“Outside the window, still seen”
I grew up in rooms with different rules;
special ed halls, smaller groups,
where my mind ran fast and sideways,
and my heart learned early how to brace.
I had friends, yes—names, faces, laughter—
but still I felt like standing outside
a window I could see through
yet never quite open.
Every day I came home tired,
not from school, but from being,
from translating the world
word by word, look by look.
They called me defiant,
but I was really just asking why,
why rules bent without warning,
why silence spoke louder than sound.
Now I read social cues like weather signs,
watching shifts in tone, in eyes, in space.
I don’t crave the noise of parties;
crowds blur, lights press too close.
Give me the outdoors,
where trees don’t judge pauses,
where wind doesn’t mind stimming hands,
where I can breathe without explanation.
Give me my room—
music loud enough to feel,
a voice singing without an audience,
a body dancing without rules.
Give me libraries and quiet aisles,
new subjects like unopened doors,
learning for the joy of knowing,
curiosity as comfort, knowledge as home.
I loved the ups—
the sparks, the passion, the wonder—
and hated the downs,
the crashes no one else could see.
But time taught me this:
I was not made wrong;
I was made different on purpose.
God shaped my mind with bends and fire,
let me walk the edges of belonging,
so I’d learn how to notice
those standing there too.
He will use my story,
my tired days and quiet joys,
my questions and my compassion,
to gather hearts that feel unseen.
Not with nets of force,
but with understanding hands—
a fisher of men
who knows what it means
to swim against the current
and still be called good.
~ Her Wildly Inspiration 💋