh off life’s lemons while still feeling their sting, who can adapt to silence but blooms when given space to process at my own pace. And when someone speaks my love language back—whether it’s a quiet “I love you,” a gentle touch that lingers just right, or a moment of undivided time—it’s like they’re saying, “I see you, and I’m choosing to meet you where you are.” After eight years of missing that, I know now it’s not just a want—it’s a need. That’s everything.
In the heart of a quiet forest, under the watchful gaze of a luminous moon, the night unfolded its mysterious tale. The bare branches of ancient trees reached skyward, their silhouettes stark against the deep blue canvas of the night. Wisps of clouds drifted lazily, occasionally veiling the moon’s glow, casting fleeting shadows that danced across the forest floor.
This was a night where secrets whispered through the leaves, and the air was thick with the promise of magic. The moon, a solitary guardian, illuminated a path known only to those who dared to wander beneath its silver light. It was said that on nights like this, the forest came alive with stories of old, tales of forgotten realms and hidden wonders.
As the wind sighed through the branches, it carried with it the echoes of ancient songs, inviting the brave and the curious to listen closely. For in the stillness of the night, beneath the tangled web of branches, the forest held its breath, waiting for the next chapter of its timeless story to unfold.
My dream job would be to blend storytelling with my photography. I find the idea of combining these two arts incredibly intriguing, envisioning how they could come together to create compelling narratives in book form.
However, I’ve been struggling to keep Chris Pine as my muse due to the presence of scammers and impersonators who exploit his name for deceitful purposes. Despite these challenges, the way Chris Pine brings stories to life through his characters and films has deeply inspired my approach to storytelling through photography. His influence has shaped my vision, pushing me to explore how images can tell stories just as powerfully as words.
But aside from all that, my dream job would be amazing, and I hope to accomplish it over time.
Deep Thinking 