It's Not Safe to Be Me Series — Part 5: Reclamation
“Sometimes, reclaiming yourself isn’t about force—it’s about surrender.”
Nearly three years after I broke down in my cabin, I reclaimed myself.
It wasn’t like I thought it would be. I had declared my “return” a few times before, convincing myself that I could pull myself up, glue the pieces back together, and be Marie Fucking Masse again. I thought that going through the motions—journaling, creating, showing up—would somehow spark the fire and restore my sense of safety.
But every attempt fizzled out. Every false start turned the inner critic loose: “What a joke. You’re embarrassing yourself. You’re still not you again.”
Here’s what I learned: Reclamation doesn’t respond to willpower. It doesn’t happen by force.
It wasn’t until Kendall went back to school this year—August 2024—that something shifted within me.
Letting her re-enter a system I’d spent years interrogating and resisting felt like a blow at first, like I was abandoning the dream life I’d worked so hard to build. I’d clung tightly to unschooling, to nurturing my kids’ passions and autonomy, and to the belief that we could create something better.
But my grip—once hopeful—had become a new set of rigid rules and pressure to perform. It was the same trap I’d seen in the mainstream systems I rejected, just dressed in new clothes. The initial freedom had morphed into pressure to perform meaningfully—every moment, every day.
I worried about reintegration, of course. We hadn’t done “school work” in forever. Would the school call child services? Would the state punish us?
Then, my friend offered a lifeline: “You’ve been through it, Marie. Your chronic illness alone is reason enough for them to extend grace.”
She was right. I let go. I pulled together some of Kendall’s older school work and recent artwork and asked her to write an essay on “How to Take Care of Rabbits”—from her lived experience that year. With nervous hands, I pieced together a hodgepodge portfolio. Within a week, she was enrolled at her grade level—as if we’d never skipped a beat.
What an ego boost that was! Four years of naysayers predicting she’d “fall behind” had nothing on this moment. I felt validated. I was right.
And yet, when the dust settled, the emotional wave came.
The following weekend, I went into meltdown. Every pressure, every expectation, every ounce of discomfort I’d been holding needed to move through me and release itself from my human shell. I sobbed, I raged, and I let the waves crash over me.
And when they receded, something familiar returned: freedom.
Looking Back: The Pendulum Swing
There was so much more happening in September 2021 than the loss of Levi’s medication.
Back then, with the urgency of ‘What if there’s no tomorrow?’, I was on top of it all:
my business and creativity
therapy appointments
obsessive deep dives into neurodivergence—endlessly seeking answers
family adventures
and unschooling
And I was so proud. Too proud.
It was a “we’re doing life better than everyone else” kind of pride.
And while I treasured the playdates and new friendships, I was drained. I carried the cognitive load: every decision, every research rabbit hole, every question, every next step—alone.
And oh, how I was angry at Dave.
I needed him to match my intensity. To sit with me in the late-night research trenches, to brainstorm solutions, to share the burden. I wanted him to get it—to challenge himself the way I was challenging myself out of pure survival. I’d throw accusations at him, saying:
“If Levi had diabetes, you’d have to learn how to manage blood sugar. Neurodivergence is no different.”
But here’s what I couldn’t see then:
Caring for Levi was like managing blood sugar—vigilant, constant, layered. But I wasn’t just stabilizing; I was metabolizing every detail, every pattern, every outcome I couldn’t control. Meanwhile, Dave was watching over the whole home—quietly, steadily, in ways I didn’t value at the time.
It wasn’t his “lack of involvement” that broke me. It was the grief of knowing I couldn’t clone myself and that I couldn’t control the outcome, no matter how much I learned or fought. And so, I wanted someone to blame, and I chose him.
My intensity (my innate wiring) drove me deeper and deeper into advocacy, into knowledge-seeking, into war. I waged war against the systems pressing into our home and smothering my family—patriarchy, capitalism, neuronormativity. I held everyone—myself included—to unattainable expectations.
Some battles I won. Some I lost. But the fight left me changed.
The Reclamation: How Safety Returned
When Kendall went back to school, it was as if the pendulum—so long stuck on one extreme—was finally free to swing back to center. The pressure I’d kept close finally fell away.
In the four months since, I’ve reemerged in ways that felt lost when I was asking, “Will I ever be me again?”
I started this Substack.
I created @myneurodivergentjoy, a playful Instagram space.
I launched a new website and let myself imagine creative possibilities: What if I start an advice column? A story work club? A book club?
I created a new story prompt PDF: 120 Stories You’ve Already Lived: Shift from ‘What Stories?’ to ‘Wow, I have so many stories!’
I was a guest on The Neurodivergent Woman Podcast, sharing a piece of my Special Interests and Creativity story.
And I ran a sales campaign for the podcast—my first in years and one of my all-time favorite things to do as a small business owner. THIS alone felt like a homecoming.
And yes, there have been dark moments. Whispers of fear: ‘What if this bubble bursts? What if it’s still not safe to be me?’
But my ability to sit with that discomfort has expanded.
Where once a single interruption could send me spiraling, now it just is. I still get dysregulated, but my reactions are softer. The waves roll in, pass through, and recede.
The Force that Took Over Me Has Softened
The force that used to take over me—the meltdowns where I’d rip things off walls, shatter things, or storm into the woods—has softened. I didn’t tame it. I didn’t control it. I survived it.
For almost three years, my emotions swelled like hurricanes—Category 5 storms that tore through my body and my life. Now, their strength has eased. They’re still powerful, still undeniable, but they’ve reduced to something I can sit with—a Category 3, maybe. I can brace myself and ride it out.
I can’t recall the last time I lost it and broke something. This tells me that my window of distress tolerance is regaining strength.
In September 2024, I craved MacIntosh apples. A small thing, really, but I needed them—the specific taste, the way they snap when you bite. I didn’t know how much this day would test me or how much it would show the progress in my healing.
We were already late—half the day gone, tugging fiercely on my value of making the most of our lives. Then, the first orchard was packed. Dave dropped Levi and me off and disappeared into his own adventure: parking chaos. Finally, he rejoined us, and we walked to the U-Pick line—only to find out the hard way: no MacIntosh apples. Sold out.
The disappointment was fierce. My brain said, “It’s only apples,” but my body didn’t care.
We drove to a grocery store that “usually” had them. Nope. Levi, unfazed, got himself a gooey, oversized slice of pizza. I refrained, but in the car, the storm was brewing. I wanted a slice, too. I was about to sob—sob—over pizza. Gluten be damned. Dave went back in to get me one, because he really does have my back in those moments.
While he was inside, I Googled—just to check—and saw that the orchard I thought didn’t have MacIntosh apples… did. It was all so ridiculous. I was instantly lighter. The apples weren’t the point, really—they rarely are. What mattered was how I handled the emotions that day.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t collapse. I stayed in my body. The emotions still surged, but I rode them—without them reaching the level of that shaken-up bottle-of-soda feeling, the one where the cap’s about to blow.
For almost three years, I’d been living at that breaking point, wreaking havoc across my life. But this time?
I was okay.
That’s healing. Quiet, imperfect healing.
The Supernova: A Message to Women Like You
To the women who feel unsafe to show up as their intense, wonderful selves—this is for you.
You are not the storm’s casualty. You are the storm.
You are the supernova—raw, bright, and powerful enough to clear paths, burn off what no longer serves you, and light the way forward.
You cannot force yourself to heal. You cannot claw your way back to the person you once were. You will emerge again—when your body is ready, when your spirit and nervous system have rested.
Safety doesn’t come from shrinking yourself to fit—into systems, relationships, or expectations. It comes from letting yourself be. Fully. Fiercely. Unapologetically.
Trust that your intensity and softness can coexist. Trust that your presence—imperfect, beautiful, alive—is enough.
What Comes Next
This experience has birthed a fierce advocate within me. I want to speak to women like me: the mothers, the dreamers, the creative powerhouses who refuse to shrink.
I want to speak to the caregivers of our brilliant, intense adolescent girls and AFAB lovelies—to ensure their fires aren’t snuffed out before they’re fully lit.
And I’m still figuring out what this looks like.
What I know is this: I’m writing to you now, not from the open wound, but from the scar. I’m slower, softer, and still healing—but I am me again.
Marie Fucking Masse.
Here’s the entire It’s Not Safe to Be Me series: