Life Modulated Into a New Key

My story isn’t new or unique… but it is stubbornly, musically, unmistakably mine.

Growing up, I barely talked. Not because I couldn’t—my older brother simply appointed himself Director of Verbal Operations. Lifetime tenure. No term limits.

The one person I did speak to was this tiny librarian who radiated “I speak fluent odd child.” And she did.

Meanwhile, the whole world was a symphony: wind in 6/8, traffic in 4/4, far-off trains in a very dramatic minor key. Renaissance polyphony, Baroque ornamentation, Death Metal blast beats—my brain happily merged them all.

Humans? Confusing. But sound? Crystal clear.

I also have (formerly) undiagnosed mild cerebral palsy and hearing so sensitive my grandmother said I could “hear a mouse tap dancing in a wall three blocks away.” So teachers thought I wasn’t paying attention while I was answering every question without looking up from counting the hairs on the classroom hamster.

Multitasking: mastered. Social skills: still buffering.

High school and college were the same playlist: choir, band, theater. College added liquid based character development but was otherwise identical. I was labeled lazy, difficult, and a disciplinary issue. Autism never came up; apparently I did not resemble the barely existent neurodivergent brochure.

I entered adulthood with no real direction and even fewer prospects. I tried every job: special education, Special Recreation, selling high-end musical instruments (I could explain a $12,000 instrument down to the molecular structure but could not ask for money). Managers loved that. Eventually I learned luthiery because if you want an instrument that feels like an extension of you, apparently you have to build it yourself.

In 2010, while feeding a student lunch, I read about a company called Aspiritech. I thought, “This would be perfect for my students…”

And quietly: “…maybe for me.”

Time passed, life collapsed, depression moved in like it owned the place. Nearing 40, I finally got assessed: Autistic. Suddenly 40 years of “What is wrong with me?” became “Oh. Nothing”. Where had I heard that before? Was this knowledge really going to make a difference?

My therapist pushed me to apply to Aspiritech. I did—then immediately forgot. She called them herself, because therapists can do that apparently, and suddenly I had an interview. Training came. I was sure I’d fail. I even tried to give back the training stipend so they wouldn’t waste resources.

Instead… They hired me.

And here’s where my life modulated into a new key.

Aspiritech figured out what I actually needed: shorter, more frequent breaks before my brain turned to soup, permission to exit meetings when auditory overload decided to take a seat at the table, and when we started working remotely a guitar next to me because sometimes the only way to understand a complex problem is to play a B minor Add9 chord about it.

Other employers call these “distractions.”
Aspiritech calls them “productivity tools.”
Six strings are cheaper than burnout.

And with that?

I didn’t rise to greatness—I rose to average. And I have never been more proud.
For the first time ever, I was financially independent. I bought a house. I was doing things that even I thought I wouldn’t achieve. I climbed from QA Analyst to Job Coach to Team Lead to Engagement Manager-without ever asking or considering anything above ground floor. Aspiritech just saw strengths and skills I still refuse to admit I possess.

Then in 2024, I got fired. Key change, fortissimo.

Months later, after hearing rumors, I met Tara, our CEO, at Wendy’s—because nothing says “existential crisis” like fluorescent lights and chicken nuggets. I apologized, dramatically. She smirked and asked:
“If there were an opportunity… Would you want to come back?”

I tried to dodge—she asked again. Eventually I said yes. Any role, minimum pay. I just wanted to come home.

A month later: a roadmap, tasks to complete.

December 2024: I returned.

Aspiritech didn’t just give me a job—
It gave me dignity, stability, and a community that understands my particular brand of musical chaos.

And it taught me the truth every autistic adult deserves to know:
We’re not broken.
We don’t need fixing.
We just need environments that work with our rhythm.

Because when we get that?
We don’t just survive—
We harmonize…
loudly, beautifully, and unapologetically,
exactly as we are.

[Exit sinistra parte scenae cum gratia]