Why Can't I Just

There's a question I didn’t even realize had been haunting me for decades. One I can’t un-hear after editing my last podcast episode with Kelly Shannon:

Why can’t I just?

It’s such a loaded phrase, it’s the second frustration hits. The second I realize that who I am doesn’t line up with who I’m supposed to be. That question that launches me into self-judgment. I'm reminded of how many invisible rules exist— and how often I run smack into them without knowing they're there. My brain starts to scramble for what the “right” option even is— and is mad that I don’t already know it already.

Why can’t I just not be so awkward?

Why can’t I just easily transition from one thing to another?

Why can’t I just go new places and not feel freaked out?

Why can’t I just not get angry when I get interrupted?

After I dropped out of college, I waited tables. I’d get in trouble for pointing out that someone wasn’t pulling their weight. I thought it was right to do because we were in a tip pool situation. I’d be the one called a bitch for saying, “Hey, they’re late every shift.” I followed the rules. But somehow, I was the problem.

My nickname back then was Amy-Knott-So-Nice, because I pointed out things other people didn’t. Things we were all supposed to be doing, but some of us weren't. I often found myself wondering:

Why can’t I just be late like other people? Or slack off?

Why can’t I just ignore it when someone breaks a rule and still gets rewarded?

Why can’t I just stop caring so much when things aren’t fair?

Why can't I just accept the way things are and move on?

The "Why can't I just" question actually started when I was a little girl.

We moved to a new town when I was in the middle of 4th grade. My mom bought me a pack of 64 Crayola crayons as kind of a consolation prize- the one with a built-in sharpener. Do you remember how there were 4 little boxes in the bigger box? I wrote my name on every little box that went in the bigger box: Amy K. (I loved writing my name on everything.)

One day, my crayons were not in my desk.

Turns out, another girl— also named Amy, Amy R.- had taken them. I told the teacher. Amy R. said they were hers. Because the teacher couldn't tell if it said Amy K. or Amy R. on the little boxes she decided we would have to split the crayons. My mom even vouched for me, but it didn't matter, we still had to split them. And Amy R. was the one who divided them up, of course she kept the best ones for herself. I was furious. But no one would listen.

"Why can't you just get over it? They're just crayons." everyone said. But I didn't understand. They weren't just crayons, they were my crayons. And she'd lied, and gotten away with it, and I was just supposed to be okay with that?

At home I got asked more versions of the same question:

Why can’t you just behave?

Why can’t you just not be so sensitive?

Why can’t you just stop crying, stop arguing, stop being so dramatic all the time?

That’s when I started turning the question inward. Weaponizing it.

“Why can’t you just” became mine: "Why can't I just". I said it like an insult, like I was ridiculous, like I should’ve figured it all out by now.

Why can't I just be better?

Why can't I just stop being so terrible?

Why can't I just listen in class? Have a best friend? Be included at lunch? Know how to be cool?

But I couldn’t ever understand how I was supposed to just.

I carried it with me as I grew up:

Why can’t I just like parties? Or concerts?

Why can’t I just stop drinking so much?

Be less intense?

Stop asking so many questions?

Figure out the right clothes?

Get a real job?

And then as a parent:

Why can’t my kids just be team players?

Why can’t they just sing in the circle like they’re supposed to?

Why can’t they just stop questioning everything at school?

And why can’t I just make them behave?

Why can’t I just accept the school system the way it is?

Why can’t I just crush their spirits so they can be normal?

Why can’t I just know how to be normal?

It has felt, for most of my life, like I’m living in a world where everyone else got a manual. Where people just know how to socialize, how to behave, what’s fair and what isn’t. Who’s in charge. When the rules apply and when they don’t. I’ve always felt like I speak the language enough to get by— but never quite enough to feel at home.

It’s kind of like if someone came in, rearranged your kitchen, blindfolded you, and then got mad when you couldn’t find the cheese grater, asking you in an exasperated voice "Why can't you just find the cheese grater?" and ignoring all the reasons why it makes total sense that you can't find it.

After hearing Kelly and I both say “Why can’t I just?” in that last episode, I couldn't stop hearing it in my head. I started thinking:

Maybe the problem isn’t me.

Maybe the problem is the way the question is being asked. And I remembered this:

When my daughter was about one and a half, my husband's work had a summertime company picnic. The three of us got our sweaty selves into the line for one of the jump castles, us excited to get out of the pressure of socializing, and, it was our first jump castle.

(Side note, it is amazing the things you'll put yourself through- like a company picnic- so your kid can have a "normal childhood")

We started jumping and she flopped right to the ground flailing, my husband and I looked at each other in shock and then busted out laughing: Oh God! She does not know how to jump. She doesn't know how to jump! Not because she was stupid, not because jumping is easy, but because she'd never learned. It wasn't obvious yet. We didn't ask if she knew how. We just assumed. She didn't even know that jumping was a thing.

"Why can't I just" evolved from people asking me "Why can't you just". And I think people say it because in the neurotypical world, some things are just known. It’s part of the native language. But, what seems like “common sense” in that world might be completely invisible in mine. I'm seeing things a different way.

So then I wondered...what if “Why can’t I just?” isn’t the end of the road? What if I can use it more like a signal? A sign that says:

You don't have all the information you need. You see things differently. Do things differently. Do you need to ask a question? Ask for help? Check in with yourself? Be more clear?

So I flipped it. I changed the tone. I took the sting out.

From this:

“Why can’t I just stop being so intense?”

To this:

“Why can’t I just... be intense?”

From this:

“Why can’t I just not be awkward?”

To:

“Why can’t I just... be awkward?”

Why can’t I just...

Be open about transitions and interruptions being hard for me?

Be freaked out about going to new places?

Be upset if something isn't fair?

Why can’t I just make sense—and belong—exactly as I am?

When I shift the way I ask it, it shifts everything. That’s what I’m learning. “Why can’t I just?” isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a question that asks me to consider. It’s not a dead end, it’s a doorway. A moment of curiosity, a call for rebellion. An suggestion of self-awareness rather than the scolding voice of self-judgement.

Maybe it just needs to be spoken in a way that makes sense to me—in a language that feels like my own. Saying "Why can't I just..." with interest makes it a question that allows me to go from questioning my experience to validating it.

It becomes a way of thinking that stops assuming and should-ing and starts asking what is actually happening, and what I know, and what I need to know, and how I could know it.

It asks me to say the quiet parts out loud, to take a little time to translate so I don't feel lost. It lets me explore what I'm like in the world... and it asks in a way that feels like an invitation instead of an accusation.