From Scratch Press

No post this week

Tyler Green — Mon, 24 Nov 2025 24:00:00 GMT

A few short notes for Thanksgiving week.

The Half Pint Pilgrimage will return in 2026. Not a full 21 days, but I'll be returning to my third place in West Yorkshire. Much of the rootedness I feel in my neighborhood traces back to behaviors and mindsets I developed there, and it’s important to me to keep this thread alive.

Lately I've been noticing something that happens 10-15 minutes into a conversation with a new person. I really enjoy welcoming them and getting a sense of who they are and what brought them in. Once the opening energy wears off, I start looking for reciprocity. When it’s there, I feel like I’ve made a new friend! Without that mutual curiosity, I can feel myself slink away. Some ways I'm trying to stay engaged are by talking about sports more (a universal topic that doesn't make people feel like you are probing) or asking "Do you have any questions for me?" (surprisingly normalized in professional contexts, still unclear how it plays in a social setting). Sharing about myself in an unprompted way is clearly part of the toolchest here, but I’m acutely sensitive to my words falling on deaf ears. This is an ongoing effort, but I’m curious if any of you have found ways to reframe these types of experiences.

In addition to my local bar nights, I started a small coding meetup in my neighborhood. It's open to anyone who has written a line of code and lives within 100 blocks (strictly enforced). So far two friends have come by! One discussion led me to write about why I believe in writing your own software libraries. This meetup is a purely offline pursuit so far, but I’m experimenting with this new app called Word of Mouth to invite people.

The idea for Lake-Effect Coffee was born during my Thanksgiving travels one year ago. In honor of this, we’ll be having a Black Friday sale where everything (the one book) is $2.99 (the normal price). Thank you for your support!

Wishing you all a peaceful week.

Self-governing

Tyler Green — Mon, 10 Nov 2025 24:00:00 GMT

When the last voter exited our poll site, we applauded.

Fifteen hours after the polls opened, the teardown began. The phrase self-governing kept floating around the back of my mind, seeming to describe everything from how we disassembled folding tables to why our poll site existed at all.

Earlier that morning, I didn’t even have a poll site assignment. Three others and I rode in a car, somehow hired by the election machinery, headed to an understaffed site. Our badges said Stand By, four day laborers of democracy. We showed up, got mistaken for voters, received our assignments, and the real work began. The shift from being a body in a room waiting for my number to be called to serving the public and having a scheduled lunch break was brisk. We lived two lives that day, the waiting and the working. Along the way, multiple members of the public assumed we were volunteers. Nope, just a job. And fortunately, one that didn’t require handing over my identity or stable mental health. Show up before sunrise, go home after sundown. The hours may have been long, but anything I can leave honorably and never get Slack pings from is employment I’ll consider.

None of my fellow workers knew I’d redesigned my entire personal and professional lives around avoiding group conversations. Or the reason I was free at 5am on a Tuesday was because my brain revolted from group meetings specifically and white collar norms more broadly. Who knew a 5-9 could ask less than a 9-5. On this day, all I had to do was interact with one person at a time. I used to joke “I could do that all day!” Tuesday’s itinerary stared back at me, unblinkingly, and said “That’s no longer a joke.”

The Christmas lights that hung from the auditorium ceiling twinkled throughout. Whether they were already up for the upcoming holidays or were never taken down, no one knew. Early November is tricky in that way.

Our site coordinator, fresh off of bringing out the best in someone, gave me a fist bump. “Take your breaks before 5! You all are awesome!” Pride bubbled up in me as I watched my other Stand Bys slot into their roles.

By four, my body felt the sun go down, even in a windowless room. We watched the minutes tick by on the standard-issue tablet, eager to hit 9 o’clock yet eager to serve in the meantime.

A year or three back, I’d have brainstormed how I could work on the software powering the first Tuesday in November. During another season, I would’ve had a list of ideas on how to improve the system and what my role in the change would be. This week, I was content to smile at the public and make their day go a little smoother, one ballot at a time.

Written after serving as a New York City poll worker. Views are my own, not on behalf of the Board of Elections.

One year of From Scratch

Tyler Green — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 24:00:00 GMT

I can’t really debrief my business or newsletter or public life experiments in isolation, so here’s a list instead:

I wrote a book! I didn’t expect to write a book.
I spent 21 days in a Leeds pub! I didn’t expect to spend 21 days in a Leeds pub.
I have control over my brain most of the time, which was the #1 thing I was seeking when I left my 9-5.
The hardest part has been consistently sharing my work, and finding ways to do so where I don’t lose myself in the process.
I had to relearn how to go outside, then figure out who I wanted to see once I got there. Somewhere along the way, I started finding the kind of neighborhood I want to stay in.
I want to keep doing this. It still feels like an experiment worth running.
I stopped describing my work as “I teach people to code online” and began saying “I started my own business.” My preferred style remains understated and 110% accurate, but a little intrigue doesn’t hurt.
I didn’t keep Britain in moderation and failed to launch a walking tour.
I’m proud of nearly all of my clients. One was annoying.
One-on-one conversations are where I communicate, but I can tolerate certain [in-person] groups if they help me find more of those [1:1 conversations]. It helps when these groups are welcoming by default.

Building a small life in a big city

Tyler Green — Mon, 06 Oct 2025 24:00:00 GMT

“Hey buddy! You’re early today!”

Nearing the end of week four of my NYC Reintegration Plan, I’d established myself as a regular at my diner. Even my schedule change was clocked by my waiter! I was no longer invisible!

I’d found pockets of this recognition in Leeds during The Half Pint Pilgrimage, but returning to NYC would be my white whale. With two italicized project names in just three paragraphs, this must be a Serious Pursuit.

How does one build a meaningful public life in America’s largest city while also refusing to sit at a table with more than one other person? That’s the constraint I’ve imposed on myself after my brain imposed it on me in job after job after job after cob after lob after fob. Groups + me = incompatible. And this time, it’s them. But also me?

This wasn’t the first time I’d tried to build a small life in NYC. When my partner and I moved to our current neighborhood, I took steps to “get involved.” I volunteered, played softball, bought season tickets to a local team, and tried to act like things were okay at my public sector job. Frankly, I’m kinda proud of that season! But it didn’t stick.

My career catatonia didn’t abate, my autism diagnosis landed in my inbox like a protected PDF (I don’t know why I used a simile there, it was a protected PDF), and I failed to turn my volunteer shifts into repeat appearances which could become a social scene which could become a social fabric. (No pressure though!)

This time would be different! I returned from West Yorkshire with a new formula!

repeat appearances (familiarity & trust)
+ standing (retain my agency)
+ mingling (1:1)
+ leave whenever I want (still retaining my agency)

Easy peasy!

I put this formula to the test all over town. A coffee here, an ale there, I bopped all over the public realm. Wherever I saw signs of recognition between those around me, I added it to my roster for a return visit. I didn’t go 21 straight times anywhere, but I found recognition with staff and regulars at a couple of spots. I waved at newly familiar faces at the bar, at the cafe, and on the sidewalk. A fellow volunteer told me I showed real leadership potential by getting out of weeding. I told them to get back to work.

Then I stumbled into an interest-based meetup, felt unwelcome and borderline-rejected by the group, and spent much of the next week recovering. It was the kind of episode I’ve become reluctantly familiar with, where I just have to sit around with Netflix and wait for it to pass while my brain won’t focus on anything. After 8 days of being unable to do my work (luckily my boss is me, and he was too busy talking about a pub to care), the fog eventually lifted. This was a cruel reminder that not only was my West Yorkshire Formula inadequate, but when I fail to meet its conditions, the price I pay lingers long past the original event.

Once my brain came back online, I rolled my chalkboard out again to see what I’d missed. We’d been standing and mingling. I even left when I wanted! This wasn’t a repeat visit…but that’s normal with a new scene. What could have fallen through the cracks?

Then it hit me. What if it matters how we treat each other? Could who we perceive as worth talking to and who we push to the side shape the tenor of a scene? My walk group tends to be welcoming, open, and curious. The meetup that wrecked me? Closed-off, performative, one big status game. Perhaps it worked for the others (though I’m skeptical), but I knew I needed to account for this in my formula.

I erased the whole board and scribbled furiously, chalk dust settling on my face. When I finished later that night and stood back to admire my work, I couldn’t believe my eyes. On my chalkboard was the outline of my Leeds pub. But something was off. In place of the traditional grey stone, I saw mathematical notation. When I closed one eye, I could just make out a revised formula.

repeat appearances (familiarity & trust)
+ standing (retain my agency)
+ mingling (1:1)
+ leave whenever I want (still retaining my agency)
+ welcoming and curious culture (psychological safety + not making me want to jump off a bridge)

That’s where this story pauses, because I’m still living it. I won’t know how much Leeds changed me until I see whether the West Yorkshire Formula can be replicated here. What I do know: The Half Pint Pilgrimage was proof that I can exist in public life without paying the prohibitively high cost that groups usually extract from me.

In my private field notes, friends tell me they often just check out in groups or feel bored. What they experience as boredom, I must experience as distress. When I look away or pick at my nails, it’s not that I’m bored (though, honestly, I might be). It’s self-preservation, and I’m trying to ensure I’ll still have a brain three days from now.

When the West Yorkshire Formula works, the five terms collapse into one feeling of belonging. I’m a participant again, not just an observer. Society might call this a small life—not defined by NYC’s world-class amenities or by being a champion of industry—but it’s larger than how I lived before, when those same things drained me. Small, because it’s built offline, over a pint, cuppa, or stroll. Large, because it lets me keep showing up.

Back at the diner, my waiter leans onto the counter next to me, remote control between his hands.

“Let’s turn something on. You seem bored,” he says.

“Did you see me staring out the window?” the thought falls out of my brain.

He smiles and turns to The Today Show, cementing our little ritual. Bit by bit, I’m speaking—and being heard—in public again.

What I’ve learned from 200+ hours helping developers grow

Tyler Green — Mon, 14 Jul 2025 24:00:00 GMT

This isn’t a how-to guide. Just a few things I’ve noticed while mentoring people 1:1 over the last two years.

One-on-one mentorship wasn’t even part of my career plan. I viewed myself as a quiet builder and, hopefully, a good teammate.

This journey started as most things do in my life: an experiment because I was curious. I had an itch for more 1:1 conversation and a hope that I could help a person or two with Python, so I made a profile on Wyzant.

Two years and more than 200 hours later, it’s become one of the most human parts of my work. I’ve worked with college students, self-taught developers, and software professionals, focusing on helping them build confidence and clarity in topics like Python, Rust, React, and even digital logic and computer architecture.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

You don’t need to be extroverted

One of my early fears, both in mentorship and in starting my own business, was that I would fail if I wasn’t “on.” I wasn’t sales-y, and I worried I wouldn’t know how to manage a conversation that got away from me. I was even scared I wouldn’t know how to cut off a session at the end of the hour!

But none of that turned out to matter.

In fact, the structured sessions ended up being exactly what my brain needed. Already knowing someone wants to talk to me when I hop on a video call, even if it is loosely transactional, puts me at ease.

This let me focus on the real work: showing up respectfully, staying curious about what brought someone in, and posing the right question at the right time.

If they’re not asking questions, that might be a good sign

Sometimes I’ll catch myself thinking, Why aren’t they asking me anything? as I watch a mentee explore something on their own.

But I stop myself, because that’s actually a good sign. It means they’ve taken the wheel, and something about our environment still feels useful to them. My challenge then becomes to provide encouragement and nudge them with bigger questions.

A few months ago, one of my mentees was thinking aloud and said “I bet you’re gonna tell me to ask ChatGPT.” I smiled because it showed they had internalized when to use one of their tools. I was still there to help them interpret the next steps, but they were able to take the first step on their own.

Emotional safety looks different for everyone

Our first sessions are often knee-deep in technical detail, but as we zoom out, I try to get a sense of the environment around the work.

How do they like their manager? For the college students, do they have friends in class?

That stuff is often lurking beneath the surface. A lonely or unsupportive environment can be just as challenging as a gnarly stack trace. And I want to make space for both.

Not everyone engages deeply on those questions, but it doesn’t mean they won’t come back. I’ve had consistent mentees where we go deep into mental health issues and others where we never get past the weather. Learning to be okay with that has been part of the work too.

Code is often just the entry point, we stay for the connection

You hear this kind of thing about food or music, but I can’t say I hear many people say, “I code to connect with people.” As a craft, it can be the ultimate solitude. Even when folks talk about using code “for good,” it’s often from a distance. Which is fine!

But for me, it’s more personal. Nearly all of my close friends came from engineering school or work. It was an environment I felt confident in, and that confidence gave me a safe harbor from which to go meet people. Now I try to offer that same sense of support to people who might not have had it elsewhere.

People often reach out to get unstuck technically, which gets us into the space together. But I really enjoy the chance to hear what’s going on in their lives. What’s coming up after graduation, what’s been weighing on them.

I don’t get that deep with everyone I work with, but after three or so sessions we usually have some rapport. My goal is that they leave feeling more seen than when they came in, ideally with their code running.

That’s everything I’ve learned. Nothing else! Zip, zero, zilch.

Oh, and Vite replaced Create React App while I was asleep.

If this resonated and you want to swap stories sometime, book a coffee chat. No agenda, just a conversation.

This was cross-posted on From Scratch Code.

I trusted 5 strangers

Tyler Green — Mon, 07 Jul 2025 24:00:00 GMT

This week, I ran an informal listening tour. In the midst of a summer slowdown in my software mentorship work, I’ve been racking my brain for ways to add more 1:1 conversations to my weeks.

You’ve seen some of the experiments in these pages: Python office hours, my local walk group, line dancing. Yet after all of that, my calendar was still wide open. And without a local pub to walk to, I had space for yet another experiment.

By the time the fireworks were lit, I’d had five real conversations. I felt like I’d found my people one coffee chat at a time, until the last one low-key tried to rip me off.

Here’s what I walked away with.

A shared sense of clarity

The people I chatted with this week didn’t have lives that looked much like mine on paper. But we all had some version of the same pattern: a handful of things we filled our weeks with, and a clear sense of what each one gave us, whether income, social support, or a way to give back.

I found myself part of an invisible tapestry: people operating outside of institutions, yet still stitching together lives that feel deeply connected.

Peer support is real and needed

While I felt incredibly fortunate to widen my sphere this week, a common refrain was how we all wanted to give and receive more peer support. Preferably without needing a license to become a certified therapist.

And we have each created our own little systems to have more conversations like the ones we were having, each with varying success. Let’s be honest, my systems were easily the weakest of this group, but they inspired me to keep going. More on that in a minute.

We all have a term for the life we left

The rat race. The hamster wheel. The treadmill. The default path.

I was struck by how everyone I spoke with had their preferred term to describe the way of living we observed go unquestioned by others. For many of us, it was the way we used to live: not questioning the systems we were shuttled into.

You may be wondering about the fifth person. The interaction that went…less well.

That involves another experiment of mine. I’ve been trying to start a small walking tour for all the same reasons I won’t shut up about: connection, belonging, public life. I want to take a small group of people into my city once a week and give them an hour or two of conversation in a new place.¹

My tour has been bogged down by self-doubt, Airbnb bureaucracy, and confusion over whether I need an NYC tour guide license. (Yes, I do. But I’m not eager to hop into another system which will treat me like a number.)

To continue my research, I signed up for someone else’s walking tour. One that I could see as a model for my own.

The host didn’t show up and then blamed me. Super fun.

Fortunately I got my money back. But they added a blemish to my week of quality conversations.

I hinted at improving my systems for regular 1:1 conversations in my life, so I’m just gonna say it.

I’m lonely.

I have loving friends, family, and a partner. I’m very fortunate! But my weeks do not contain enough interactions, moments where I feel seen or even just noticed. The institutions which once gave me a sense of belonging slowly eroded sometime last decade.

My conversations this week were exactly what I needed, and I want to offer the same for others.

I’ll be holding two hours per week for 1:1 conversations.² They are open to anyone navigating change, isolation, or simply needing to be heard.

Book a time here, if you’d like to talk.

If these conversations meant this much to me, maybe they’ll mean something to someone else too.

An aside for social geometry: if I’m in a group of four, I don’t expect to feel space to speak or expect anyone to ask me anything about myself. But when I lead a group of four, for whatever reason I become interesting to people. I don’t know why social norms say it’s okay to ignore our peers, on a tour or literally anywhere, but that’s been my experience. My goal would be to lightly include everyone. Unless they talk too much, and I may toss them overboard. Did I mention my tour may involve a boat?
And maybe more during The Half Pint Pilgrimage! More on that to come.

Getting into the room and hating it

Tyler Green — Mon, 30 Jun 2025 24:00:00 GMT

When I walked out of my 9-5 for the last time, I didn't give much thought to what had gone wrong. I'd left three jobs in five years, two of them dream jobs on paper. The other was a stretch, but that's okay.

I'd been diagnosed with autism the year before. I'd overextended myself and failed to find the narrow conditions which allow me to thrive. The pandemic and its normalization of remote-first environments played a role too. I thought this was an open and shut case.

But as I creep up on one year of self-employment, I realize there was another component missing in my transportation career.

I didn’t have my own work.

I’d built a professional house of cards that went roughly like this:

Me: I want to improve public transit.

Them: Awesome! How do you plan to do that?

Me: Whatever you hire me to do!

Sure, I had some ideas on how to improve transit globally. But I didn’t feel there was much I could do as a lowly software engineer or engineering manager.

I kept telling myself I’d meet a professional bestie and we’d build cool things together. They’d be the mouthpiece, and I’d quietly build and ideate in the background. That felt more comfortable, but also left me waiting.

Turns out, ambition and second-in-command energy is a recipe for disillusionment.

Without my own work, I had nothing to fall back on when the environment became challenging and remained invalidating.

Two instances stand out as times I tried to create my own work. Why they failed would ultimately inform what I’m trying to do differently this time around.

In the first example, I stumbled into a research project designed to help me become an expert on transit in NYC. Why someone didn’t just hand me my autism certificate then and there still confuses me. Naturally, I collected every New York Times article from each fare increase since the 1904 nickel fare. I built an open-source tool to compile my notes and make them public. (This still exists, but I didn’t add the 2023 rise because I burned out too hard on this project. Please don’t show up to the station 15-cents shy.) I tried to wrap it all up in a digestible blog post. Something that would signal to myself (and maybe the public) that this cadence of deep research and shareable insights was here to stay.

The only problem? I built it all and felt physically unable to share. I can write a satirical op-ed about a fake coffee van without blinking, but writing one sentence of actual nonfiction and expecting it to stand the test of time (and 2017 Twitter) was beyond me. It took a caffeine trance and a brief surge of confidence to get the blog post out the door.

A few days later a New York Post reporter messaged me and asked me to call them. My plan had worked! I’d gotten attention for the thing I made.

Our five-minute phone call was my first glimpse of being in a room I’d craved, only to realize my nervous system wanted out. They were looking for a hot take. I was hoping to connect with someone over what I’d learned.

I couldn’t even muster a lukewarm take. I froze.

It wouldn’t be the last time someone assumed my microphone was broken, when in fact I was just speechless. Stuck trying to decode how they could be asking for something so different than what I was offering.

Getting into the room is one skill, not hating it is a totally different animal.

The second example took place within a company which was what the young kids would call mid. Mid-sized, mid-hip, and mid-social, it checked a lot of boxes! I found myself in a period of organizational stability with a manager who encouraged me to play to my strengths. I spent six months building a highly technical system and it was a success. I felt satisfied to know the system I built helped transit riders have smoother journeys in multiple cities.

Not long after, that manager was fired (for unrelated reasons), and his replacement told me my project had been unnecessary. Unsure whether I was supposed to fight for it or fall in line, I froze. This time, for longer than a phone call. The amount of effort I gave the new manager before I resigned the next year was on the order of hours.

That job showed me how fragile my goals were when tied to a company’s. I’m wired for the work, not the political theatre around it. I honestly believe I could write code in binary—or support an engineer who commits to doing the same—but my brain will not form a sentence about which project should win in a turf war.

And yet, because I presented as social and ambitious, people kept expecting me to do more of the latter. And I believed them! The gap between what I seemed suited for and what I could actually sustain wore me down.

One last hurdle I had to clear was letting go of the need to impress people. Most of my side projects were attempts to get the next job, where I would once again be at the whims of whatever management wanted me to build. (Countering this by becoming management myself would fail in a different way, but that’s a different piece.)

The place I find myself now is still early, but different. I’m building a small business and this time it’s backed by real work.

I publish a piece of writing most Mondays that I enjoy penning. I’ve put two years of work into a Python interpreter, which exists (and works) just because I wanted it to.

And while this piece is mostly about my solo work, the 1:1 side of my business matters just as much. A call with a client who’s excited to learn or build is so much more satisfying than a manager asking for three bullet points for their weekly update.

When marketing myself gets overwhelming (which is OFTEN), I take the next day slower. Take a walk in my city, write some code, write some prose.

That’s what makes it sustainable.

Unnecessary plans I take seriously

Tyler Green — Mon, 23 Jun 2025 24:00:00 GMT

“At those groups that feature an activity, people really tend to just focus on the activity,” my walk group host said, empathizing with my lukewarm experience at line dancing.

“Here we don't really have that. The activity is just to talk to each other.”

I loved that he could poke fun at his own group, a premise that has quietly improved my life since I discovered it barely a month ago.

Meanwhile, The Half Pint Pilgrimage is booked. I socialized my plan. Check and check.

With those two steps out of the way, my brain has been free to move onto other unsolved problems. Like whether I should try going outside where I live now.

The tension here is between trying to realize my ideal calm and public life — which I’ve taken to calling my Liverpool brain — and knowing that I have tried umpteen times in NYC through various bursts of energy and still largely feel unseen by the social norms.

I conceived of my Liverpool brain after my last trip as an attempt to bring back some of the presence, intentionality, and public life I felt while in the U.K. One Saturday afternoon, it culminated in walking to Whole Foods, buying a slice of pizza, walking home, sitting by the window, and listening to the radio. There’s a distinct strain of r/simpleliving in this plan, but for me it features going out in my city, being willing to spend a couple of bucks, and just existing. Even though this is the solo version of public life, it still feels meaningful to me.

When I was new to NYC, my friend and I coined a similar term we called NY Zen. I’d use it to describe a Sunday I’d spent solo in the city lightly exploring and feeling present. I’m not sure then I recognized the disconnect between what I said I wanted (to feel useful and influential in my career) and what I actually enjoyed (reading a magazine, going on a walk, buying a burrito from a food truck).

I can now declare that NY Zen and Liverpool brain describe the same phenomena. Please update the DSM. Is it done? Thanks.

How does all this relate to my plan to sit in a pub in Leeds? My upcoming trip splash experiment in public life has given me another burst of NYC energy. It reminded me I needed a control group for the most scientific of experiments on which I’m about to embark.

In addition to my twice-weekly group walks and my one evening spent grapevining in a humid basement, I hosted my first in-person office hours. This fell out of asking myself: what if I made myself visible in my neighborhood with an offer to be useful?

I realized I was trending towards hosting coding office hours in Leeds having not tried the same thing where I live now. Flipping that order would mean putting myself out there here, not in a place I’m just passing through.

That’s the moment I realized The Half Pint Pilgrimage was already working. Not getting downvoted on Reddit didn’t hurt either.

No one showed up to my office hours! Having been twice — one for the trial and one for the real thing — I understand the rhythms of my local cafe better now. The rush to get a table when it opens, the two older men who sit and read a magazine.

I will likely try it again a few more times before I board the plane to Leeds. In the meantime, if you are stuck on Python and live in my zip code, I hope you’ll reach out. See how I managed to slip a plug for my business into an essay about Leeds? That’s called marketing.

Ignoring what I just said about The Half Pint Pilgrimage already working, I’m scared about it not working.

Not in the sense of “bloody hell I didn’t make best lads at the pub bollox could you hand me the HP sauce.” My fear is that I’ll be sitting on my flight back to JFK, sipping sparkling water from a small plastic cup, and realize that my best option is to keep trying where I live now.

That it was easier to imagine a new life with a public rhythm that led me to feel seen immediately than it is to do the work to make that happen here.

My other fear is that this project could be big with the right platform and I don’t think I have that platform. Not yet, at least. And by “big” I mean: will it strike a chord with anyone?

I started Googling “how to meet people in public” as early as 2011 and I remember taking a page very seriously whose recommendation was to talk to people in bookstores. In retrospect, could this have been a You’ve Got Mail fansite?

This is around the same time I read my first A.J. Jacobs book, The Know-It-All. While seated in my college dining hall, I devoured his memoir about reading the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica. I loved his quirky prose and could imagine doing a random, but similar, project in the distant future. And I sat alone in public because I liked it, my early version of background belonging.

I think what I’m saying is I feel like I’m going on The Half Pint Pilgrimage and attempting to write funny sentences about it for my 2011-self. I’m confident it would have resonated with him/me, and I suspect crossing borders in search of a third place may resonate a bit wider.

This is the point in my creative process where I pause to ask ChatGPT to evaluate my balance of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation. If I want someone else to read my story, is that inherently bad? Does knowing that my project is unique make me self-centered? The AI said I’m doing fine.

When I land on something I don’t perceive many people considering, I latch onto it. I take my own plans extremely seriously, especially the unnecessary ones. They’re what make me, me.

Is that my creative side or my subversive side?

C) All of the above.

Leeds calling.

Third place as first priority

Tyler Green — Mon, 09 Jun 2025 24:00:00 GMT

There are a lot of angles I could use to introduce my next project.

I could tell you I’m writing in the tradition of the esteemed life experimenters, A.J. Jacobs and Jessica Pan.

I could tell you I’m attempting to find a space where my inner and outer worlds more-naturally connect.

I could tell you I’m searching for a furlong of social fabric.

I could tell you my therapist recommended I go to the pub.

All of that is true. But I’m really just looking for belonging. For a sliver of public life. To interact with literally anyone without acting like I enjoy running or dogs.

This is the idea behind The Half Pint Pilgrimage.

I am picking a pub in Leeds and plan to stop in for 21 straight days. I’ll order a half pint, not tip (respectfully, of course! that’s the norm), and simply exist. Everything beyond that is anthropological: I’ll observe how it feels on night 1, night 8, night 18. Maybe I recognize some people, maybe I don’t! Either outcome will inform how I relate to the place.

Why Leeds? Because I liked it. It’s central to a part of me I try to keep in moderation but occasionally relapse into. I’ve long felt like a ghost in NYC. Working for myself has made that even more apparent, but also made me wonder if something else is possible. Besides having a pleasing mid-sized walkable urbanism, I suspect the social fabric might hold me in a way NYC’s simply doesn’t.

I’m happy to work on my projects and explore my town solo during the day. I often prefer it. But having a low-friction social anchor to return to in the evening? That’s the holy grail. I’ve found glimpses of this in my NYC walk group, but I want to see if this exists in another form, one which is embedded into society.

Enter: the British pub. Their technical and cultural aspects resonate with me. You order at the bar. It’s a public living room with beer. They’ve already charged my contactless before I can say “Can I go ahead and close out?”

[If my grandmother reads this: I’ll be sure to pick a place with an Anglican landlord. I think that would be important to her?]

I’ve been circling this feeling for years: reading alone in Starbucks on Friday nights, craving conversation on solo trips, wondering why breweries in the U.S. never quite scratch the itch. When I took my rhythms to North Carolina recently, the people were friendly, but I was the only one on the sidewalk. I kept trying to tell myself the qUaLiTy Of LiFe was high, but something kept stirring. Urbanism matters to me, a sense of place matters to me.

I’ve been chasing some version of this for over a decade. Now that I have a physical container that carries a fluid ounce of hope, I’m going to see it through. And rather than squeezing into social norms that never really served me, I’m going to do what I do in all my From Scratch projects: trust my instincts, forge my own path.

Some people (in my texts, sent by me) are already referring to this experiment as the Supersize Me of Yorkshire. I remember that dude taking a physical exam at the start and end of his experiment. Do you think the NHS would do that, but for my mental health? Please ask questions that get at the patient's sense of possibility.

The Half Pint Pilgrimage begins later this summer. My updates will be split between full essays here and smaller dispatches on Notes. I’ve promised myself I’ll produce one standalone essay out of this, but that is the floor, not the ceiling.

If you've ever had a friend who wouldn't shut up about the lack of third places or simply enjoyed sitting at the bar by themselves, I hope you'll share this project with them.

If this describes you: amazing! Thanks for being here!

More to come!

Please send any competitive bids explaining why I should pick your local pub.

The deadline was 5 minutes ago.

From Scratch Digest (1 of 1)

Tyler Green — Mon, 26 May 2025 24:00:00 GMT

Lake-Effect Coffee is now for sale on Amazon! It’s also still free on From Scratch Press. If you’d like to support me, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks for being here either way.

I don’t know if it’s good or not, but I’m sure it’s mine. I didn’t expect to write and publish a work of fiction in my first year as a self-employed software mentor, but I guess that’s what my brain was hoping to bring into the world.

I went to a walk group this week and talked to two people. I plan to go back next week!

If you’ve been following me on Notes, you’ve seen me circling the question: Are there any settings where people talk to each other without performance or earned belonging?

Perhaps this walk group is one of those.

It reminds me of the time I posted to Reddit about a new group I was starting: “Bird Watching Support Group for Non-Bird Watchers.” I got basically zero responses, but it’s funny to read it back now and see how this walk group's goals are fairly similar to what I was looking for then—except it actually exists.

I feel way more mentally stable and content than I did in my 9-5. I also feel kind of invisible. I have another life experiment in the works related to this.

I’m scared to publish this, given it’s not an 800-1200 word essay with a tight thesis, medium imagery, and a few British references. Is it okay for me to take up space in this way?

What are you working on? Thinking about?

No one asked for proof of friendship

Tyler Green — Mon, 19 May 2025 24:00:00 GMT

The first time I went to a baseball game by myself, I carried a string backpack. I filled it with my digital camera and my scorebook, hoping one or the other would distract me during a sport famous for its downtime. I stepped confidently out of my Midwestern apartment, but I felt some lingering social unease: were people allowed to go to baseball games by themselves? I hadn’t made friends yet where I lived. Was I even allowed to exist in the stadium?

Without really trying, I turned it into an adventure. I found a map of commuter trains that ran to the stadium, followed them outward and picked a route that appeared to have a parking lot in an outlying neighborhood. When I showed up a few hours later, there was indeed parking, but it wasn’t clear the trains were running. I wasn’t confident enough to ask anyone, but I watched the other riders closely and eventually crossed to the opposite platform. Next stop: stadium. And no one asked for proof of friendship!

The game was uneventful so I took my photos and penned my scorebook. On the ride back, I tallied up the stats from the game. I was fortunate to be seated downstairs in an open gallery car comfortably filled with other fans. I found no errors summing up the runs, hits, and errors, and contentedly closed the book on my baseball game. With a brain that doesn’t always make social participation easy, what a privilege it was to feel alive in the presence of others. I didn’t know yet that this kind of solo outing would become a ritual, something I return to when I’m feeling adrift.

A decade later, I found myself on a different train to a different stadium in a different city. No longer visiting, I wore the cap of the home team and had tickets in my digital wallet to return many times that season. The rest was the same. Somewhere between the first stadium and the last, I realized I wasn’t going to baseball games alone out of desperation, but out of comfort.

Of course, I didn’t always go alone. In between, I went to some games with friends. Some of them were even fun! There’s a ballpark photo I hold dear because it represents my inner and outer worlds being in alignment, attending a game I planned with three others who I felt genuinely enjoyed my company. What about the seasons of life when there’s only one person, or no one, who enjoys my company? I don’t stop having the urge to go sit in a stadium.

I routinely observe people in friend groups exchanging agency for a collective identity and permission to exist in the world. Having already cracked the latter, I just needed to embrace my identity as a season ticket holder to the solo season. That would be identity enough, even if those around me didn’t recognize it as a desirable option for them.

I like existing between the systemic and the interpersonal. It’s not just baseball stadiums, either. While sitting in Liverpool Lime Street Station recently, I marveled at the wrought-iron train shed, wondered about the private operator that built it nearly two centuries ago, and silently thanked public Network Rail for maintaining it today—after a brief (and costly) stint under private infrastructure ownership in the 1990s.

Only then did I notice a family of three, each carrying a roller bag. I guess I’m describing a more-pretentious version of people watching. One where I first admire the public space that brought everyone together, then try to reverse-engineer the economic and cultural systems that made it possible.

For nearly a decade, I tried to recreate these forces through my work in public transit. If these spaces made me feel more alive, it felt like a no-brainer to dedicate my career to building more of them. That didn’t quite work out, but I didn’t stop spending time in public.

I don’t sit there compressing time and space to stroke my own ego. This is just how my brain keeps me company, digging for understanding. I’m looking for a connection to the larger human story, in a way I rarely feel during a casual conversation.

I stopped going to baseball games alone shortly after my autism diagnosis. It just wasn’t fun anymore. I’d sit there for a few innings, feel angry, and take the train home early.

I must’ve carried some hope that if I kept showing up I would meet people. And my diagnosis was like, lol nah, there’s a reason you are here alone. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed, being there just felt pointless.

The physical environment still felt familiar. The train I rode, the stadium itself, the dense housing beyond right field. The urban sights still resonated with me. But I understood the social architecture better now, particularly my place outside of it. I didn’t finish nine innings of my scorebook once that season and eventually canceled my tickets. I stayed home most of that year.

Leading up to my recent trip to Liverpool, I told my therapist I didn’t know what to do outside anymore. Many of my adult memories were solo outings and not only wasn’t I doing them, but I didn’t even remember what I liked about them. That I managed to buy a plane ticket while feeling this way still baffles me. My hope peeked through just long enough to care for future-me. Psst, I think you’ll like this.

Two years had passed since my last pointless baseball game, and this attempt at re-entry went smoother. Baseball season hadn’t started, so I sat in Starbucks instead. (I may have asked ChatGPT for permission beforehand.) I even joined a sandwich tour because it seemed silly. These weren’t grand returns to the world, but they reminded me that I still liked existing in it.

Since returning to the US, I’ve felt less friction. I sit at Starbucks more often. I rode the bus to a new coffee shop just to see how it felt. I’m doing things! And enjoying them! I’m writing this from a Starbucks where I’m the only person seated. I ordered at the counter because that may be the only interaction I have today. That small exchange helps me feel grounded.

Maybe I’ll open SeatGeek or StubHub or BilletFillet and look for baseball tickets. If the stadium’ll have me again, I’m ready to come home.

I used to wonder how long I’d attend games by myself.

Clearly, it was resourceful/brave/something that I went to baseball games alone, but that was a temporary solution, right? It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a solo man in possession of the ability to go to baseball games, must be in want of people to go with him.

My diagnosis freed me from this thinking. I’m never going to be wired the same as everyone else. If sitting there feels good, makes me feel more connected to society, I should keep doing it. Period. People may come and go, but my public ritual has meaning on its own.

Now, if you ask me if I’ll still be sitting at the stadium alone in 20 years, I’ll say: I hope so.

Opinion: Keep your coffee van out of my community

Tyler Green — Mon, 12 May 2025 24:00:00 GMT

This op-ed by Finkman, a local business owner, appeared in the Saturday evening edition of the Gull’s Hollow Post.

The true power of our community was on display this past weekend. Thank you to everyone who came out to wash, buff, and shine the Gull’s Hollow Ferry. Not since I was a teen home from the Academy had I seen this kind of turnout. Our community thanks you.

Unfortunately, I write to you today on a more somber note. Though no one had the courage to say it aloud, I knew something was amiss among our citizenry. I’ll be the first to verbalize: the new coffee van is a threat to our way-of-life.

I’m a deep believer in the spirit of entrepreneurship. Remember when traffic used to flow in only one direction around Work Park? It was our collective ingenuity that crafted the current system of alternating direction on alternating days. As a result, Finkman Auto could continue to replace your steering columns in a way that didn’t eat away all my profit.

The van held so much promise. With their rock garden and cursive-filled chalkboard, I was hopeful as I approached their Work Park setup. I was briefly back at the Academy, a cup of joe in my hand as I strolled to Classics seminar. I even considered smiling but they smiled first. Shaken, I offered to pay above market rate for a cup of coffee (and the rest of their business). They declined, and I slipped on a misted boulder. That’s just bad business.

Last week, I had a parlay with their so-called ideas guy which ended with him roasting my check in a commercial machine. If they’ll burn my property, imagine what they’d do to a townsperson who can’t even afford a king-sized storage unit from Finkman Storage (50% off first month ends Friday!). I just don’t want you to get hurt.

So I reached out to the once-revered WXYZ to calmly raise the public alarm. They declined! Instead, the afternoon drive kept on blasting Charlie CCX. I called in four more times and they let it ring, as if my donation last year didn’t exist.

First, the three “baristas” parade around in their cute little aprons. Next, they turn the local media against me. Pretty soon, we’ll all be late for work. If you still have to work for someone else and can’t afford to get fired, do not stop to chat with Lake-Shore Coffee.

This is why my friend Chuck is introducing a council bill tomorrow evening. He’s had coffee from Italy and says I’m right. After the vote, all mobile coffee dispensaries must have at least 3 axles. It will just take a few steak dinners with the two councilmembers Chuck calls “principled.” Our long local nightmare will be over.

The coffee van has got to go. My suits smell of coffee. My sprained ankle isn’t healing. My checkbook is nearly empty (not my bank account, that’s fine). Those apron-wearing commies are dismantling what made this town great: business deals by me, with me, for me.

Editor’s Note: While we are committed to publishing opinion pieces from a variety of perspectives, Finkman submitted this piece unprompted. We don’t know his first name, and Chuck asked us to publish.

Belonging in public while far from home

Tyler Green — Mon, 07 Apr 2025 24:00:00 GMT

Claiming the top spot among all spring break destinations: Liverpool, crown jewel of Merseyside. With my pasty skin and Protestant upbringing, I felt at home stepping onto my Aer Lingus ride from JFK. Clearly, so did my seatmate, who undressed for the night before sitting down. His trainer fell from the overhead bin onto my lap, serving as a convenient conversation starter about the broken state of U.S. health insurance.

Not content with a breezy holiday even in a breezy country, I flew in with a hunch: mid-sized British towns might offer a pleasing urbanism and rich public texture. I used to visit the U.K. (read: London) because I liked the row houses and public transport. That’s still true! But I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that something deeper was resonating within me. In the U.S., the dichotomy is: if you want to live in a city, you move to New York. If you have kids—or you’re tired of feeling invisible—you leave. You can guess which of those applies to me. Goo goo gah gah.

By day four of sitting on a clean train, I was ready to up and move. I read Britain in moderation hourly to self-flagellate. Two thoughts were solidifying in my mind:

Existing easily in public has meaning to me, even when I don’t speak to anyone
Some places make this easier than others

With that, my theory on public belonging, or background belonging, was born. The million-DSM-V question is whether lower friction public belonging also leads to personal belonging. We can table that one for now, because no one knows.

In Jake Gyllenhal’s most iconic train-based time travel movie, Source Code, he says, “Look at all this…All this life.” Similarly, I felt alive walking off the train in Leeds City Centre and following the stream of people into what turned out to be a mall, but could have been a cliff edge. In my uni years, I did the same thing in the buzzy campus library or at (American) football games. I once quipped to no one in particular, “I’d rather sit in this stadium by myself because there are more people here than in my dorm room.” I didn’t have the language for it then, but public belonging was already motivating how I spent my days.

I assume this has something to do with autism. I like people and being part of something, but I tend to be underwhelmed by what that looks like in practice. I am drawn to cities, stadiums, trains—places belonging doesn’t have to be earned. I also assume this is amplified given my post-institution proclivities. Family, religion, school, work. These days, my time building From Scratch looks at that 20th-century blueprint the way Gen Z looks at the MGM lion that used to roar before a film: with recognition, but knowing its time has passed. Or was that 20th Century Fox? The past is the past.

Perhaps the clearest embodiment of background belonging from my trip was the humble British pub. Counter service only, contactless payments, no tipping or scribbling on a damp piece of paper, plus you can order half pints. Three pounds and I can just sit here contentedly?! I returned home ranting to anyone who would listen about how bars in the U.S. feel like expensive, performative rituals masking a broken social contract. Happy to join your next bar crawl and elaborate.

Before I figured out how to use my mobile phone like the youth, I bought my train tickets from a person at a window. It was a reasonably positive experience! If I were an extrovert, I would’ve bought them a cuppa and asked if they were paid a living wage and felt respected by society. Living in New York has made me immune to feeling invisible, and it was eye-opening to see it doesn’t have to be that way. My goal isn’t to romanticize British life, and it's not even that people were particularly friendly. I just felt a basic amount of dignity as I moved through the world. In the U.S., we self-select between either the chaos of our biggest cities or the friendliness of small towns. When I find something in between, I’ll shut down this newsletter.

My hypothesis was put to the test on my first night across the pond as I attended a pub crawl in Liverpool. Could public belonging and personal belonging co-exist? My three companions didn’t know they were part of such a rigorous sociological study as we stopped in four watering holes. The conversation was good enough and I was happy to be sipping an ale in a Liverpudlian living room. In my last conversation of the evening, still crawling but now back on two feet, I bonded with the host over our newly-discovered neurodivergence. We both felt seen.

I strolled contentedly back through the city, stopping to bask in the human hum outside Lime Street Station. A sloshed lad said something inappropriate to me, and his friend opened an Asahi with his teeth and handed it to me as a peace offering. The city’s rich tapestry felt warmer after my social evening. I brushed off the scuff marks from my earlier run-in with a falling trainer and gazed up at the Radio City Tower. For just a moment, I belonged.

Rebranding? I hardly knew branding

Tyler Green — Mon, 24 Feb 2025 24:00:00 GMT

Much has changed since I first started this newsletter. I quit my job, started my own business, and have gradually regained control of my brain. While significant themselves, the internal changes feel even more profound than the external changes.

This space fell out of working backwards from my goal to build my technical mentorship business. Knowing I needed to put myself out there, I was torn on whether to write about only technical topics or try to show my full self. I would later learn this is called content marketing and cringe a little.

I landed on running parallel newsletters and launched this one first last July. During the course of my internet-connected millennial upbringing, I’ve had more false starts at blogging than there are run-on sentences in this essay. I was cautiously optimistic. I have a lens now, I told myself. Neurodivergence and, shortly after, self-employment. People like lenses! I told myself, they help you see clearly! My pep talk’s veer into eyewear aside, I believed there was value to sharing stories similar to the ones which helped me as I was uncovering my own late-diagnosed autism.

What came next is still hard to put into words. MASSIVE growth!

lol no.

Many supportive friends and family have hopped aboard and a good number of you have trickled in from Substack. I’m grateful for every one of you who reads. I know my tone doesn’t lend itself to virality and I accept that because it’s mine.

Today, I write because it makes me feel alive. While I still hope to connect with people and grow my business, those now feel more like downstream effects instead of my end-all-be-all. Inspired by a few of my favorite literary fiction novels, I penned a short story in a similar style and my brain reached a gear previously unknown to me. I’m not saying my fiction is good, it’s trope-y and my prose clunky, but I was beginning to feel what people mean when they describe a connection with their creative self.

After a decade of politely asking people to allow me to do work I considered meaningful and feeling disillusioned to learn the world didn’t work that way, discovering this as I was leaving my 9-5 for good was kismet. I was raised as an engineer and I remain an engineer. Even today, what people give me small-ish amounts of money for is my technical guidance, though I hope they also appreciate the empathetic cheerleading I try to emit in their direction.

There’s no way I could be a creative person, right? Not with two engineering degrees and a mechanical keyboard. I’m obviously fooling myself and it’s self-centered to do something outside of my Bureau of Labor Statistics vocation (where, in a nod to the U.S.’s agrarian past, I am classified as a “nonfarm” worker). Time to pack it up and disband my creative pursuits.

Or what if I don’t?

The beauty of the path I am on, the one I have partly strategized into and partly stumbled upon, is I no longer have to define myself narrowly; I just have to keep doing the work that feels meaningful.

If I give more grace to those around me because I’m no longer dependent on them to bring out the most creative version of myself, that’s a win. Though let’s call it like it is: this is a wOrK-iN-pRoGrEsS.

With that in mind, I’m excited to announce two medium-sized things.

From Scratch Press

I am rebranding this space as From Scratch Press. Let’s be honest: the name From Scratch dot org was always confusing, especially since I didn’t own the domain name or want to pay $5k for it. I liked the joke about this being the non-profit arm of a business which didn’t exist yet and ran with it.

This is truly just a name change; my mission, values, and writing cadence are staying the same.

That said, I will be disrupting the writing cadence.

Lake-Effect Coffee

I will be spending the next few months turning Lake-Effect Coffee into a finished novella and self-publishing it as an ebook. I will likely still publish some personal essays here in the meantime, but I’ll be taking a few random weeks off to bang out some absurdist fiction as I try to drown out the sound of my clacking radiator with my clacking keystrokes.

I’ll share an update with this newsletter once the book is closer to being a book. If you have recommendations on hiring your first editor or first cover designer or first typesetter or first ink blotter or first literally-anything-related-to-writing-a-book, please send them my way!

A large part of me feels silly for treating my work like a real thing. The other part feels like I owe it to myself and the world to do my best work and periodically poke my head out of the sand to share it. The truth is likely somewhere in between and I’ve decided that’s enough.

And I’m not afraid of a barrage of negative feedback anymore! said the owl with zero comments. Speaking of, please be kind. And rewind.

I hope you are well! And if not, hang in there.

What makes a place feel like home?

Tyler Green — Tue, 21 Jan 2025 24:00:00 GMT

Sometimes I will step off a train and think, “I could live here.” Other times I step out of a car and think, “The people here seem happy but the physical environment makes me want to vomit. Do they not realize they are standing in a parking lot?”

Lately, I’ve been unpacking these reactions, attempting to articulate what I’m really looking for in a place, and, ultimately, a home. I drafted a list of values that guide me. Without further ado, here’s my first draft.

If this were a workshop, we’d now break out into breakout groups where I’d anxiously pick at my fingernails while someone else confidently shared their thoughts and weekend plans. Instead, I’ll let my writing speak for itself. Tap tap tap. Is this thing on? Ahem.

Jones Beach’s “Don’t Keep up with the Jones” Beachhead

Connection to My Inner World

Time and space to reflect, dream, and create without external pressure, with access to calm, welcoming spaces such as quiet neighborhoods, coffee shops, or cozy home environments.
Engaging in activities that foster mental clarity and authentic self-expression, such as writing, coding, walking, journaling, or moments of silence.
Indoor and outdoor spaces at home that feel close to nature, with features like windows, patios, or access to greenery.
Minimal exposure to overstimulating, impersonal, or isolating environments.

A Supportive Social Environment

A close-knit circle of friends and connections built on kindness, mutual interest, and lighthearted humor.
Organic opportunities to meet others, develop meaningful relationships, and feel supported in personal and professional growth.
Regular interactions with familiar faces in spaces where friendships grow naturally and without pressure.

A Welcoming Cultural Vibe

A broader societal atmosphere that encourages friendliness, kindness, and thoughtfulness in everyday interactions.
Cultural norms which value a balanced pace of life over relentless productivity.

Physical Spaces with Mood and Character

A place that inspires introspection and creativity, with features like varied architecture, walkability, and a serene, moody atmosphere¹.

Social Systems that Support Autonomy and Dignity

Accessible public transit, quality healthcare, and services that uphold the dignity of the individual.

A Sense of Adventure and Possibility

Space to pursue new experiences and explore places that inspire curiosity and a connection to unique systems and histories.
Engaging in community groups or activities when mentally and emotionally ready, with frictionless access to outdoor spaces that inspire exploration.
Chances to try new things—like gardening, swimming, or acting—as a way to foster connection and exploration, with no expectations of larger aspirations in a field.

Intellectual and Creative Stimulation

Connecting to something larger than myself through history, sense of place, and societal design.
Feeling grounded in the world around me, inspired by the unique character of a place.

Freedom and Autonomy

The ability to shape my own schedule and priorities, free from rigid structures or expectations.
A sense of agency over my environment and how I spend my time.

A Deeper Sense of Belonging

Feeling part of a place where I can be myself, find acceptance, and contribute meaningfully to the community through mentorship, collaboration, or shared experiences.
Knowledge that I’m working toward a life that aligns with my vision and brings purpose, meaning, and contentment.

If you’re thinking, “Wow, you really are over the big city,” that may be part of it! I wrote this list because I believe there’s more nuance here (and everywhere). I am tired of the isolation, hustle-culture, and niche social identities of the big city, but I am not over the walkability, architecture, social systems, and historical context. I’m not even necessarily over the ambition of the big city! I had just hoped there might be a few ambitious people who would treat me as something more than just a transaction. It would be easy for me to get off topic and just complain about the social dynamics of the big city, but I’m too self-aware to allow myself to stoop to that tripe². Editor: please redact this paragraph to make me look more optimistic.

After drafting this list, my spectrum brain couldn’t resist quantifying how these values played out in the places I’ve lived. Surprise! Another spreadsheet! I threw the results into my AI assistant for validation. It summarized the arc of my adult life with two sweeping statements:

Over time, I have gradually moved towards and created spaces that were more aligned with my values.
My time in the big city was stronger on social metrics before the pandemic and my autism diagnosis and stronger for inner peace after.

Eureka! All I needed was a piece of paper to say I was on the spectrum to find inner peace!

How much I should treat this rubric I just created on the fly as prescriptive is an open question. I don’t make yearly goals anymore (see the last 12 million paragraphs re: inner peace), but if I did, I might have one about “Keep experimenting with different cultures and living environments in an effort to rebuild a social life.” Where might those experiments be? This list leaves me wondering: is the in-between-ness I feel unique to the US, or is it a larger Western cultural issue? I’d be curious to hear how others see this from their own perspectives.

These questions about the cultures of places often leave me reflecting on the spaces where I’ve already felt at home. For the past two Thanksgivings, I have gone out to dinner with my two friends in my hometown. They may or may not be the inspiration for Matthew and Robin in Lake-Effect Coffee.

During those evenings, everything feels possible. I feel fun and confident with people who see me. We are in a friendly place. We laugh, we cry, we overact. Rather than the 2D patina of my big city life, I feel a part of society. For now, it’s one (suburban) night only, but it reminds me that the right environment, where I’m seen, connected, and part of something larger, is worth searching for.

Britain in moderation yadda yadda yadda.
I’m considering writing a piece about how to make friends as an adult. The text will read: “No one knows, but they will tell you to join a club.” That’s not bad advice! But how many seasons do I need to play softball before someone on my wavelength joins the batting lineup? The title of that piece may be The Three Ayes Have it: How Identity, Industry, and Interest Groups Shape Post-College Socialization (for Those Without Kids or Dogs).

Lake-Effect Coffee, Chapter 1

Tyler Green — Mon, 09 Dec 2024 24:00:00 GMT

“One large coffee, black is fine, and she’ll have a small cappuccino.”

Matthew ducks under the van’s low ceiling and steps to the espresso machine, too focused to notice my thumbs-up. Our espresso repetitions are finally being put to the test.

“It’s on me next week.” The second woman, leaning rigidly against the van, turns to me while I ring up the total on my phone. I cringe inside, hoping the credit card reader behaves. “Wait, will you be here next Thursday?”

“Definitely.” I lie through my teeth. The single bulb in the van’s ceiling flickers, reminding me I must crank the electrical subsystem if we have any hope of the La Marzocco surviving the cappuccino.

Four full-body cranks later, I can’t help myself from grinning as my colleague Matthew serves two scorching hot beverages through the open aluminum side panel.

“Congratulations on being our first customers at Lake-Effect Coffee! We appreciate you!” I chime in myself.

Without meaning to, I used my confident voice. With one drip and one espresso, we’ve technically earned revenue and we technically didn’t hate it. I glance into the park contentedly, soaking in the moment. Trees. Sky. People. Life. And here we are in the middle of it, handing strangers coffee like we exist.

“May I snap a quick pic for our socials?” Our third business partner, Matthew’s wife, Robin, pulls her phone from the front pocket of her overalls.

“Robin, do you need your notepad?” I reach for the pad where she’d been jotting down Instagram captions. She shakes me off, a pitcher determined to stick with her fastball. Her smile returns, and the two women pose with their coffee cups.

“We have to ask: why the name Lake-Effect? Did you drive down from Buffalo?”

Robin glances up to Matthew and me in the truck and the three of us exchange a knowing glance, silently deciding who should field the question.

Robin shrugs. “Why not?”

Matthew and I turn to each other and execute a freeze frame high-five. We practiced this more than the cappuccinos and assume the studio audience loves it.

It was a ridiculous morning—and exactly the kind that made us feel alive.

Fade to black.

Eighteen months prior, my days were filled with turning a different professional crank. One that didn’t even produce cappuccinos, just despair.

I can no longer discern whether the dull hum is coming from inside my brain or the row of fluorescent bulbs above my cubicle. The clock on my desk phone says 10:49, my work-provided mobile says 10:49, my work-provided laptop says 10:49, and my work-provided desktop says 10:50. I haven’t touched any of them since I got in at 8:29.

As a child, “fight or flight” sounded superhuman. Mother needs to lift a car off her child? Use fight or flight! Lame-duck president needs to ram a bill through congress? Invoke fight or flight!

It was only as a 30-year-old on my third therapist I discovered the establishment had demoted Pluto and promoted Mr Freeze.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Was the lack of luster because of how clumsy it was stumbling off the tongue or because I, along with nearly all of my closest friends, found ourselves in the third bucket hour after hour, day after day, of our 9-5 careers?

Regardless, I’m glad there’s a word for what I’m experiencing. I feel confident the nuanced and empathetic half of the establishment (my therapist) can envision what I’m describing when I use the F-word.

(Freeze, dumbass. This is a children’s story.)

It’s not the same with my PCP.

(Primary Care Physician, dumbass. Drugs have no place in our schools—except for the Adderall we hand that out after the Pledge of Allegiance and before the morning prayer.)

“When was your last panic attack?” Uh, never?

“When did you last take a Klonopin?” Six months ago, and it put me to sleep.

“Great! It sounds like we’ve achieved a good balance!”

I’ve been told to advocate for myself at the doctor, but when this is the script of misunderstanding, what else can I do but email him a copy of my memoirs—typed under these very fluorescents?

Zero panic attacks might seem like a good sign, but just like low unemployment doesn’t mean every family has food on the table or employer-provided health insurance, no panic attacks doesn’t mean I’m mentally thriving. Panic attacks or not, I feel catatonic most days at my job and it is leaving a deep psychological scar.

The chime of a Teams message interrupts my stream of thought. I’m briefly grateful for the distraction, until I see the message itself.

“Hey. Free to chat?”

AbsoLUTEly not. Not that I was doing anything—I was literally staring at the chemical structure of a Klonopin—but I’ve “chatted” with this person twice this week, got nowhere, and definitely did not use my confident voice. I minimize Teams and will myself to forget they ever pinged me.

I take out my phone to text Matthew. He made me laugh when we met on the yellow school bus more than two decades ago and I’m counting on him being able to do the same this morning.

Zero bars. Of course. If my employer wanted to prevent us from using cell phones, they would not even think of encasing the floor and ceiling in rebar or declining the option to add signal relays. They’d send out a moralist email From the Desk of the Executive which ignores the reality on the shop floor.

Don’t get me started on the real moral issue here.

I’ve been staring at my screen for more than two hours. What are you up to?

I hit send on my way to the pane-glass window: one bar, two bars—swish.

A single SMS is the first piece of real work I’ve done today. My brain recognizes the fresh creative outlet and I fire off a second.

What if we open a shop called Moralist Coffee?

Memories come flooding back from the half-day I once worked a tent handing out bananas and juice boxes. A couple dozen employees stopped by, dropping their winter coats in our coat-drive bin and thanking us for the snacks before heading off to “work.” I was new to the workforce and still remembered the energy of my college campus, but I could tell this felt different. Back at my desk that afternoon, my paper pushing no longer felt important. I may have even muttered how do we do that everyday. The feeling of being a positive moment in someone else’s day stuck with me. I haven’t felt it since—not here, anyway.

Realizing I’m still standing by the window, I glance back at the text I sent. Moralist Coffee…heh…I wonder if that could actually work. I sit back at my desk and Mr Freeze returns.

“That was awesome.”

The debrief of our first customer interaction is unanimous. The sun is still shining on our newly minted coffee van. We have not even filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.

I wasn’t sure if anyone would trust us or even see us on our first day in the park. The sight lines through the leafless late-fall trees are rich with dramatic depth, but we don’t even have a health score from the county yet and our logo is still a monochrome outline.

“That was awesome.”

Perhaps one transaction is all we need. Time to pack it up and go home, a life well-lived. But Matthew, ever the opportunist, cracks his knuckles and steps out of the van.

“My lingua franca is sales and I thrive on the hunt.”

I’m secretly relieved, as my high from the first sale starts to wane and I worry we’ll never see a second customer.

“Yikes dude, less stalker vibes, more charming entrepreneur, please.” Our trio works because Robin calls her husband ‘dude.’ They met in the common area of Upjohn Hall during undergrad in Kalamazoo. The pharmaceutical origins of their relationship (Upjohn, clearly and obviously referring to William Upjohn, the founder of the company which invented Xanax and Rogaine) were present in the precise way Robin had trained us on the espresso machine.

“I’ll walk behind you to give you some social proof. Oh! Would matching aprons help?” I make a mental note of a potential business expense, realizing I must be comfortable—I spoke without overthinking. How refreshing to feel the low morning sun warming my face instead of the cold glare of fluorescents.

Robin takes a step back to straighten the chalkboard menu. “Presentation, presentation, presentation,” she quips as she grabs a damp cloth to wipe a smudge off the counter.

I didn’t even know we had damp cloths, but I know a call-and-response when I hear one. “Location, location, lo…oh there he goes.”

“Good morning, sir! You look like you could use a pipe-organ-hot cup of joe!” Matthew has stepped into the center of the park and I scurry to catch up before someone reports him for being zany. Talking to strangers feels almost taboo these days, as if everyone’s social sphere froze three months into the pandemic and never thawed.

To keep reading, you can grab the ebook on Amazon. Thank you for your support!

Why do I crave recognition?

Tyler Green — Mon, 11 Nov 2024 24:00:00 GMT

Where does my ambition end and my intense longing to be understood in even a single conversation begin?

Is being unable to speak around any amount of people yet still having visions of greatness a sign of being in the wrong environment or straight-up delusion?

Am I putting myself out there in order to center others or seek recognition for myself by way of centering others?

These clunky sentences have been bouncing around the lotto number picker inside my skull during my early weeks of self-employment. Barely removed from my autistic-burnout-inducing work environment, I am already back to believing that I can and will build big things. This autonomy and confidence feels amazing, but it has me wondering how my drive returned so quickly, where it has been all this time, and, ultimately, what fuels it.

My father said he was proud of me once a few years back, so it can’t be him I’m trying to prove something to, right? RIGHT?! Let’s table this can of worms for now.

The roots of my ambition are not just about building things—it’s about finding people who might share my wavelength and truly see me. This search has often drawn me toward what might be seen as “prestigious” circles, where the “best” “people” are doing the “best” “work.” I imagine I’ll finally meet others who share my quirks and sense of humor, but the reality of these spaces has often fallen flat. Now, I happily dispense similar advice to people on Reddit: “Have you tried finding like-minded people?”

My therapist and I have a theory that I self-select into prestigious things with the hope I will meet people like me and feel understood. In practice the more elite people I’ve fraternized with have been self-centered and not as into saying silly things as me. Also: I’m hardly an elite person myself. I went to public schools. I wear clothes I bought cheaply 5-10 years ago. I keep my spending low to allow me to be free from a 9-5 for more years. And I enjoy living in the big city because of the buildings and the sense of existing at the center of something.

I’ve written briefly about the leadership program I was chosen for in 2019, which corresponded with the beginning of my mental health crisis. This felt like the first time I was recognized outside of my small technical circles. Then I walked into the cohort, connected with no one, and felt quiet for months of programming. A core tenet in the program was that change happens in groups. Regardless of whether I agree intellectually or not, what does it mean that, to be able to use my brain, I must act on my own? No change? Or just no recognition? I choose to reject this restrictive definition of ambition.

I understand the counterargument to this would be pursuing a quieter, more locally impactful form of ambition. I will care for and empower those around me. This motivates my writing in this newsletter and my work at From Scratch Code. If I spend time sharing my work, I will reach more people whom I can mentor on their software journey. I do believe this, but I must acknowledge there’s a piece of external recognition I’m seeking at the same time. I just hope that doesn’t invalidate the parts where I actually help people.

Another theory is I’m driven by the dissonance I feel interacting with people during day-to-day life. I feel similar social dynamics in my summer softball league as I did sitting in a group next to my parents as a wee lad. I'm the quiet observer watching everyone talk, often noticing they say the opposite of what they mean. People say they like humor and then don’t laugh at what I say, if they even hear me. People say they like meeting people and then don’t ask me a single thing about myself. People say they like learning and then let their eyes glaze over when I describe something I recently learned. It’s as though social interactions have become scripts to follow, where the words rarely match the underlying meaning. Hence my urge to run away screaming or only speak in satire. Look Ma! I can say generic opinions too!

That’s a frustration-filled paragraph. Interpersonal experiences, especially in groups, have shaped my understanding of the world to be a place that recognizes style over substance. How much of my drive is based on wanting to show that my values have merit? Perhaps I’m looking for validation of my worldview even more than individual accomplishments.

How this plays out in my technical work, where substance is appreciated, is another lens into my brain. My story of creation, the one found in my personal Genesis, goes like this: I work for 6 days on hard things and on day 7 I rest by asking my therapist why I try to impress by doing hard things. (My current hard thing is my interpreter project and developing advanced Rust courses.) My brain feels satisfied when I go deep into a topic and I love connecting with others over that understanding. At the same time, I wonder if this is having the opposite effect on my goal of connecting with others. I choose to work on things that few others are doing so that when I eventually meet the few others on my “supposed level,” we’ll connect so deeply that it will fill the hole inside of me. You don’t have to be a licensed therapist to see the precarity in that thinking, yet it still shapes my days and the arc of my career.

Society often implies that leaving the workforce and finding ways to meet your own financial needs are marks of failure, while ambitious creative goals, like writing a memoir, are celebrated. We expect ambition and success come with monetary rewards—to those able to cope with the social structures we have erected. By this scale, it's unclear whether I am succeeding or failing. I’ve snidely considered using this line if I ever take a job interview again: I believe I can do anything I put my mind to, but probably not with you—or anyone else really. Perhaps my true ambition lies not in choosing big goals over individual needs and capacities, but in validating that both are worthy in their own ways.

I have few answers here. I crave genuine connection with others and my brain latches deeply onto problems. I believe when I act with autonomy and without fear, I can produce amazing work. I can use this work to educate and empower those who share my values. Is there also a way to feel seen and connected along the way? Let me go work on a hard thing and I’ll get back to you.

Introducing: From Scratch Code

Tyler Green — Mon, 04 Nov 2024 24:00:00 GMT

THE BIG CITY—From Scratch Enterprises LLC (ticker: FSE) announced its newest venture Monday, From Scratch Code (ticker: FSC). Members of the media gathered around the folding chair of its owlish founder, Jones Beach. Refreshments were not provided.

Whispers circulated among the media contingent that this was the same desk which produced the not-a-non-profit, From Scratch Press (ticker: FSP). The representative present could not confirm and barely glanced up from their phone.

“After becoming the market leader in telling autism stories no one asked for, we stepped back and asked ourselves what was next,” said Beach. “It became clear that we could go beyond the abcs and move into 1s and 0s.”

The event continued with a personal statement read aloud by Beach, which was a weird format, but seemed heartfelt.

I never set out to make the killer app. When I was building an early project—a website about stadiums—people asked me when they could expect an app, I looked at them feeling under-appreciated and directed them to my clumsy website. I’m not motivated by attempting to build the next big thing, but by creating something genuine and functional.

My skill set as a software engineer is typically valued through monetization rather than words of affirmation. I’m not asking for sympathy about this; I’m incredibly fortunate that people chose to pay me to write code for them for nearly a decade. But when this system stopped working for me, I looked around for what else I could do with my skills. I’m driven by curiosity and a genuine desire to support others, bringing humor and understanding to my work. These values give me far more satisfaction than fitting into the small box an employer needs each quarter, so I set out to build a business that embraces them, with as little BS as possible.

What mentally freed me to arrive at this point was letting go of the need to impress people who didn’t understand my tools, my craft, or my skill set. While that path works for some, it left me feeling unheard and used. Instead of building software to do something interesting, I chose to build software that is, itself, interesting—a kind of art for art’s sake and my personal rebellion against a system that seeks to control my time and monetize my output.

I landed on a service business because I crave 1:1 connection. My favorite moments in my 9-5 weren’t building products but nerding out with a colleague over an obscure programming language feature. Tutoring proved I could make non-zero dollars doing what I love most. Today, I’m expanding this into my own brand and platform, where creativity and emphasis on the individual can shine—free from high platform fees and other external constraints.

From Scratch Code is for people who already know how to write code and want to learn how to write even better code. Who want to build their own libraries in Rust and Python and understand how programming languages and computers work together under the hood. Who want to have a technical support system which takes not being serious very seriously. I’ll continue to work with students and beginner developers on Wyzant, but here, you’ll find a space where creativity and curiosity are the main drivers.

If any of this resonates with you, I encourage you to sign up for my email list. There, I’ll be telling silly stories about the Rust and Python code I’m building—like my current interpreter project—and the things we could learn together, either through mentorship or courses. I’ll continue to discuss the mental health and adult-diagnosed autism side of my story on From Scratch dot org. I can’t think of a better way to fully present the two sides of myself to the modern economy than by maintaining parallel newsletters!

I’ll wrap up with this: my inability to form even a single sentence of what feels like BS played a large role in my decision to leave corporate, so everything I’m building with From Scratch Code is genuine and designed to help you thrive in your technical work. On the flip side, I’m a firm believer that humor and creative absurdism can make people smile and expand what’s considered possible. As such, I found myself with no patience for people who (or systems which encourage people to) say “I’m working with person A on project B” when everyone in the room knows person A doesn’t respond to emails and project B will be scrapped. Perhaps this impatience with non-reality is an autism thing. I’m drawn to the person who says “what if we built project C on the moon?!” Those are the people stretching boundaries and refusing to live in the small boxes corporate life often imposes.

I want to be that person for you, your career, and your technical work. Your unlicensed technical therapist. A supportive listener who doesn’t take insurance but can debug your code.

Feel free to share this message with anyone who might enjoy some offbeat creativity alongside their technical growth—I’d love to connect with them!

This is going to be fun. I hope you’ll join me!

The event concluded ten minutes after it began.

James Beach covers culture and satire in The Big City. He lives in The Big City alongside the rest of the literati. He is in no way related to Jones Beach and believes refreshments at press conferences pose an ethical dilemma.

This is cross-posted on From Scratch Code.

Department of the interior

Tyler Green — Mon, 28 Oct 2024 24:00:00 GMT

If you’ve read more than a few of my essays, you’ve likely encountered phrases describing misty streets and leafy rowhouses or leafy streets and misty rowhouses. My atmospheric descriptions trend towards a moody urban environment. There often aren’t many, if any, people around. This brings to mind my difficulty with groups and my special interests. A larger question has surfaced for me: where does this ideal image in my mind exist, if it does at all? I’ve written about moving to a city in pursuit of what I thought was a career but may have just been the feeling of reaching my potential. While I managed to capture some of those elements, I discovered that the streets and rowhouses symbolize a mental space as much as a physical one.

Over the past three years of becoming aware of my likely autism, I’ve encountered countless new terms, concepts, and phrases. However, the one that has had perhaps the greatest influence on my daily life isn’t exclusive to autism at all: the concept of an inner life.

Let’s return to the basics: I’ve always had thoughts. Some drove me to action, some drove me to anxiety. When I read The Power of Now in my 20s, it felt profound to consider that we create some of our own suffering in our minds through our thoughts. By focusing intensely on the present, we can experience peace anytime, anywhere. While it was a useful tool, I admit I used it sparingly (and exclusively on park benches). Most of the time, I focused on bringing my thoughts to life by going on outings or trying to join or build groups around my interests.

This worked great until it didn’t. I found myself overextended and uncomfortable professionally, mentally unable to share my ideas or lacking allies who I could count on to respond enthusiastically to them. Socially, I would say a silly idea from my head and it would be looked down upon or, worse, not acknowledged at all. This infuriated me. [sidebar: I cannot stand this type of conversational gatekeeping. Whether it stems from elitism or self-centeredness or just distraction, I’m not here for it. Acknowledging what someone says, no matter how small, is a matter of dignity in communication.]

This was my isolating experience outside my home for the past number of years. The coping mechanism I developed is the understanding that the world as I wish it to exist already exists inside my head. I can exist there in peace and playfulness anytime I choose.

It’s not always easy to communicate the value of an inner life to others, so I asked my AI companion for a summary I could share with friends and family (on nights and weekends using our Unlimited Minutes). Let’s go with this:

An inner life is the rich world of thoughts, feelings, and reflections that exist within a person’s mind. It’s where we process our experiences, cultivate personal insights, and find meaning and solace, often independent of what’s happening around us. For some, this inner world becomes a source of creativity, peace, and even an alternate reality that feels just as real as the external world.

A few other aspects I’ve observed while retreating into my inner life as a safe haven:

I don’t have to rely exclusively on others for playful exchanges. I can bring playfulness into my own thoughts, creating a wellspring of creativity for my writing and business.
I can pass time with no distractions or entertainment. I’ve typically been someone who kept a quiet home, but I’d be lying if I didn’t like the romanticism and timelessness of being able to pass time contentedly sitting in the park.
What I’m thinking about is rarely profound, what makes it sacred is that it’s wholly mine. Because I’m less dependent on its feedback and stimulus, the world can no longer get to me as easily as it once could.
When you combine my inner life with my self-employment lifestyle, some days are quite in my head. I’ve always preferred a bit of socialization (on my terms) so this can be isolating at times. But I’m truly bringing my unique vision to life, which after several years of feeling frozen in a cubicle after the slightest uncomfortable request, feels liberating.

I try to say this without judgment, BUT: it seems several of my friends haven't gotten to the stage of enlightenment (or isolation LOL!) where they have needed to develop a rich inner life. Sometimes we can still find things to discuss, sometimes we cannot. What this looks like in practice is I’ll describe my shifting perspective on my standing in the social realm or the professional world and my gradual acceptance of that, and they’ll respond by discussing something vaguely materialistic. Again! No judgment! I understand we’re all on our own paths and timelines! Having aspects of my inner life I have chosen to share go unacknowledged makes my entire existence feel minimized. This feels alienating and makes it a bit harder to share the next time. If I don’t feel seen in a conversation, I don’t want to go back. If I don’t go back, I’m gradually interacting with fewer people. In this way, my isolation is chosen as much as it is something put upon me, but it’s in a self-protective sense.

I imagine this piece will resonate with some of you more than others and that’s totally fine. If you handed me this essay 10 years ago I could have responded “cool.” followed by “who are you?” My inner life has become a place where I explore my place in the world, regulate my emotions, and cultivate my creativity. I’d like to find an outside environment where this is recognized and understood, but I trust that will come in time. For now, I don’t care because I’m back on a quiet, leafy block under an overcast sky. Rowhouse fronts are rising between the leaves, comforting and inspiring, just like the world I’ve created within.

Britain in moderation

Tyler Green — Mon, 14 Oct 2024 24:00:00 GMT

I held an annual membership to a club that played behind closed doors. When the pandemic shut borders and stadium gates (and before I knew I was autistic), I was forced to put one of my most over-the-top special interests on hold. Just a few months prior, my obsession with London had bubbled over into a fandom of Tottenham Hotspur. I picked this team after Rob Delaney mentioned them in Catastrophe (also set in London). Seeing their passionate crowd on NBC Sports one afternoon, I thought they’d make a perfect ancillary activity for my next trip across the pond. I bought a plane ticket, a club membership (a prereq for…), and a game ticket a few days later. By the time my navy and lilywhite scarf came in the mail later that fall, I had already spent a crisp afternoon in North London.

I chose to open my discussion of special interests with the Spurs and London because this particular interest still intrigues me. I didn’t even label it as a special interest until recently when I asked my therapist if it counted and they nodded with a subtle smirk. It remains a laughably concrete example of my brain latching onto something and me acting immediately, with a depth I don’t often encounter in others.

In elementary school, my best friend at the time asked my parents what I was obsessed with at the moment. My friend was likely referring to how I had been pestering them to make another book about Titanic with me. I made a lot of “books,” meaning I drew pictures on a sheet of folded 8.5x11 inch printer paper. I didn’t particularly care about the drawings, but I would certainly be upset at you if you put less than four smokestacks on your ship. And I would not fail to point this out when I asked my parents whose book was better. (mine, duh!) When they showed us at school a website called Yahooligans! (or Yahoo! for kids), the first thing I did was google (err…yahooligan) for pictures of Titanic. It had them, four smokestacks in all.

As I acquired more skills, my special interests migrated from printer paper onto the world wide web. I thought it was normal that if I liked stadiums, I should make a website about it. I had a few years of software tinkering under my belt, so this wasn’t a Geocities website with a couple of images and a visitor counter. This was a full-on LAMP stack social network wannabe, inspired by the dominant web property of the day, The Facebook. You could add friends and see who among them had been to the most stadiums (of the subset of stadiums I had entered into the database manually). I went on a bus trip to a few of these stadiums and people knew to ask me when they wanted to know a stadium’s capacity. I was happy to answer, but it confused me why someone would go to a new stadium without knowing its capacity (at least within the nearest thousand—I’m not a robot!).

Membership on my social network plateaued at 150, which felt pretty good considering I only knew about half of them. I had a few entrepreneur friends who were supportive, but it was still a confusing wake-up call when I had a call with a stadium advertising company after seeing their ad in a stadium bathroom. The rep gave me a quote in the tens of thousands and I politely declined because I didn’t have “sufficient capital.” Shortly afterwards, I had a meeting with members of the entrepreneur office on my college campus and it was similarly positive yet awkward. I believe they expected me to ask for money or generally describe my vision, while I was confused why we were talking at all if they didn’t like stadiums or at least have a website about something.

I’m deliberately describing myself as more obtuse than I was. However, my feeling of excitement about my ambition bearing the fruit of new connections being tempered by confusion over not being on the same page as the people I was meeting was real and persists to this day.

After plateauing on the internet, my next special interest would reshape my career. Public transportation was too important a topic not to! By this point I could begin to see a pattern:

I’d have an inkling of an interest: “Subways are cool!”
I’d have some history of acting on my interest: “Let’s ride the subway one stop while we are in town!”
A social situation would shine light on my budding interest: “You talked about buses?! How unusual!”
I felt seen by my new social recognition of my special interest: “Let’s ride all the buses in town!”

Recognizing this pattern did not make my interest feel any less real and may have even amplified it. Barely three years after I went through this process with public transportation, I moved across the country to make it my career. I didn’t feel seen in my previous job, so the obvious solution was to act on the thing that felt uniquely mine. This decision played out over an arc of 9 years and ultimately led to my autism diagnosis and decision to be self-employed. I have no regrets because this made my life richer and led me to meet my partner, but I’d still like to take some wisdom from the experience.

The title of this essay is a silly phrase which serves as a reminder to myself: don’t move to the UK because of your special interest in London. I’ve had enough life experiences to see how much my ambition and special interests can combine to uproot my entire life. I have already attended a Tottenham game in person. I have participated in an on-site interview a stone’s throw from Blackfriars Bridge. And I have had subscriptions (real or trial) to the Economist, the Telegraph, the Times, Financial Times, and the New Statesman. (Could journalism be another special interest? Yes. It 1000% is.) And don’t get me started on their rowhouses, transportation network, or THE CLOUDY DAYS. If those aren’t a reason to move somewhere, what is?!

I started the last paragraph articulating how I made peace with Britain in moderation as the right policy for me and I ended it about to drop 100k quid on a terrace house in need of fixing up in Sunderland. I can intellectualize my interest all day long but ultimately it’s a feeling. Some wanderlust, some human vibration that resonates deep within my soul. It’s comforting to know that my brain’s wiring explains this to some extent. Yet the pull toward the damp pavement of a street lined with sandstone brick tri-levels persists. The challenge now is to honor that part of myself while staying present in my life as it is: a 30-something autistic person with a contented life here, even as Britain stays on the brain, tugging at the edges of my thoughts.

Why I left my 9-5 for good

Tyler Green — Mon, 30 Sep 2024 24:00:00 GMT

For those of you who I confided in over the last several months, the title of this piece will not come as a surprise to you. Thank you for being there for me! For everyone else, the title means what it says: I left my job (again!) and this time I do not plan on getting another one.

There are about a dozen potential essays in here, but I lived them in one go and I couldn’t figure out a way to separate them. I’m writing this for the people who felt that things used to be easy and fun and then they started being hard and not fun. I spent months years racking my brain trying to figure out what stopped working and why. I identified a laundry list of themes, but ultimately this became a process of self-discovery and acceptance more than solving and restoring my world to its previous state.

When my professional support systems evaporated and a pandemic moved the world online, my mental health fell off a cliff, eventually leading me to discover I have autism. Today, I'm leaving the corporate world to start a small business that aligns with who I truly am. My brain operates differently, and while my needs may seem nuanced or complex to others, they are valid. When our institutions do not provide fellow-feeling towards our peers, the world becomes a dark and isolating place. This void is where I have lived for the last five years. I have turned inwards and built a rich inner world and a loving home with my partner, yet I miss believing in systems and feeling a part of society.

What Stopped Working

Keep your head down, befriend the people around you, and focus on your technical work. This was the playbook I used from my school years through the first half dozen years of my working life. I can’t really take credit for this; I inherited this playbook from my parents and it worked well for all of us. In fact, my success and comfort so precisely matched what I had always envisioned for my adult life, that I began to take more risks and act on my ambition. I moved to the city and followed my passion. I brought people together. I was fortunate to find a job which let me focus on my technical work, befriend the people around me, and start to poke my head up a bit. The world was so much more exciting and I was shaping it!

It’s difficult to shape the world as a lowly technical worker, so I started climbing the management ladder. I won some friends and we were influencing some people! Sure, I was doing all my work with only one or two people, but I was respected by the rest even if I didn’t understand why. My ultra-supportive manager helped me be recognized as a “mid-career leader” in our city, even though I was only 28. It was my first recognition outside of technical circles and there were surely more to come. I went to the first couple gatherings of the mid-career leaders and didn't connect with anyone. Days later, my manager, who had a penchant for arguing with superiors, was let go by our organization. Suddenly, I found myself overextended. In retrospect, this was the first time I saw the signs of autistic burnout. I was still respected within my organization and even advanced a bit more in the rat race. Yet I would walk back to my desk with a vacant stare, plug in my computer, and stare out the window until it was time to go home. My head was no longer down, I had replaced peers with mildly-political allies, and I couldn’t focus on my technical work.

Had I known at this point I was autistic or recognized how much my traditional supports had fallen away, this chapter may have been shorter. Instead, I job hopped to a more intense work environment for a raise and a management position. I don’t regret this per se, but it’s remarkable how much my decision making has changed since then. I struggled through this role for barely over a year until I could not take it anymore. This era gave me my first depressive episodes and my first large-scale feelings of catatonia. Fortunately, this experience was traumatic enough (in the professional sense), that I knew something needed to change. I quit without another job lined up and took several months off. I didn’t really know where to turn, but the time off gave me a chance to figure it out.

The Turning Point

Rather than a single turning point, I categorize much of the last 3 years as a series of small turning points which all built towards today. I was fortunate to discover a public service fellowship a few months into my unemployment. Even after being unable to sit in a chair during my last management role due to anxiety and catatonia, I was still holding onto my goal to be a leader in my industry and knew that would likely involve a large public service component.

Refreshingly, I felt welcomed by the staff immediately. They seemed happy I was there! As a volunteer, I ended up working roughly 11am-4pm four days a week and spending the mornings reading and taking walks outside. Crucially, I was back in a technical role. A few weeks into this experience, I had a breakthrough where my brain felt the best it had after a work day in many years. All I had done that day was read a book and make meaningful progress on a technical assignment for my team. I had rediscovered a critical part of my playbook! Having spent so many years believing that rising through management was the only way to have an impact and properly honor my ambition and abilities, I had gotten away from what it meant to feel good while doing work.

It’s fascinating and frustrating that up to this point I had still not considered autism as a possibility. I left two jobs in 13 months and chalked it up to anxiety and not finding the right people, which was only a small part of the story. Building on my fellowship experience, I found a technical role in a public agency. This felt like the end of the story: I had overextended myself through management and fast-paced environments, I simply needed to reset as a technical worker and contribute towards something I cared about. Little did I know, I would have more bad days as an office worker than good still ahead.

The public sector was exactly what I expected: there was no pressure to work past 5pm, but the culture, or lack of culture, was suffocating. The shift to virtual meetings added to this difficulty. I could no longer rely on informal, 1:1 chats before or after meetings, which had been a lifeline for navigating group dynamics. Without these small moments, I felt more disconnected than ever. I knew a few people when I joined and was hopeful they would become my people, that together we could build cool things despite the prevailing culture. What I didn’t realize was that their heads-up approach was a departure from my original playbook. I quickly found myself frozen between my ideal technical work and their unspoken expectations. It wasn’t just about speed—these individuals communicated as if I should naturally be comfortable speaking with people I didn’t know, without acknowledging my hesitations or feeble attempts to set boundaries. I spent days totally frozen at my desk, a new experience to add to my growing catalog of mental health struggles. That this was occuring in an otherwise slow-paced environment made this the second turning point. When given an option to work at a slow pace or a fast pace, I aligned myself with the people working at a fast pace and hated it. I didn’t yet know the term “freeze response,” but I believe this was what I was experiencing.

Around this same time, my partner recommended we watch a documentary about a person who was diagnosed with Asperger’s in their 40s. My reaction after watching this was, “Maybe?” There honestly wasn’t that much overlap, but I was bored, frozen, and desperate, so I did what we all do: began taking online quizzes. If I was autistic, it seemed like I must be right on the edge, which made me feel dramatic for even considering it. After months of uncertainty, I discovered Cynthia Kim’s book I Think I Might Be Autistic and browsing the r/Aspergers sub on Reddit. These contained voices of those who have always felt on the outside of groups yet seemed to understand group dynamics better than the people on the inside. With confidence that I wasn’t being dramatic, I took an all-day neuropsychological exam which confirmed my autism diagnosis.

Upon receiving this news, I experienced a mix of relief and confusion. It felt amazing to have an explanation for why I had felt outside of groups my entire life, why society perceived me as quiet when this isn’t how I saw myself. My therapist helped me begin to set boundaries in my professional and social lives. It’s interesting how long I stayed in a work environment that was awful for my brain because I could go home at 4:30pm (yes, I moved the time up from 5pm). I had not yet considered that “work” could look any better for my well being than this culturally acceptable going-home time.

The final turning point truly could only occur in the public sector. After making a case that our team members deserved to be treated with respect multiple times and each time being told I was the problem, I decided to leave my team. I stopped going to the meetings, but otherwise kept going to the office. In the private sector, someone would have either been let go or immediately reassigned. In my case, people responded to my leaving in a supportive way and still the process of landing on a new team took nearly six months. This period of time was filled with cognitive dissonance: I dove deep into a technical project which kept me engaged and learning for its own sake, yet it was depressing to walk into a large building each day, have no one look at me in the halls, and also know that no one even cared if I was on a team.

Earlier this year, I was eventually assigned to a new team. I was hopeful at first: the manager was supportive and the team was reasonably technical, but ultimately it was too little too late. This environment may have worked when I was 18 and thought being quiet was my only option, but at 33, after building large projects and using my full creative energy, this team wasn’t going to cut it. They “included” me, but in a bureaucratic, transactional way. We were hemmed in by the norms and processes of a larger organization designed to maintain the status quo. Most people developed a light cynicism to cope, but for me, it turned into a deep disbelief in the entire system. In meetings, I’d give a brief update after 25 minutes of silence, only to be referred to another team with no professional chemistry. This made me want to scream! I came to abhor these calls. I often took sick time after them, or even took the day off beforehand. When I did go to the office, I stopped doing any work, knowing if I did I’d be blocked by more bureaucracy. I set a mental six-month timer to re-evaluate my well-being in this job.

I had craved belonging in a team and now that I was in one, it was somehow worse than not being on one. I felt trapped by my own conflicting desires and needs. Could I start applying for jobs and find one with a slightly better culture than my public sector team? Of course! But that bumped up against other contradictions: I still wanted to go home at 4:30 to rest and recover, I had reached autistic burnout at 2 previous private sector jobs without the proper support, I wanted to work on something meaningful to me, and it all just felt like a crapshoot.

Realizing that I was mentally becoming my own jailer, I stepped back and asked what was really important to me and what my needs were. This time, I no longer meant my needs as a 20-something ambitious person. I would prioritize my needs as a 33-year-old autistic person with a lot left in the tank, assuming I was given the keys to control my own energy and outcomes.

Minding My Own Business

I never set out to start my own business. I can trace a through-line of random entrepreneurial pursuits throughout my life, but they were not monetary. As teenagers, my friend and I started a club for people who jumped off curbs (yes, we lived in the suburbs). I made a free website and it briefly became the talk of our school, even though we rarely jumped off curbs. I started two small meetups in my 20s and met a good amount of people through them. They were fun, I got to be silly, and I felt respected for bringing people together. I enjoyed creating things that other people wouldn’t think of, things which were inherently ridiculous. Coming from a financially conservative family of technical people, I viewed these pursuits as side flings. Professionally, I minimized the importance of creative pursuits while finding myself frustrated whenever my environment didn’t support my creativity. It took 5 years of professional isolation, several years of therapy, and significant inner work to bring some of these needs fully to the surface.

A few ideas came together during 2023 and 2024: a desire to be of service to others, a meticulous budgeting practice, and my autism diagnosis. Oh, and a growing need to take care of my brain. Feeling catatonic most days at work gave me a lot of empathy for others, but it was no way to live. A few people in my life recommended medication to essentially snap me out of staring at my computer and feel less anxious about the team meetings which wrecked me. I have been on Cymbalta for a couple of years and while it helped reduce some of my negative thought patterns, it was not a quick-fix. I viewed medication as a band aid. I was proud of the large project I built while teamless and my brain worked great if you removed the systems which ignored my needs. Those systems also happened to pay the bills. Should I be required to add more chemicals into my body just to be able to sit through a 30-minute meeting at work without screaming? I knew that even if I stumbled upon a system, pharmaceutical or not, which allowed me to tolerate those settings, I would be giving up other parts of myself. The parts of myself which made me, me.

Money is a tricky subject to discuss, but I can’t honestly tell this story without articulating some of my thought processes around how I pay my bills. While I have supported myself as an adult, I have been extremely fortunate to finish school with no debt and work almost a decade in well-paying technical roles. I have been able to live with a high savings rate, which has allowed me to save up a significant buffer and do research into the FIRE (financially independent, retire early) movement.

My spreadsheets showed I would need to work until my mid-40s to be financially independent, which sounded great until I found myself in my low 30s and unable to think or, at times, even move at 3 consecutive jobs. With a detailed grasp of my expenses, I knew I was being paid quite a bit more than what I needed to pay my bills, all to sit there and be miserable. There are a few FIRE variants which ask: how can I make less money to improve my life? By letting your pot of investment money sit untouched for decades, you can shift to a lower-stress job to cover your expenses.

I married this question with my research into acts of service. I volunteered a few places but none of them stuck because of my usual difficulty with group dynamics. I eventually stumbled upon being an online tutor for technical people. I began meeting students and professionals during the first half of 2024 and earned some money. I found it rewarding to teach skills I truly enjoyed and, for the most part, people seemed genuinely grateful.

The third thread is why this newsletter exists at all: my autism diagnosis. This validated my difficulty in groups and my near-constant desire to do my own thing. Without this, I likely would have leaned more heavily on medication and applied to another random job while keeping my fingers crossed I would win the friends-at-work lottery. My diagnosis confirmed my needs were different and that the only way to move forward was to honor that. My therapist has repeatedly gone back to these themes: self-expression, self-efficacy, autonomy, and meaning. They encouraged me to keep these top-of-mind, even if that took me outside the confines of a W2 paycheck. That is where I now find myself.

Friday, September 13th, 2024, was my last day in a 9-5 job. I’m no stranger to quitting jobs, but many other things are still new to me. I opened an LLC and I think I set it up correctly. I have a business plan I believe in, even if the numbers still make me nervous ~~always~~ from time-to-time.

I am building a small business to serve as a vehicle for my creative and technical work and to be in service of others. I will be rolling out my website and a faux press release in this newsletter in the coming months. I’m not looking to grow exponentially, be acquired, or go public. My goal is to build a business that supports my creative work and gives me the flexibility to live in alignment with my values. If I can maintain a simple, steady income that allows me to prioritize what matters most, I would be thrilled. More details to come, but for now, I can say it’s been rewarding to shape a business that aligns with my values and expertise.

A loss of professional support, the pandemic, ambition, dehumanizing environments, and my brain’s unique wiring all led me to this point. Though I still miss believing in systems and feeling a part of society, I’ve found a new way forward—one that offers me more autonomy and aligns with my needs. Sure, I have some business infrastructure to build out and a budget to stabilize. But I am accountable only to myself and students who share my values. That’s a helluva silver lining.

I want to close by offering a word of support for anyone who finds themselves at an earlier stage in this journey. Things where you are may not get easier, but you have more options than it may seem at first. I hope you will listen to your brain and body and be what the world needs you to be, as isolating as that may feel at times. You are not alone.

The roles we keep

Tyler Green — Mon, 09 Sep 2024 24:00:00 GMT

Each person plays their assigned role perfectly. The students stand. The cheerleaders cheer. The marching band plays. The dancers dance. The players on the field push forward and then retreat. Others are less noticeable. The TV sound engineer holds a microphone to catch the action. The photographers snap pictures while dodging the play to avoid becoming part of the story. An administrator talks to a meteorologist on the phone, while another administrator leaves a voicemail about the same call.

I am watching on television, many states away. The game starts late due to repeated lightning strikes in the area, keeping people in limbo for hours. Yet, when the ball is kicked, everyone remembers their lines. I’m captivated by this dense ecosystem found in an American college football game. Not because it is unfamiliar to me, but because it is intimately familiar.

I was once a child in the same building, nervous about the mass of adults around me when the stands began to shake. I became a student and moved to the far side to sit with friends, then by myself, then with new friends. I stood on the field for student orientation, after a big win, and later as part of a student group. I watched the administrator on their phone and felt like I was part of the action.

I left to pursue something bigger, hoping to make a difference in things I cared about. But now, as I watch, I can’t help but think that the real meaning, the true sense of belonging, is right there on my screen with those people. I recognize some faces, the ones who've stayed. I wonder if they’ve found the belonging I’m still searching for. They kept playing the same roles, while I’ve moved on—quitting three jobs in five years because of mental health struggles tied to my autism. I understand the world and myself far better now, with a deeper grasp of how the machinery of modern life operates. Yet, I miss the ecosystem and community that college football represents, with its clear roles and consistency. Autism and ambition have leading roles in my story, though I’m still unraveling when exactly they take center stage.

As the players run their routes on the screen, my thoughts toggle from the systemic to the interpersonal and back again. The differences in the stadium from my time in school are striking. A modern press box soars over the south stands, and the artificial turf looks sharp and crisp compared to the green grass of my childhood. The broadcast shows players waiting out the pregame delay in strikingly modern facilities. What interests me more is that this place, in a state I worked so hard to leave, keeps getting financial investment. I don’t trace the budget line items myself, but I remember how much of this is funded by massive TV deals the conference makes with broadcasters, which has continued in earnest with the ongoing conference expansion. I wasn’t aware of these forces when I was last in the stadium and thinking about them now leaves me confused and reflective.

When the broadcast returns from a commercial break and focuses on a group of students, I feel a pang of nostalgia. Not for student life exactly, but for the weak ties and clear roles found in campus life. I remember walking around campus and even a few workplaces in a past life and recognizing people. Sometimes we would exchange a few friendly words. I think about my implicit belief that if I stuck to my role, I would continue to feel a sense of community and belonging. Somewhere along the line, adulthood, ambition, and autism pushed me into jobs and social spheres that didn’t quite click, leaving me feeling isolated and disillusioned.

Wiping the glaze from my eyes, I see my team has just scored a touchdown. We are on our way to victory and the systems are working.

Boundaries and backlash

Tyler Green — Mon, 26 Aug 2024 24:00:00 GMT

There was a loud SMACK as my jaw hit the floor. A few heads popped over the walls of cubicles nearby. The janitor dropped their broom. Workers floors below speculated the rest of the day what the sound had been shortly after 9am. Was it a bird on the window? It sounded like it came from inside? Drivers tuned to the AM dial during the PM rush heard a human interest piece about a woman who dropped the daylily she was potting when she heard the sound, leaving shards of terracotta strewn across her yard. An astronaut in the International Space Station noticed a shockwave out the port window during their daily zero G crunches.

There’s a chance none of this happened. Except for my shock, of course. Why all the hubbub? I recently set a boundary with a colleague and two days later they asked me to apologize.

Before I go further, I must reference a mind-blowing quote from Aparna Nancherla, one of my favorite comedians in my “I’ve only read their book, do they also do standup?” category. In her book Unreliable Narrator: Me, Myself, and Impostor Syndrome, she shares this wisdom: “By the way, being decisive and being disrespectful aren’t the same thing. You can advocate for your own needs while still being cordial, albeit firm, to others. If someone takes your self-respect as a slight, that’s not on you. Setting boundaries is rarely a smooth process, but it’s worth it if you value your own time and energy.”

I’m not going to paste the transcript of the conversation here because it’ll be on CSPAN2 later this evening anyway. The gist of what happened is this: a few weeks ago, a colleague who I’d had a good relationship with minimized my internal experience related to my autism diagnosis, chalking it up to introversion. I pushed back lightly but found myself avoiding them in the following weeks. Eventually, I reached out to clear the air, explaining my struggles were deeply internal, not just external. They responded argumentatively, questioning my diagnosis and doctors’ advice. Feeling unwell, I told them I didn’t want to explain further and went home early.

I came in the next morning to discover a few more messages from them questioning the effectiveness of my treatments and saying there are plenty of people with my diagnosis who live happy and content lives. Clearly, they had not latched onto the chance to show empathy I had attempted to extend to them.

Two days later, still hoping to clear the air, I asked if we could step back from this conversation. This is when the sound heard throughout the five boroughs took place. I stared at my screen when they responded with: “How about an apology for the way you behaved on Monday? That wasn't cool dude.”

Consider me shook! This person had minimized my experience, argued with me, and now wanted me to apologize. Thanks to Aparna’s quote in the back of my mind, I was like Ohhhhhh, is this what she means about boundary setting rarely being a smooth process?

Despite trying to stay engaged (I’m trying to not run away from all conflicts!), it somehow continued to get worse. I explained my intention was to express my needs and take care of my mental health, not to be rude. I asked what they wanted an apology for. They claimed I was rude for leaving the conversation and that it was “Something an 8 year old would do,” and they didn’t expect me to understand why it was rude. Lol wut? They then warned me that leaving when I did could lead to my termination. Okay dude, are you watching out for me or threatening me? I told them I informed my manager when I left and we haven’t spoken since.

WHEW. What just happened?!

First, I want to pause briefly for a positive contrast. Most of the people on the fairly-short list of those I have told have received my diagnosis with aplomb. Nearly all of them have responded with slight surprise, a question or two, and then we resume our normal relationship. I feel immensely grateful for this! I know it doesn’t go this smoothly for many people.

Secondly, I feel similar about boundaries setting the way I do endowments. I learned about both as an adult and immediately thought What else do I not understand about the world?! Based on my anecdotal evidence of browsing screenshots of employees texting their bosses posted to Reddit, I believe I’m not the only one who didn’t know about setting boundaries until adulthood. We are either raised to avoid confrontation at all costs (nice to meet you!) or charge headfirst and win every battle.

As I say that, I realize I’m conflating boundary setting with the larger concept known academically as “communication” but I decided I don’t care. What I’m really writing about here is how we communicate to someone (usually someone who we expect to encounter again) that we are uncomfortable with a given situation.

I’m not sure what lesson to take from this experience. I believe I played this fairly by-the-book according to my nascent experience setting boundaries. In return, I was dismissed, and someone I used to talk to regularly showed me they were more interested in condescendingly sharing their perspective than hearing what I had to say. This also seems like one of the first times I’ve felt the polarizing effect of sharing how my brain works. Before they became aggressive and insulting, I could sense traces of the medical model of disability versus the social model. (I’ll write more about the concept of disability in the future, as I’m still exploring my own relationship with it.) It was clear they thought my brain should have been “fixed” by now, while I was simply trying to spread an understanding about parts of the system which present severe challenges for me. If the conversation had stayed respectful, perhaps I could have communicated that.

Instead, I’m left with renewed gratitude for my friends and loved ones who have heard me out and supported me, and caution towards whoever I will meet next who will try to dismiss my entire experience.

Misty ideals

Tyler Green — Mon, 12 Aug 2024 24:00:00 GMT

Small droplets of hope landed on the pavement, barely thicker than a mist. Ian stepped out of his flat and into the early evening alleyway. His faux leather Oxford gave a light squeak as he latched the bolt. He appreciated the heritage found in the skeleton key as he rotated his wrist counterclockwise, twice-over, until he heard a satisfying thud. His father would have scoffed at this security protocol back home in Mount Washington, and not without reason. When the woman who would later become his mother first sat down with his future father at the Pittsburgh family law office where she was one of five partners, he was still in a mild state of shock over the carjacking he found himself victim to the week prior. The driver couldn’t have been more than 20, which turned out to be a blessing in disguise. He threw open the door and dashed away two clicks after popping the curb and coming to a stop when a navy blue Pittsburgh Water and Sewer Authority hydrant had nestled into the hood just to the passenger side of the engine block. Ian’s father would be forever grateful the chap’s phone chimed when it had yet this didn’t stop him from installing a second deadbolt at all three points of egress in the two story aerie he and his new bride would purchase despite the 7.4% interest rate barely 15 months after that afternoon at Dewey, Cheatem, Howe, Mullins, & Mazeroski.

Ian glanced left and then right at a crossing—a habit from his home country. He mentally gave himself grace as he blinked a drop of mist from his eyes. He appreciated the physical and emotional security his dad had cultivated during his upbringing even if he had sensed a double-take in his father’s eyes when he broke the news he would be spending the fall semester in Edinburgh to continue his research on value-added taxes in western democracies. Though it was delayed by a second, his father, Martin, said he was proud of him. “Don’t let anyone tell you tax-and-spend liberals don’t know how to run a country over there in Scotland,” his dad told him from the Departures level dropoff lane at Pittsburgh International Airport. His dad loved that joke and there were no technicalities to be annoyed at given Scotland was somehow both its own country and part of a larger United country.

Ian heard the hum of tires slowly accelerating on the wet road, coming from a block east as he crossed the street near his alley. His mobile suggested a 26 minute walk, but the GPS didn't account for the 10% reduction in his pace when he allowed his head to drift into the rain clouds on nights like these. He had registered for tonight’s book club seeking the vague comforts of friendship and contentment. But now, as he strolled through the misty evening, already feeling content, the destination seemed less important.

The trope was not lost on him: disillusioned American creative moves to walkable northern Europe where one can skate on rain-glistened sidewalks to the nearest Jane Austen book club. Yet he was on his second novel with this bunch and he had yet to host a birthday party for a geriatric bookworm. Nor had he taken an overnight train with friends to wake up in the City of Love. At least the books were entertaining. Ulysses had always intimidated him, and The Corrections was a pleasant surprise. Ian’s sister briefly dated a guy in college at Mellon who claimed he had gotten into birdwatching after reading Freedom, the other Jonathan Franzen bestseller. Their parents found his manners so genteel they began a brief moratorium on the jokes about whether the latest party she was hungover from was worth the fat tuition bill that landed in the mailbox on their wraparound front porch each September and February. Claire had once muttered to Ian she’d rather have a GED than the leverage their parents now found, and even periodically flexed, over her. When she broke up with the boy, Ian inherited the Franzen paperback with a bird on the cover—and found himself unexpectedly entranced.

A small blackbird flitted across Ian’s peripheral vision, landing on a tree at the park’s edge. He hoped the perch would keep it mostly dry. Actually, is that a raven? Nevermind. As he continued under the oaken canopy, the mist lessened, and Ian walked straight through the next intersection instead of turning right—the way he would again in the morning. Wednesdays were ‘Show & Tax’ day among his research group, the one day a week he interacted with his colleagues. Ian had nothing to “tax” about tomorrow, but he genuinely appreciated the face-to-face-ness of these gatherings even if it meant humoring their advisor’s penchant for puns. Patric, one of the elders of the group at 36, had made him chuckle once at the last one with a self-deprecating comment and even mentioned the Steelers comeback win over the Ravens to him on the way back to their basement cubicles. Maybe they could grab pizza or haggis this weekend, a “thank you for acknowledging me as a human in my new land” meal, Ian mused.

Ian’s phone chirped as he made his way past a gray-stoned Church of Scotland sanctuary, its wall abutting a public house with a warm yellow glow emanating from its front window. He had forgotten to put his phone on vibrate when he left his flat, an action he now took, as Ian saw his sister’s name on the screen before it was dotted over by falling vapors. Probably more Thanksgiving logistics. Still nine weeks away from his first trip home via EDI, EWR, and finally PIT, each of the Mullins had a torch they had taken up and coincidentally needed his services to complete. Claire was on the organizing committee for her 10 year college reunion which would take place the Wednesday evening before the floats made their way down early-morning Central Park West. The globally-televised avenue may as well have been where their father thought they lived given the abundance of Ring cameras currently in their Amazon cart for which he expected Ian to be the prime installer. That Mount Pleasant was not Manhattan and neither had a crime rate worth discussing was irrelevant on this email thread. Their mother, Dana, wanted to spend that Wednesday morning driving to a print shop a few miles up the Allegheny where her supposedly “final legal brief of her career” was being bound. She chose this spot due to their leather selection and its proximity to a local creamery. Ian reminded himself to jot down a few notes to share about their family’s suspicion she would blow past her retirement date over two scoops of blueberry custard. He had resigned to Scottish desserts being disappointing and his November trip to the states being in service of his atomic family rather than his own interests.

The Corrections spoke to Ian in a way that made him feel understood, as if someone else grasped the depth and breadth of his inner life. The only people he’d discussed the novel with were currently waiting for him 17 minutes in his future. His attempts to bond over his love for Freedom had been met with several variations of supportive dismissal._ I empathize with the female character, not the main one but the other one—what was her name again?_ Claire had responded when he mentioned how richly he could visualize the scenes in Tribeca and Minnesota and Chicago. Ian had walked enough miles in his Oxfords by this point to know that not everyone needs to enjoy a creative work in the same way, but that didn’t necessarily assuage his feeling that they had only nominally read the same book. The opening paragraph to The Corrections contained a sentence which was etched in his brain: “Red oaks and pin oaks and swamp white oaks rained acorns on houses with no mortgage.” Was this the work of a poet or an economist? The voice stood out so sharply from other novels he’d read that he chose it as his contribution to the previous club gathering. Several people smiled and nodded and the discussion moved onto the relationship between two characters. Are we even reading the same book? Ian tried to apply his best meditative approach by acknowledging and dismissing this thought. He had come to Scotland not-so-secretly expecting a socialist utopia where his neighbors offered him duck confit on a quiet Friday evening and instead found more adherents to the social philosophy of “If thou wanteth to make friends and thou liketh books thou shalt attend a book club.” There was no next step, no plan B. Ian found this advice equally underwhelming in a British accent, and noticed he was starting to finish sentences in a higher tone, too.

The mist had lightened and the sky had evolved from its gray pallor into a soft yellow which gave a sepia hue to his entire field of vision. Up the hill, a left, another stretch of residential blocks, and he would be approaching the literary community towards which he was suddenly feeling lukewarm. Ian released the tension in his shoulders with a quick breath out and continued forward.

To be continued (if I feel like it).

Professional wavelengths

Tyler Green — Mon, 29 Jul 2024 24:00:00 GMT

Beep boop beep boop boooooooooop boooooooooop.

Would you know how to respond to this at work? This is what loops through my head when I’m stuck in a conversation and I find myself at a loss for words. Would the dial-up internet impression or the words “what do you want me to say here?” be more socially, professionally, interpersonally appropriate?

In professional settings, I often choose option three: mumble some sounds not dissimilar to “that sounds right” and count the minutes until I will be home and in my Fortress of Solitude, my serenity room.

I don’t expect to be on the same wavelength as everyone (though now that I think of it, that sounds pretty fun, but could clash with my bookish yet thoughtful persona I unintentionally cultivate for The World At Large). To continue with the lack of subtlety, here is a thesis statement based on my experience: We, as humans, naturally gravitate towards people with whom we share a strong communication connection. However, once we enter the professional world, norms suggest we should be able to work effectively with anyone, regardless whether they talk our socks off or not. I find this expectation, and the resulting cognitive dissonance, more draining than a bathtub.

My experience has been that those people with whom I can communicate with relative ease are the primary ones with whom I can hope to accomplish work of any significance. Perhaps this is due to the conversational cadence: whether in your home basement or the office break room, a game of ping pong is a game of ping pong.

I’m not even referring to situations of genuine conflict or disrespect; there are office protocols and norms for handling those and no one should feel disrespected where they work. What sends my brain chasing its tail and my fingers pounding the keyboard is when this happens: “our team works with this person. [no one else has had any issues.] please work with them to do your job. thanks.” (Emphasis inside the brackets mine.) When I’m introduced to someone this way and, after multiple interactions with them across multiple media, I find myself mentally planning my route back to my Fortress, what am I supposed to do?

It can be a perfect professional match on paper, but when someone talks a bit much, presents a tad too much overconfidence, or simply doesn’t acknowledge what I say, I feel my brain rapidly disengaging. At that point, I can no longer form a thought. A colleague once told people my mic didn’t work after I was only ever put on the spot once my brain had already shut down. I eventually found the courage to speak up and articulate over my pounding heartbeat that my silence was a personality issue and not a hardware issue. A few people smiled, and I didn’t speak again.

If you received an office memo which said, “I respect this person to the moon and back, but for my own wellbeing, I must request to no longer work with them,” would you nod along or immediately BCC HR? If the author of the memo had previously come to you to ask for accommodations relating to autism, would that change how you respond?

I’m posing these questions to slightly challenge the norms, sure, but even more so because this has happened to me again and again in my illustrious career (characterized by frequent job hopping and autistic burnout) and I’m left feeling adrift, at a loss.

Workplace accommodations are another topic and I genuinely hope that everyone is provided what they need to do their job. However, for example, more days working from home or requesting primarily written communication are not going to solve my fundamental issue which is, bluntly: I know how to communicate exceptionally well with some people and I don’t know how to communicate at all with everyone else. Call it like-mindedness, wavelength, vibe, spectrum, compatibility—this is what it feels like in my head and I’m exhausted from concealing it out of respect for norms.

The opposite experience, where I say what’s going through my head and receive positive feedback, feels like a revelation. The dam bursts and my entire personality begins gushing out. I’ll make a joke about our work (“what if we redo this in binary?” usually elicits a chuckle in my industry) and make a callback to something the other person said recently. After the conversation is over, I may return to my desk and do “extra” work related to what we discussed because I want to implicitly thank them for giving me space to be myself. I realize this paragraph is a playbook for how to get me to join a cult. But how alive I feel!

I will close in my typical, though hardly neurotypical, way. Thank you for joining this exploration of what goes on inside my head. I don’t always get the feedback I’m seeking from people or the world, but I believe in listening to people and empowering those around me. I truly hope each of you find personal and professional successes and comforts. If we can move the norms of work and socializing slightly along the way, so be it. But either way, know that none of you are alone in your experiences.

Pine needles and ping pong

Tyler Green — Mon, 15 Jul 2024 24:00:00 GMT

The AC belonging to the upstairs neighbor drips onto our AC. Is it coincidence we chose to put our window units in the same window in our units? Based on when the dripping starts, they seem to rise later than us. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine the drips falling from pine needles onto a chilly tin roof, not from a device we use to cope with the standard of living in The Greatest City in the World. But there are larger reasons why I live here. Purpose. Buildings. A neuropsychologist qualified to make an autism diagnosis (and that accepts my insurance!) a short walk away.

The AC drip was a topic of conversation at an “Aspie” meetup I attended a few times. One of the attendees said they recently bought a mat to put on the top of their AC to dampen the sound the rain makes when it hits the white metal box. This made me smile, not because I do the same, but because it seemed totally reasonable. Even though I don’t have that particular sound sensitivity, it was definitely a room of people like me. Then one guy talked too much and I went home.

I’m not sure what my point here is. Air conditioning is a luxury, definitely. But more than that, group conversations are the bane of my existence, the fatal flaw in my social armor. I’m hesitant to open this topic because I worry once I do it will be the only thing I write about.

The arc of my life as I have experienced group conversations has been something like this:

I’m quiet.
I’m not quiet!
I’m quiet but I’m at peace with it.
I’m quiet and I hate it.
I would be A-OK to never participate in a group conversation again.

My autism diagnosis came distinctly in era number 4 and led to era number 5. Era number 3 would appear to be the healthiest but was absolutely the shortest of the eras. Yet I crave era number 2. My inner self was on full display, allowed to come out and play. This lasted about six years and cemented the modern conception of self I still chase and often fail to reach. At least for the last few years, I have failed to reach this ideal while holding an official PDF that says my brain works a bit differently.

Katherine May captures this duality in her book The Electricity of Every Living Thing: “I struggle to join up the two versions of myself: the one I believed in, and that one that existed for everyone else.” This perfectly illustrates the chaos in my mind when I’m in a group. I will be having a good time bouncing words off one or two people and then the group will sit down and I will feel stuck and go quiet. One therapist described my needs in conversation as a game of ping pong; most group conversations between adults feel more like a game of musical chairs with very few chairs.

Another description is: I need to feel invited in. Which is kind of true but like most things becomes meaningless once the nuance is lost. Being invited in by a facilitator who has never spoken to me before would fail to make me feel chipper and cheery to participate. But when a confident person who happens to take up space and who I also have a positive personal relationship with includes me, it can work because I can act like we’re having a 1:1 conversation just with a little extra performing for others.

It’s probably clear by now how it is not possible for me to discuss how I communicate in groups without going DEEP into the weeds. Sometimes the key is geometric: I said yes to a low-key birthday gathering at work recently when I thought it was going to be 4 people standing around a filing cabinet and bailed when I learned it was 8 people seated at a cafe. I don’t fault the organizer for not being aware that one of those settings works for me and the other does not.

I’ll close for now with a multi-level example: early in my career I was on a board for young people in my industry. Several people invited me to join and I genuinely thought it would be a place I could thrive. As you can probably guess by now, ten of us around a table once a month did not work for me. If I became friends with our chair, maybe things would have been different, but it didn’t turn out that way. I gave effort for about the first two months of our year-long term. At drinks after one of the meetings, I was having a conversation with the chair and it was distinctly FINE. We were gripping our ping pong paddles, but not all the serves were making it over the net and the volleys were stunted. After a few minutes of a lethargic verbal game, he asked if I wanted to “join the group.” Which to me meant: stop talking to each other, move forward a few feet, and instead talk to no one.

What is there to do? Not go to drinks? Not help young people in my industry? Go lone wolf on everything? Write about it? I don’t know yet. But maybe, just maybe, sharing these thoughts helps someone out there feel a little less alone in their own journey.

A cry for connection

Tyler Green — Mon, 01 Jul 2024 24:00:00 GMT

Here’s the deal: I’m terrified. I’m mortified of being disagreed with or even speaking when I know a second person is listening. I’m also anxious I will overthink everything I put out on the internet. See how meta that is? I’m not doing the overthinking yet; I’m worrying about my future overthinking.

Here’s the rest of the deal: I want to share my story. Being diagnosed with autism at age 31 changed my entire worldview, yet was also a warm hug. I had this new voice in my ear saying, I’m the reason you’ve never known what to say around these people, you’re not just being stubborn. That time you made a spreadsheet looking for a formula for making friends? That was also me. I know I’m not the first to share this experience. This is me telling myself that’s okay.

A way-too-early aside: has anyone else noticed that ALL of the Asperger’s memoirs published are from the UK? And MOST of the Google results are from the NHS? Please catch up, America. Fund more public institutions and reduce the stigma around mental health.

This is my cry for help, for connection, for understanding. Those of you out there nodding along, you are not alone!

What does my day-to-day look like, you may be wondering? I sat at my desk at work unable to move for hours last week after someone asked to call me. My lunch time came and went. I still haven’t gotten back to that person. Another time it took me 45 minutes to put my headphones on shortly after I got news my support system at work was weakening. [I call this catatonia or immobilization.] I read Google and Reddit and ChatGPT from cover to cover in the last few years looking for someone else to talk about the brain buzz I have experienced for years. [I eventually learned to call this emotional dysregulation (which spell checkers do not recognize), then the freeze response (the lesser-known cousin of Fight or Flight), then finally autistic burnout (kind of like burnout but for people who don’t work in Big Tech).] How can I tell my doctor or my employer what’s wrong when I barely have words for it myself? If you relate to this, I wish I knew how to get this into your hands right now.

From Scratch Dot Org is the non-profit arm of another project I have in the works. I hope to explain more in the coming months. And by non-profit, I do not mean that this is a registered 501c3 or 501c4. We are free to lobby AND we’re not accountable to shareholders!

I know this is raw. That’s the only way I will get the words out of my head. The only way I can share my story is by acknowledging my fear of those who disagree for the sake of disagreement. This is my story, and it's unique to me. If you're here for genuine connection and understanding, we’re on the same page. If you're more motivated by status, we might not resonate with each other.

Here’s what I am committing to here:

Share my experience as an adult diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 1 at age 31 in the United States.
Espouse the values of acceptance, kindness, humor, and hope.
Do so in the most authentic way possible and in the way that weighs on me the least.
Do-eth the aforementioned items twice monthly.

If I find I am no longer able to do this, I will shut down this newsletter. But I’m going to try because what I say matters. If this resonates with you, your voice matters too. If it doesn’t, that's okay—we each have our own paths to follow.

Please reach out if you are struggling. You are not alone.

Disclaimer: AI tools provided emotional support during the writing of this post.