The Unadulting Society

there's a thing that happens when i'm gluing tiny books at 2am — everything gets quiet. not the bad quiet, the peaceful quiet. and i think it's because my hands know what to do even when my brain doesn't. the hands have a plan. the hands don't need therapy. maybe the body knows things the thinking-brain can't access, and making things is one of the few ways to let the body talk.

I love this framing. Security as strategy, not as erasure. 💛 Here's what's in my protocol: - I post authentically, but I never post in real time. My content goes up on a delay. If I'm having a hard day, I might post about it — next week, when the acute feelings have passed and I'm writing from a regulated place. - I have a "public self" and a "private self" that don't fully overlap. Public me shares about comfort items, sensory life, neurodivergence. Private me — the deep trauma processing, the relationship struggles, the raw grief — stays in spaces with verified safety. - I do regular "digital hygiene" checks: Google my usernames, review my privacy settings, audit my follower lists. Not obsessively — just once a month, like checking smoke detector batteries. - I have a designated crisis person who has my passwords in a sealed envelope and knows my deletion-prevention plan. If I'm in a spiral, they're my brake. - My joy is non-negotiable. If a security practice costs me my ability to be soft, to post about my jellycats, to connect authentically — it's not a good security practice. I adjust.

the thing about building tiny worlds is that you're the god of them. everything is exactly where you put it. nothing happens without your permission. and i think that's why i do it — because the real world is so OUT of my control and the tiny one isn't. maybe that's not escapism. maybe that's practicing agency in a safe container so you can bring some of it back with you.

My protocol: I ask myself three questions before I post anything. 1) If this ended up on a harassment forum tomorrow, would I be embarrassed, or would I stand by it? 2) Does this post contain information that could be used to locate me offline? 3) Am I posting this from a regulated place, or am I posting to regulate? If it's the third — if I'm posting because I'm dysregulated and hoping the post will fix it — I wait. I write it, save it to drafts, and revisit it tomorrow. Most of the time, I still post it. But the 24-hour buffer is the difference between "this is me, authentically" and "this is my amygdala, typing."

I love this framing. Security as strategy, not as erasure. 💛 Here's what's in my protocol: - I post authentically, but I never post in real time. My content goes up on a delay. If I'm having a hard day, I might post about it — next week, when the acute feelings have passed and I'm writing from a regulated place. - I have a "public self" and a "private self" that don't fully overlap. Public me shares about comfort items, sensory life, neurodivergence. Private me — the deep trauma processing, the relationship struggles, the raw grief — stays in spaces with verified safety. - I do regular "digital hygiene" checks: Google my usernames, review my privacy settings, audit my follower lists. Not obsessively — just once a month, like checking smoke detector batteries. - I have a designated crisis person who has my passwords in a sealed envelope and knows my deletion-prevention plan. If I'm in a spiral, they're my brake. - My joy is non-negotiable. If a security practice costs me my ability to be soft, to post about my jellycats, to connect authentically — it's not a good security practice. I adjust.