As a visual thinker who processes verbally, words are my savior. They’re my catharsis and my integration, my growth and my stability. They keep me grounded and allow me to soar.

This process sometimes feels as effective as my Third-Grade math teacher making me write-off “I will learn my times tables” when I chronically missed questions, instead of having me write the actual times tables. I still struggle with my sixes, sevens, and eights in my head.

Sometimes it is hard to find the words to go with the visuals. Sometimes I wish I could draw what is in my head instead of being limited by the words that are available to me. Sometimes I want to make up my own words, like a modern-day Lewis Carroll knockoff, narrating my life as though I were equal parts Alice and the Jabberwocky (and to be honest, sometimes it does feel a lot like that). Sometimes the words flow freely, like hot fudge poured over an ice cream sundae, and sometimes the words just aren’t there, an empty dish just holding space, waiting to be filled with joy and wonder, or pain and grief.