Taking the Leap, One Word at a Time

Maybe taking a leap doesn’t always mean acting without thinking. Maybe, for some of us, the leap comes after years of thinking.

I’ve always been someone who researches. I research before I make decisions. I gather information. I read. I ask questions. I imagine possibilities. I mentally experiment with different outcomes before anything ever happens in the real world.

In many ways, I think I’ve spent a lot of my life preparing.

Preparing to know enough. Preparing to say the right thing. Preparing to make the right decision.

Preparing to be ready.

But lately, something has shifted.

I’m just doing things.

I started a website. I’m writing publicly. I’m putting ideas into the world that, not that long ago, probably would have stayed tucked inside a journal, a document on my computer, or somewhere in my head.

I’m taking a leap.

Except it doesn’t really feel like the kind of leap people usually talk about. It isn’t reckless. It isn’t stop thinking and just do it.

I’ve done the thinking. I’ve researched. I’ve learned. I’ve mentally experimented. I’ve probably overthought some of it.

The leap is allowing myself to finally do something with everything I’ve been thinking about. And writing is becoming a big part of that.

Sometimes My Words Come in Spurts

I’m learning something about myself that I think I’ve known for a very long time: I’m not always good at articulating my thoughts into spoken words in real time.

That’s a difficult thing to admit because I have thoughts. A lot of them. Sometimes too many of them.

But having a thought and being able to immediately translate that thought into organized spoken language are two very different things.

Sometimes the words come in spurts. A whole thought appears, and suddenly I know exactly what I want to say.

Other times, they come one word at a time. I know there’s something there. I can almost feel the shape of the idea. But I can’t quite reach the words I need to explain it.

And conversation doesn’t always wait.

Someone asks a question. There’s an expectation that you’ll answer. Now.

So you search for the words while also watching the other person’s expression, interpreting what they meant, deciding how much information they’re looking for, organizing your thoughts, choosing the right tone, remembering what you were talking about, and trying not to take too long.

Then, hours later, the words arrive.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Writing Has Always Been Different

Writing gives me something spoken conversation doesn’t always give me: time.

Time to find the word. Time to rearrange the sentence. Time to realize that the first sentence wasn’t actually what I meant. Time to stare at a paragraph until the thought underneath it finally makes sense.

I’ve loved written communication for a long time. I used to write letters to people. Most of them were never mailed. I would write incredibly long text messages, trying to make them as grammatically correct and precise as I knew how. Many of those were never sent either. I wrote in journals for coworkers.

Writing allowed me to say things that were harder to organize out loud.

But eventually, somewhere along the way, I stopped doing as much of that. Instead, I learned how to speak. Or perhaps more accurately, I learned how to perform speaking.

I Learned by Watching

I observed people. A lot. I listened to the words they chose. I noticed how they phrased things. I paid attention to what someone said in one situation so that I might know what to say if I encountered a similar situation later.

I collected scripts. Not necessarily written scripts. Social ones. Professional ones. Conversational ones.

I learned how people opened conversations, transitioned between ideas, answered questions, made small talk, explained themselves, and presented information.

Then I practiced.

Eventually, I learned to public speak. From the outside, that might look like evidence that communication had become easy for me. I’m realizing now that it may have meant something else.

I became very good at compensating.

And compensation costs energy.

One little communication difficulty might not seem significant. Neither does one script. Or one moment of searching for a word. Or one conversation where you’re monitoring yourself.

But imagine doing that over and over. Imagine compensating for several communication differences at once, while also processing sensory information, expectations, emotions, responsibilities, and everything else happening around you.

Small things accumulate. Eventually, they aren’t very small anymore.

They’re exhausting.

Burnout Has Made Some of This Harder to Ignore

As I’ve been recovering from burnout, I’ve become much more aware of the things that require effort from me. And one of those things is articulating what I want to say in real time.

There are moments when I know I know something, but I can’t retrieve it. Moments when I can’t find a word that I know exists. Moments when I hear myself explaining something and know that what I’m saying isn’t quite capturing the thought in my head.

That’s frustrating. Especially because I remember feeling so knowledgeable. I remember consuming information constantly. I remember words coming more easily.

And now there are days when I feel, quite simply, stupid.

I know that’s a harsh word. But it’s the truthful one for how it can feel.

At the same time, I’m starting to question the conclusion I’m drawing from that feeling.

What if difficulty accessing what I know isn’t the same as no longer knowing it?

What if needing more processing time doesn’t mean I have nothing to say?

What if losing access to some of the strategies I used to rely on doesn’t mean I’ve lost the person underneath them?

Those are questions I’m still exploring.

I’m Curious About Autistic Regression and Burnout

This experience has also made me curious about something bigger.

I’ve heard autistic people describe losing access to abilities or coping strategies they previously relied on, particularly around periods of burnout. People sometimes describe changes in communication, executive functioning, sensory tolerance, daily living, or their ability to mask.

I don’t want to make scientific claims based solely on my own experience. But I do think experiences like these deserve curiosity.

What exactly is happening? What changes during prolonged periods of overwhelm? Which abilities are actually lost, and which simply become harder to access? What role does masking play? What happens when someone can no longer sustain years of compensation? And what does recovery look like?

Maybe there is research that answers some of these questions already. Maybe there are questions researchers haven’t asked yet.

Either way, I’m interested. Because this is where personal experience can become a starting point for inquiry rather than the end of it.

I experience something. I become curious. I research. I learn. I ask another question.

That’s pretty much how I got here in the first place.

Maybe Going Backward Isn’t Actually Going Backward

I’ve even thought about carrying a dictionary and thesaurus again. There’s something almost funny about that in a world where every definition is seconds away on a phone.

But I like the idea. I want words around me again. I want to rediscover words I’ve forgotten. I want to find better ways to describe things. I want to play with language instead of worrying constantly about whether I’m using it correctly.

Maybe I’ll read more. Maybe I’ll journal more. Maybe I’ll write letters that never get sent again. Maybe I’ll keep lists of words that interest me. Maybe I’ll go back to some of the things I loved before I became so concerned with performing communication correctly.

It might look like going back to basics.

I think it might actually be moving forward.

This Is Part of the Leap

Starting The Whole Story is part of this experiment.

Writing publicly is scary. There is no guarantee that I will always articulate something perfectly. I might publish something and realize six months later that I understand the subject differently. I might learn a better word. I might change my mind. I might look back at an old article and cringe at a sentence.

That’s okay.

Because I’m trying something different. Instead of waiting until I’ve researched every possible angle, found every perfect word, anticipated every response, and mentally rehearsed every outcome...

I’m creating. I’m writing. I’m learning. I’m putting thoughts somewhere outside of my head.

And maybe that’s what taking a leap looks like for me.

Not jumping without looking. I’ve looked. I’ve studied the landscape. I’ve probably drawn a map, researched the map, questioned whether the map is accurate, read three articles about mapmaking, and imagined twelve different routes.

Now I’m learning to move.

Finding My Creative Spark Again

I don’t know exactly what my communication will look like as I recover. I don’t know whether some things will return to how they were before. I don’t know whether I’ll discover that the version of myself I’m trying to “get back” was using far more energy to function than I ever realized.

Maybe recovery isn’t about becoming her again.

Maybe it’s about discovering how this version of me communicates.

Right now, writing feels like part of that discovery.

I’m writing because I have things I want to understand. I’m writing because I have things I want to say. I’m writing because sometimes the words need more time to find me.

And I’m writing because somewhere underneath the exhaustion, the scripts, the searching for words, and the fear that I don’t know as much as I used to, I think my creative spark is still there.

I’m not waiting until I can prove it.

I’m giving it somewhere to go.

One thought. One sentence. One word at a time.