Six decades is a long time to wait for your own life.
I entered the world as a twin. Before we had names, we had roles.
Four decades later, I discovered through paperwork that I had been born with cerebral palsy. Suddenly, much of my life made sense: I had been navigating a world shaped by realities I had not known about.
Another decade later came autism, offering another piece of a puzzle that had never quite fitted together.
Time has changed not only what I know about myself, but how I understand the life I have lived.
For much of my life, I've been understood through my twin and through other people's understanding of me.
For the past sixteen years, writing has helped me piece my life together. On the page, I began to reach parts of myself that had long been inaccessible. But understanding yourself in writing is not always the same as finding your place in your own life.
From an early age, I was a spectator in my own story. Years passed. Roles settled. Other people's expectations settled around me.
I still find myself returning to the same question: where do I belong in my own life?
Perhaps the work now is simply learning to place myself at the centre of my own story.
