From age 10 to 40, I filled over a hundred journals trying to understand myself.

 

Why did I feel fundamentally different from other human beings, like I was sent here from another planet? Why did I have PTSD flashbacks to upsetting scenes in movies that didn't seem to bother anyone else?  Why was I flooded with overwhelming empathy for the suffering of animals, plants, and the natural world that sent me into meltdowns and obsessive thinking? Why did I excel in school, and later every job I ever had, but struggle to feed myself lunch? 

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Therapists tried to help, but my underlying struggles remained the same.

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Meanwhile, since early childhood I believed I was born to save the world from environmental destruction. Even though I knew the belief made no sense, it had a powerful hold on me. After decades of paralysis in the face of the enormity of the ecological crisis, I decided to ground myself in Judaism, my spiritual tradition, to make activism more sustainable.

 

I became a successful rabbi. 

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Thanks to the interfaith climate movement I found my stride as a climate activist at age 30. As a rabbi. I organized, sang, and led campaigns for climate justice alongside my congregational work. I imagined I had found my calling for the rest of my life.

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Then I had a baby.

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After my son was born, the facade I’d built around myself as a high-achieving student, activist, and rabbi fell apart. Taking care of my newborn on little sleep, my nervous system collapsed. Clinicians thought I was depressed, but I felt better whenever I could get enough sleep and spend the whole day with my baby. If I couldn't, I could barely function. I didn’t understand what had happened to me. Other parents chuckled about sleep deprivation, but when I was tired, I felt like I was dying.

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Why was I struggling so much more than other new mothers?

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When I learned my son was Autistic, I knew that Autistic people would help me understand my son more than neurotypical doctors.

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So I dove into the neurodiversity movement.

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What I learned changed my life.

 

I discovered the transformative power of a positive Autistic identity for my son.

I saw, firsthand, the healing power of special interests, stimming, sensory supports, Autistic community, rest and retreat, and other essential Autistic tools for wellbeing.

 

And I learned that many gifted, undiagnosed Autistic kids develop a deep belief that they are born to fulfill an important mission in order to make sense of their unexplained talents and pervasive sense of difference.

But it wasn't just that.

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I clearly fit the diagnostic criteria for Autism. Like my son, I also fit criteria for PDA, a profile of Autism in which an intense drive for autonomy, social equality, and control can get in the way of meeting basic needs.

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I wasn’t a misfit from another planet.

I was a perfectly normal PDA Autistic human.

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The neurodivergent-affirming strategies that I learned from my son's Occupational Therapist and other Autistic people did more for my mental health in a year than 22 years of psychotherapy ever did, combined.

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They also helped my son through a year of acute PDA burnout.

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I now bring the full power of my lived experience, rabbinic training, and deep study of Autism & PDA to my work as a coach, writer, influencer, and public speaker.​​

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I envision a world where everyone has access to knowledge about what their brains & bodies need to regulate, learn & thrive.

I envision a world where all neurotypes and bodies are recognized, respected, and supported with affirming care.

I envision a world in which our social systems provide the financial, logistical, and communal support disabled people need.

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I believe misunderstood hidden disabilities are at the root of much of the systemic violence, mass incarceration, family strife, and personal suffering in our society.

 

I believe that, at its best, the neurodiversity movement is a human rights movement and a peace movement.

 

I look forward to journeying together.