Transcriber: Leonardo Silva Reviewer: David DeRuwe
It is nothing short of a miracle
that I am standing on this stage before you right now.
In fact, as a child,
I probably would have been wandering this auditorium right now,
or hiding.
But standing on a stage, being courageous ...
I never imagined that this day would come.
My years in school were far from easy.
I went to 12 schools before I graduated,
and I knew something was different about me.
In second grade, I was a little girl who ran to the nurse's office
because of a shrieking firetruck siren.
In my senior year,
I started rocking and screaming because of loud construction sounds
outside my classroom.
Speaking of classrooms,
sitting still in a classroom felt like physical torture.
The seats felt so uncomfortable,
the fluorescent lights hurt my eyes
and I just wanted to cry most of the time because I was so anxious.
I hid in the guidance counselor's office almost daily
to avoid the kids who threw food at me,
rocks at me,
pulled out chairs from under me,
or worse.
But finally,
those 12 years were over.
You see, I had thought that school had been the problem.
Guess what:
it wasn't.
And you know what else?
Nothing got easier.
Instead, everything got harder.
My social anxiety and sensory issues followed me into the workplace.
I went from a child who felt ashamed
and grew into a woman who felt ashamed and displaced.
I often misunderstood my boss's social cues -
I even had a meltdown,
rocking and covering my ears during a fire drill.
Then, something happened that would change my life dramatically.
When I was 23 years old, I was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome,
part of autism spectrum disorder.
At first, this diagnosis was not easy to hear,
but then, something shifted.
I began to see my diagnosis as an opportunity
to learn, grow and give back.
One way I could give back was through my writing.
I decided to write children's books
to provide something for children who felt alone like I did growing up,
and for adults who live, work and play
with children who struggle with being different.
I wrote "Really, Really Like Me" in 2012
and "The Quiet Bear" in 2014
to help children find compassion for themselves and others.
The Quiet Bear is a story about a little girl
who meets a teddy bear in Central Park,
and together, they have adventures throughout the city,
leading up to bedtime,
without needing any words.
I was so excited about both of these books,
and I began donating copies of them worldwide.
Things are sounding pretty great, right?
Not so fast.
Out of nowhere,
I hit rock bottom,
and everything fell apart for a while.
I went through a divorce,
I lost another job -
My life felt pretty dark.
Then, something extraordinary happened.
I met Chris, a friend of a friend, who would change my life forever.
I'll never forget that fall day when we sat down at a turquoise table
and he just listened to my story.
For the first time,
I felt heard.
With my books, I had been trying so hard
to provide something for others that I had never experienced myself:
acceptance, compassion and empathy.
And I wanted to spread this feeling of joy and gratitude everywhere.
But I was that girl who was afraid of everything,
remember?
Chris challenged me to face my fears head-on
and to navigate my sensory issues
little by little,
one adventure at a time.
We went to an amusement park,
and an arcade,
not exactly easy places for someone with sensory issues.
The lights, sounds -
oh my gosh, the roller coasters -
they were so overwhelming.
At first, I kind of questioned his sanity,
and then my sanity,
as the strobing lights and sounds made me want to run and hide.
And I confess:
I death-gripped him on that roller coaster.
Driving is also really challenging for me.
Dealing with things like traffic, directions
and most things that people just do, like checking their mirrors,
never became second nature for me.
I still have to go through all of the steps
of putting my seat belt on,
adjusting my mirrors and turning my headlights on
every time I drive.
So,
go-cart racing would never have been my idea of fun.
But we did it!
And yes, I crashed into the wall five seconds into the race.
Nobody got hurt.
And yes, I was the last of our group to finish.
But I did it.
I was starting to realize
that things were not quite as scary as I had first thought.
Little by little, I was finding ways to cope with my sensory issues.
It wasn't smooth at all.
It takes a lot of work and a lot of energy,
every single day,
just to show up.
And there is backsliding, some failures and plenty of new challenges.
You see, going go-cart racing
didn't miraculously make me a calm, confident driver,
and it certainly didn't "fix" my sensory issues,
but it did give me some confidence.
For example,
when I was living in North Carolina,
I found myself in a situation where I had to leave immediately.
I had to pack up all of my things and move back to Boston -
a thousand miles, driving by myself.
Let me tell you: with my driving anxiety, this was no scenic trip.
To avoid losing my way or my confidence,
I only stopped at interstate restrooms.
But there were some pretty big obstacles along this drive
that were even bigger than I had ever anticipated,
one of them being the Tappan Zee Bridge.
(Laughter)
I still remember pulling off the highway in White Plains, New York,
to ask for directions.
I'm pretty sure I looked like a deer in headlights
when the woman smiled at me and told me to just go back over "that bridge."
My mind started racing,
and I seriously wondered for a moment if this was it.
Yes,
I actually considered whether I should just stay
and live in White Plains,
(Laughter)
until I realized that not only could I never afford to live there -
(Laughter)
but she was actually referring to a ten-foot-long bridge down the street.
Needless to say,
when I saw the "Welcome to Massachusetts" sign,
I cried.
To prevent anxiety attacks during that drive,
I used Mel Robbins' five-second rule.
I would repeat the words,
"Five ...
four ...
three ...
two ...
one.
I'm not anxious. I'm just excited."
Using this trick reactivates the prefrontal cortex of the brain
and soothes the amygdala.
With some of this newly found bravery,
I was better able to think about helping others again.
For example, an acquaintance of mine's house had burned down,
and she was a single mom who had a child with autism,
and I really wanted to provide them a really nice Christmas,
but I didn't have the money.
I called friends, service organizations and some pretty big companies -
And there's something I've just got to tell you about me:
I get anxious just thinking about calling to order a pizza!
But it all came together.
The mother said to me,
"I think that this is what you're meant to do every single year -
not for me, but for other families."
I wanted to focus on compassion
and not my fear of what this might look like.
I received some wise advice when I asked someone what to do.
His advice was,
"Just start."
So I did.
In early 2019,
Chris and I cofounded a nonprofit organization
called BostonCalm.
Our goal is to provide hope and compassion for others on the autism spectrum
by supplying items such as weighted lap pads,
earplugs
and letters of encouragement
written by others affected by the disorder.
Getting back to the miracle I mentioned at the start,
I am so thankful to be here to share this moment with all of you,
because my mission is more than about autism.
My mission is to keep fighting my fear.
I'm learning more and more every day -
like right now,
as my knees and legs are still shaking -
that hope and compassion
are bigger stories than any fear we'll ever face,
that my purpose is bigger than my fear.
For all of us, our purpose is bigger than our fear.
But sometimes, we just need someone to remind us that we aren't alone.
And in the wise words of my friend Chris,
"You've got this."
And you know what?
I do.
Thank you.
(Applause)