标签：#mentalhealth

Field journal of Dr. E. Rempel, Department of Minority Neurological Studies, University of New Carthage (A work of fiction. "Allism" is a real term used by some autistic people to describe the neurological profile of the non-autistic majority.) March 3, 2089 I have now spent three months embedded with an allistic community in the outer provinces. Allism, for those unfamiliar, is a rare neurological variant affecting approximately 1% of our population. My colleagues at the University have long debated its origins and persistence. After direct observation, I am no more certain of the answers, but I have accumulated a remarkable set of field notes. The allistic subjects I have observed appear, on the surface, entirely functional. They hold jobs, maintain relationships, raise children. And yet their neurological profile diverges from the norm in ways that are at once fascinating and bewildering. March 11, 2089 The most immediately striking feature of the allistic profile is their relationship with information. Where a typical individual experiences the sharing of useful knowledge as a basic social reflex, the allistic subject appears to require an elaborate ritual before any information exchange can occur. Approach an allistic subject directly with a piece of useful data and observe what happens. Rather than receiving it, they freeze. A threat-assessment process appears to engage, entirely pre-consciously, before the content of the communication can be evaluated at all. One subject described it to me as feeling "strange" when a stranger approached with unsolicited information, though she could not articulate why. I have learned to preface all information exchanges with what my translator calls "the preamble ritual" — a sequence of social signals that appears to deactivate the threat response and allow communication to proceed. The exact form varies, but typically involves eye contact, a softening of posture, and verbal acknowledgment that one is about to speak. Only the

As I'm observing engineers, I notice that most of them share the same characteristic: unending loads of curiosity. You, software developers, are deeply interested in how things work underneath; you implement, break, troubleshoot, fix, and break again. You create apps that people use everyday and by doing so, you shape the digitalised world we live in today. Now let me share something personal: I am terrified of breaking things. I am often terrified to such an extent that I find it hard to breathe. I am suffering from something called Generalised Anxiety Disorder (GAD), which basically means I am allergic to uncertainty. While most people see trying something new as exciting, for me it's a source of stress. Every unknown step, every unfamiliar process, every situation where I don't know what comes next — it triggers something. My brain immediately goes to the worst-case scenarios. "I can't do this." "I'll do it wrong." "What if something breaks?" These thoughts don't just pop up and disappear — they pile on top of each other until they become paralyzing. But this story isn't about anxiety — it's about how good UX can change a moment from overwhelming to manageable. And how you, as a software developer, can make a real change for people who are struggling. The app that saved my day A few months ago I decided to change my mobile operator. The alternative offer had much better terms that sounded really appealing to me. No long-term contract, competitive prices, support for eSIM for travellers abroad – in short: very flexible. Head held high, I went to the new operator's office to ask them to transfer my number. But the agent quickly wiped the smile off my face. "Yes, this offer is flexible, but you need to do all the operational work yourself in the app. I can only offer you a regular long-term contract," he said. He gave me my new SIM card, and I, with a long face, went to the nearby cafe. The thought that I had to transfer my number myself felt daunting. "What if I do

This specific undertaking is not fundamentally burdensome in terms of labor; however, this endeavor serves as the crucial support for my unwavering commitment to see it through to its ultimate conclusion. It is precisely the motivation behind my relentless 72-hour shifts and the impetus that prevents me from ceasing my efforts. My affection amidst my grief—my aspiration is to assist others and ensure that the tragedy you experienced is never repeated. Caitlyn Walmsley, RIP. I will love you always.

I work on a computer all day. Multiple projects, lots of switching, constant interruptions. A while back I noticed I was losing track of my own work. Not really the big things but mostly the small stuff. The decision I made on Tuesday about why I structured something a certain way. The thing I was halfway through when a Slack message pulled me away. The task that never made it onto any list because it felt too small to write down (but I ended up forgetting about after lunch until 2 days later). By Friday I'd look back at the week and genuinely struggle to piece together everything I actually did. I tried obsidian (and still actively use it). I also tried just being more disciplined. None of it fully stuck because the friction of capturing things manually meant I only ever captured the stuff I already remembered. The messy ad-hoc stuff that actually eats a lot of my time never made it anywhere. I'm curious if other people deal with this. Not the big project management stuff because that's mostly solved, but rather, the stuff in between. The context that lives in your head and disappears the moment you get interrupted. How do you handle it?

Here are two scenes. They look unrelated. They're not. Scene 1 Two people at a café, talking about a restaurant they want to try. A stranger walking past stops: "That place closed six months ago. The one on the corner is better." A brief nod, and they walk on. The two people exchange a glance, taken aback. Why did that person stop? What did they want? A few steps away, the stranger is also confused. They had useful information. They shared it. Why did these people react so strangely? Scene 2 A colleague is visibly stressed, describing a difficult situation at work. One friend pulls their chair closer, puts a hand on their arm: "That sounds really hard." Another opens their laptop: "I found something that might help — HR has a process for exactly this, I'll send you the link." The colleague leans into the first. Glances uncertainly at the second. The second person doesn't understand why sitting close and saying "that sounds hard" counts as helping. You haven't solved anything. The first doesn't understand why anyone would respond to distress with links. Both scenes end the same way: people on both sides convinced they did the right thing, confused by the other's reaction. The mismatch is mutual and invisible from the inside. Two survival instincts, two empathy systems For many autistic people, information is a survival mechanism. Uncertainty is threat, missing information is a vulnerability, and the drive to correct and share runs below conscious awareness. Empathy, expressed through that system , looks like giving someone what keeps you safe: accurate information, solutions, resources. The social preamble before sharing — announcing yourself, softening the approach — doesn't arise as a concept. Why would useful information require an introduction? For many neurotypical people, social safety is a survival mechanism. Group cohesion and reading others accurately are what keep people safe. Empathy, expressed through that system , looks like presence: mirroring distress,

For a long time, I thought productivity was about effort. Work harder. Focus more. Stay disciplined. Manage time better. Most productivity advice is built around some version of this idea. Then I noticed something strange. Some days I could spend ten hours at a desk and accomplish almost nothing. Other days I could spend three hours working and make more progress than I had all week. The difference wasn't effort. The difference was context. The Most Expensive Thing Is Not Time Ask people what their most limited resource is and most will answer: Time. But for knowledge workers, engineers, researchers, writers, and designers, I think the scarcer resource is often something else. Mental state. The ability to hold a problem in your head. The ability to remember why a decision was made. The ability to see connections between ideas. The ability to continue a train of thought without interruption. That's the state where meaningful work happens. And it's surprisingly fragile. Every Context Switch Has a Cost Imagine you're debugging a difficult issue. You've already: read the logs inspected the code traced the requests formed a hypothesis You're finally starting to see the shape of the problem. Then: a Slack notification arrives someone schedules a meeting an email requires attention a different task becomes urgent The interruption itself might only take two minutes. The real cost is what disappears. The mental model. The momentum. The partially constructed map inside your head. The next time you return to the task, you don't continue where you left off. You rebuild. Software Often Creates The Problem It Tries To Solve One thing that surprised me after building products for years is how much software exists primarily because other software creates friction. A note-taking application exists because memory is limited. A task manager exists because priorities change. A research assistant exists because information is fragmented. Many tools are not solving fundamental problems.