All the People in All the Houses

In which I remember there is an epilogue to my memoir

Announcement: Next Friday, April 25th (12:30-2 EST), I’ll be facilitating a workshop at the wonderful

Sarah Teresa Cook

’s For the Birds. The theme is “What Moves You”: These days, the daily news moves many of us toward anxiety and fear, especially those of us attuned toward meanings and connections. We will look at several poems and a work of art for inspiration and write according to related prompts. The hope will be to connect with things that move us toward life and beauty, even amid worry and stress. To participate, sign up for a one-month membership here at Out for Stars or over at For the Birds. If you are already a paid subscriber here, message me, and I will send you the workshop link!

Now for today’s essay…

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Between 2020 and 2022, I wrote a memoir about all the houses I’ve lived in. It ended up being about learning I am autistic. It ended up being about community, acceptance, and home. Between Fall 2024 and Winter 2025, I published the chapters here. Last week—so very neurodivergent—I remembered there is an epilogue. This is it.

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror

- Derek Walcott, “Love after Love”

Let’s say it happens in the bathroom, that intersection of comfort and reality where scuffs are bandaged and unwanted gray hairs show themselves, wiry and resilient. The mirror hangs before me in the cold LED light. Two weeks after sending the original manuscript of this book to my editor, I learn I am probably autistic. Three months later, I add a chapter called “On the Front Porch.” I leave the final chapter the way it is, because both everything and nothing have changed.

I gaze at my reflection, and many understandings kaleidoscope into place. I start to cry a little. I laugh. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then flip down the light switch, leaving the room in darkness. The rest of the house is bright by comparison, but I’m not staying. I gather my things–purse, shoes, jean jacket, phone–and open the front door. The house gasps and shudders; it’s a windy day. My breath pierces clear and sharp for a moment, then my heart resumes its pace.

I step out onto the porch. All the people in all the houses are before me. Some of them have learned the same thing about themselves that I know now about myself. They have learned it just yesterday or two months or five years ago, or maybe they will find out tomorrow. Some of them are learning other things about themselves that make them feel different, not-quite-right, on the edge of everything. I set out to find them. My work, as Mary Oliver has it, is to love the world. The path forward comes closer. Now I really am on my way.

Unsplash: Jan Tinneberg

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