Actually Asten

Every now and then, I catch myself wondering what my life might have looked like if things had been different. Not out of regret — more out of curiosity. That soft, far-off kind that drifts in when you’re making tea or staring out of the window. The kind that asks “what if?” but doesn’t expect an answer.

When I was a teenager, everything shifted. Things got misunderstood, and I ended up in hospital when really I just needed calm, care, and someone who spoke the same language as my overwhelmed autistic brain. It wasn’t handled in the best way, but now I can see it came from fear and love mixed together. They didn’t know what else to do.

Sometimes I picture the version of me who never went through that — the one who kept walking the smooth path. She would have gone to university for graphic design, building on the little magazine I created in college called Autzine. I imagine her in a bright studio, surrounded by half-finished posters and cups of tea gone cold, headphones on, laughing with classmates about fonts and deadlines.

She’s happy, I think. But she’s also different.

Because even though the version of me who went to uni might have learned about design, this version learned about resilience. I learned what it’s like to rebuild yourself — to take hurt and confusion and make something creative out of it. That’s how the writing started, how the advocacy began, how the nostalgia found its voice.

Maybe I didn’t need to become someone else — I just needed time to become me.

And now, here I am: running Actually Asten Nostalgia, writing my stories, building a life with Myron that feels calm, colourful, and true. It wasn’t the path I planned, but it’s the one that fits.

If things had been different, I might have a degree on my wall — but I might have missed the life that feels most like mine.