The words “And Still I Rise” belong to Dr. Maya Angelou — a poet, activist, and woman whose strength changed the world.

Her poem spoke of rising above racism, oppression, and pain with dignity, pride, and grace. Those words have carried generations through hardship. They’ve become a universal symbol of human resilience, a reminder that no matter what has been done to us, we can still choose to stand tall.

I haven’t experienced racism, and I want to acknowledge that upfront. That struggle isn’t mine to speak for.

But I have known what it feels like to be reduced, misunderstood, and judged for simply being myself.

I’ve felt the subtle, relentless pressure of sexism, the kind that teaches women to be quieter, neater, smaller.

And I’ve lived through the judgement that comes with being autistic, with ADHD, and dyslexia in a world that doesn't design for people like me.

There’s a loneliness that comes from being told you’re too much and not enough at the same time.

So, this is my version. Choosing to Rise.

It’s not about pretending to be unbreakable.

It’s about deciding, again and again, to stand up for who I am.

 

What Rising Really Looks Like

Rising isn’t always graceful.

Sometimes it’s stepping into another day that doesn’t understand you.

Sometimes it’s asking for what you need, even when you’re tired of explaining.

Sometimes it’s speaking when your voice shakes or refusing to shrink when people look uncomfortable.

Rising, for me, has looked like:

• Turning my "sensitivity" into insight.
• Turning rejection into redirection.
• Turning difference into design — a way of creating new spaces where people like me belong.

It’s been a quiet rebellion against being “fixed” and a steady commitment to being heard.

 

Finally Naming It: Complex PTSD

Yesterday, I received a formal diagnosis of Complex PTSD.  It’s hard to describe the mix of emotions that came with it: relief, validation, sadness, and gratitude.

For years, I’ve supported others in navigating trauma, grief, and difficult transitions. I’ve studied it, written about it and yet, having my own experience finally named feels completely different.

A diagnosis doesn’t change who I am. It simply helps me understand why certain things have felt the way they have.

It connects the dots, offers language where there was confusion, and replaces shame with self-compassion.

It’s deeply validating to realise that what I’ve lived through has a name — and that name has the potential to carry understanding, over judgement.

For anyone still searching for clarity or feeling “too much” please know this: sensitivity isn’t weakness, and what looks like overreaction is often a story the world hasn’t learned to listen to yet.

Today I’m sitting with all of it. The relief, the grief, and the quiet sense of wholeness that comes from finally being seen.

Choosing to rise isn’t only personal. It’s cultural.

Every time we rise in our truth, we chip away at stigma.

We change the conversation from “What’s wrong with you?” to “What happened to you and how can we make it right?”

I rise, not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary.

Because every time I do, someone else might realise they can too.