We Need to Leave: The Cry for Quiet, Nature, and Freedom

For years, we’ve done our best to adapt. To squeeze ourselves into the cracks of someone else’s schedule. To survive in a space that was never meant to support who we are—two quiet, nature-loving people with autism, sensory sensitivities, and a deep need for freedom. But it’s getting harder every day. We’re tired. We’re stuck in a loop of survival mode. And the truth is simple: we need to leave my childhood bedroom.

This space, once familiar and comforting, has become suffocating. It’s not just the size or the lack of privacy. It’s the relentless tension of having to structure our lives around someone else’s rhythm—specifically, my mother’s. Every single thing we do is dictated by when she walks her dogs, does her groceries, or visits my grandmother. Not because we want to sync up with her day—but because we desperately want to avoid bumping into her. Every interaction feels like a storm coming, and we tiptoe through our routines just to maintain a fragile sense of peace.

Our days aren’t ours. We can’t cook when we’re hungry (and I cook in my childhood bedroom for all of us where there’s no kitchen), move when we feel energized, or rest when our bodies beg for quiet. And when you live with neurological conditions, like autism, ADD, PMDD, and migraines, this kind of disconnection from your own rhythm is brutal.

PMDD hits me hard every three weeks before my period—bringing extreme emotional shifts, physical exhaustion, and, worst of all, intrusive depressive or even suicidal thoughts. It’s like watching a storm roll in that you can’t escape from. And in an environment where peace and stability are already so fragile, there’s no buffer. There’s no room to fall apart safely. There’s just noise, tension, and trying to keep it together.

I also experience migraines—actual neurological storms—that can leave me bedridden for hours and sometimes days. During these attacks, I feel as sick as I’ve ever felt in my life. The only thing that helps is quiet, fresh air, and the space to fully rest. But peace is a luxury we just don’t have here. The sounds, the tension, the unpredictability—they build up until my system crashes. And Mart, who is also autistic and also has ADD, feels it all just as intensely. We weren’t built for this chaos.

What we were built for is the wild. Open skies. Forest trails. Fresh air drifting in through the windows (instead of detergents, gasoline from the three motorways very nearby and cigarette smoke). We come alive when we’re outside, surrounded by birdsong and silence. Nature is where we regulate, where we heal. It’s not just a preference—it’s medicine, because this place where we are now hasn’t only made us sick, but tries very hard to keep us sick. It’s a battle every day to keep us as healthy as possible…

Our happiest memories are the times we’ve spent in nature. Walking under trees, waking up in our van with the world quiet around us, feeling our breath slow down and our bodies relax. We thrive when we have freedom and space, when we can live in tune with the day—not with a clock. Our current environment offers the exact opposite: rigid schedules, unavoidable tension, and no breathing room.

We’re actively looking for a small, quiet place in nature where we can build a life that reflects who we truly are. A quiet space where we can breathe, heal, and be ourselves. No more calculating our movements around someone else. No more tensing up at every footstep directly outside the frontdoor, where one of the transit roads of our district is. Just peace. Just nature. Just us. We haven’t found it yet, but we’re searching. Because staying here isn’t an option anymore. We want to live—not just survive.

We’re ready for a life of peace, quiet, and freedom. And we won’t stop until we find it. We’re ready to leave survival mode behind.
We’re ready to live.
Will you help us?