You’ve Always Been This Way is a column written by Taylor Harris, a late-diagnosed neurodivergent woman and 1980s preschool dropout, who identifies every moment from her past that filled her with shame, and mutters, “Yep, that tracks. I see it all now.”
Dearest Neurobaddies of the Finest Order,
I did a thing. No, not procuring a pint of Graeter’s ice cream before 9 a.m., though who am I to discount the diminutive glory of my former days? Just because I write to you from the summit of Midlife Desire and Acquisition, doesn’t mean I’m untouchable. It just means I trusted myself and didn’t ruin everything. In fact, I kind of nailed it. Did I question myself 13,000 times first? Think of every reason I should abandon the want lighting up my heart like a 1980s Glo Worm? Yes and yes. And then I proceeded to do the thing anyway. So pull up your stretchy pants and lift ye old breasts back into the cups of your threadbare brassieres, ladies. It’s story time.
On Monday, May 4, 2026, I flew to Austin to see Raye in concert with her sisters Amma and Absolutely. You KNOW how much I love sisters. But do you know how much I hate being away from home? Much. I hate it muchly, same with flying.
Raye and her sisters on stage in Austin.
I’d bought tickets, last-minute, on Sunday. Packed my colorful self-identified autistic Cotopaxi backpack with books I wouldn’t read that could fix my life and a bag of sour candies to properly spike and plunge me into a cold hypoglycemic state. Quick joke: What do you call a state that’s not being gutted by Republicans? Answer: Let’s hope there’s still time to find out.
I had to leave my two teenagers behind, even though I knew they were as obsessed with Raye’s sophomore album, This Music May Contain Hope, as I was. My son keeps the vinyl spinning and was the first to memorize the impossibly quick lyrics to “Click Clack Symphony,” the lovechild of Raye and Hans Zimmer. My daughter practices the runs and riffs, commands Alexa to play “I Will Overcome.” We blast “The WhatsApp Shakespeare” in the car and stare maniacally at my youngest, Juliet, willing her to crack a smile at the words, “Juliet must run / Juliet must vanish.” We’ve formed a small but steadily neurodivergent cult, and we are asking for a certain British singer to lead us home. Did my son write an entire article, “Why Raye’s Newest Album is the Ultimate AuDHD Album,” in Google Docs? Sure did. Complete with The Devil Wears Prada references.
A bit of context, baddies: I am forty-three years old. Some days I feel twenty-five; other days, I understand my ovaries have been replaced by two candy cigarettes, puffing chalk into the dark alleys of my abdomen.
So I read Miranda July’s All Fours when it came out. Did I relate to the woman, the motel, the living of a second life within or along the perimeter of your first? Not exactly. I come from purity culture, babes. I’m loyal as they come, terrible at lying, and just learned “raw dogging” isn’t only about bros flying without iPhones. Let’s be honest: I can barely sleep, let alone get buck neck-ed, in any hotel, motel, or Holiday Inn, because I’m terrified of germs. But I sensed I was supposed to relate to something in that book. Which is literally the definition of autism. My whole life is “Oh, you’re supposed to do it that way? Wear those jeans? Negotiate your salary? Have emotions at the time of the emotional event? Who explained this to you?”
But hats off to Miranda July, because even if I can’t write a sex scene without plagiarizing the Song of Solomon, I did feel a shift in my late thirties. As though my brain unlocked another backroom full of questions and accouterments related to How Things Work, and once your brain opens that door, dear reader, there’s zero point in shutting it. You have to look around. Even if opening the boxes and pulling books off the shelves (my back room is a library, of course) unleashes exhausting rumination or contributes to burnout. You can slam the door, take some time off, go drink a daiquiri on the beach, but you’ll come back. Midlife is in that room. I found autism and ADHD boxes in mine; a box of oil pastels and paint markers stuffed into a tin labeled DELIGHT; and I’m just starting to examine this thing in the corner, a complex and vintage contraption labeled WANT. We are born with it, all of us. So what happened to mine?
Can I tell you the first thing I tried to do with a piece of my want? After I acknowledged my desire to see Raye, with ridiculous flight costs, during the school week, when I would have to lean on my spouse and community to fill in, I tried to build a container for my want. I put it away in big Rubbermaid containers, marked as DUMB, IMPOSSIBLE, SELFISH, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, WE CAN’T AFFORD THIS.
It kept bursting out from under the lid, like Strega Nona’s noodles. But I’m a modern, therapized woman. I have workarounds and cognitive flexibility and meds for situations like this.
I leaned harder into “shoulds” and shame. I reminded my heart that stay-at-home moms who are adjunct professors and freelance writers who do deep dives into human behavior when other parents are making money, don’t get to take last-minute trips if someone’s not dying. When shame left me hungry, even if dejected, I tried to put the want on a shelf marked MOTHER’S DAY. If I could just do a two-factor verification of why I deserved this trip, maybe I could go without guilt. My want proved too big for the particle board shelf. Too heavy. Too living for the stuff men created to seem real.
I have spent many hours, many days, years, then, convincing myself my wants must align with certain rules or the passionate desires of others. I’ve told myself that what I want is impossible. Or that I can only want and choose a thing when my back’s against the wall. A 9-1-1 desire, like the old Kmart blue-light special. There are three billion reasons why I do this, and my therapist and I have only uncovered fifteen, so I hope she’s ready to push up her Quince sweater sleeves and get to work for another decade. The reasons why matter. But right now, they don’t matter as much as trusting that sometimes I do know what I want. And I’m not talking about ice cream or soft tees or a pair of clearance Nikes.
I can want something big and bright for myself. Something that isn’t required or “for a job” or “for a kid” or “for the family,” and that is okay. Good, even.
Taylor (left) with friends at Raye concert.
If you see me out and about (good luck) in my first-ever oversized concert tee, let it remind you that aging autistic baddies, lovers of lattes and libraries, creatures of habit and predictable highs, are allowed to want things that cost or take up space or hinge on the assistance of others. There’s a good chance what we desire will be gorgeous and complex, dripping with depth. A Raye concert in an outdoor amphitheater on a mildly breezy night in Austin? She and her sisters singing “Joy” like three little girls dancing in their backyard, unaware or uncaring that hundreds or even thousands are looking on? Yes, please. But if it’s not as glorious as a night with a dream artist and her no-skips sophomore album, at least we will have trusted ourselves enough to choose our want and call it good.