I never seem to blend into a crowd, I always stick out like a ‘sore thumb’. I wear bright baggy clothing, a mish-mash of wrestling t-shirts, hippy clothing and the occasional brightly coloured trinket. I have short hair and long nails and I wear cropped trousers and shorts all year round. Before I started driving I wore flip flops all year round too. I cannot do layers and I don’t do warm clothes.

I also move in ways many others don’t: I rock, sway, flap my hands. My hands are in constant movement and I need sensory feedback all the time. When I’m tired, excited or overwhelmed I make all sorts of noises, whooping, meowing, throat clearing, whistling. I am very sweary, even in the office at work.

I like lego, Disney, wrestling, reading comics and manga, and playing farm simulators. I still sleep with a stuffed animal (I’d have more but I couldn’t deal with that amount of stuff in bed with me!). I coach wheelchair basketball but don’t like watching sports at all.

I talk to myself to process and practice converations. I am loud, talkative and remember things others don’t. I am always thinking out loud, to myself, in public. I am the person on the train platform everyone stares at as I mutter nonsense to myself.

I am Weird in so many glorious ways. And as I get older I aspire to be more Weird, not less. I am not concerned about the ways that my interests and ways of being don’t match each other. Or how they don’t match people’s expectations of me and the supposed role I should play as a mother, youth worker, coach, and as a supposed gendered being. I am perfectly, wonderfully Weird. I am perfectly, wonderfully me.