NeuroDivine

It’s 5am and my side aches again—echoes of a fall from a couple of weekends ago. I’ve taken paracetamol, the only painkiller I’m allowed on dialysis. It’s a quiet kind of surrender, not dramatic, just necessary. But I’m terrible at taking painkillers. Not because I forget, but because I hesitate. I second-guess whether the pain is “bad enough,” whether I’m “using up” my limited options too soon. I weigh the cost of relief against the dignity of endurance, as if pain were a moral test.

Autistic self-care can be a strange dance. We’re often hyper-aware of our bodies—every twinge, every shift in sensation—but translating that awareness into action isn’t always straightforward. Executive function, sensory processing, and a lifetime of being told we’re “too sensitive” or “not doing it right” can make even basic care feel like a negotiation.

Paracetamol becomes a symbol: of constraint, of compromise, of care that doesn’t feel intuitive. I want to be brave, but I also want to be well. And sometimes, being well means taking the tablet, even when it feels like admitting defeat.

So here’s to the quiet victories: the 5am decisions, the gentle self-talk, the permission to soothe what hurts. Not because we’re weak, but because we’re worthy of comfort.

God of aching bodies, grant me grace to rest, courage to care, and wisdom to soothe what hurts. Amen.