self-discovery Archives - Jared Kuvent

A Neurodivergent Life: What Healing Looks Like Beyond the Diagnosis

Jared Kuvent — Mon, 27 Oct 2025 02:13:27 +0000

A Neurodivergent Life: What Healing Looks Like Beyond the Diagnosis

The Space Between Posts

It’s strange, coming back to write again.
Not because I ran out of things to say, but because the words had to catch up to me.
The past few months haven’t been about progress — they’ve been about staying in motion.
About what it means to keep showing up while everything inside you is being reassembled.

This isn’t an announcement of arrival.
It’s a record of endurance.
A moment to be seen, and to offer that same sight to anyone else still in the middle of it all.

The Language of Diagnosis

ADHD has been part of my life since I was a kid.
Bipolar II and Complex PTSD joined the picture about ten years ago, and this year, Type 2 Diabetes added itself to the roster.

I don’t list these as a résumé of disorders — they’re more like a map legend.
Each one explains a few of the strange symbols that show up along the way: the shifting energy, the bursts of clarity, the fog that rolls in without warning.
They help me understand the terrain, even when it still surprises me.

The past few months have been a slow negotiation between medications, energy, and identity.
I’ve been tapering off some of the psych meds that shaped nearly a decade of my life, while easing into new ones.
Each change brings its own rhythm — dizziness, fog, vivid dreams.
I’ve stabilized my blood sugar, learned what my body needs, and am trying to listen without judgment when it says, “Not today.”

It’s not a clean process, but it’s mine.
And for once, I’m not trying to fix it — I’m trying to hear it.

The Shape of Motion

When my thoughts start to spiral, I drive.
There’s something about the hum of tires on wet Maine roads that feels like permission.
The world narrows down to headlights and the shape of the next turn.

The air changes as I leave Portland — salt and pine trading places in the dark.
Passing through Old Orchard in late autumn feels like driving through a memory: shuttered arcades, empty boardwalks, gulls still circling like they missed the memo that summer’s over.

Sometimes I listen to music. Sometimes it’s just the sound of wind pressing against the car.
The motion steadies me. It doesn’t erase anything; it just reminds me that I’m still capable of movement, even when my mind feels still.

These drives aren’t escapism. They’re navigation.
A way of saying, I’m still here.

The Architecture of Care

These days are held together by small check-ins.
Luke asks if I’ve eaten.
Mom calls about my glucose numbers.
Andrew sends a meme that makes me laugh out loud.

And then there’s Hobbes — the cat who decided his new favorite sleeping spot is wedged between the mattress and the wall.
He’ll sneeze like a startled goose and look personally offended that sound came from his own body.
It’s absurd, grounding, and sometimes the highlight of my day.

None of this looks like balance, but it’s structure — the quiet kind.
The sort that keeps you tethered when you’re too tired to hold the rope yourself.

Where Curiosity Still Lives

Curiosity has always been the through-line for me — it’s how I survive.
I think back to the Friday Nicktern Screenings I ran at Nickelodeon: a theater full of interns, popcorn, and nervous excitement.
Each week, we’d host a different guest — animators, producers, even voice actors — and the Q&As would always surprise me.
The interns’ questions were bold, insightful, human.
They had this way of cutting straight to what mattered.
Those moments reminded me that curiosity isn’t just a professional trait — it’s a form of courage.

Years later, in Australia, that same curiosity guided me into conversations with Indigenous artists and elders.
Listening to them speak about land and sound changed me.
It made me realize that learning isn’t always about adding — sometimes it’s about quieting down enough to hear what’s already there.

That same impulse is here now — softer, slower, but alive.
It’s what drives me to write, even when the words take their time showing up.

The Work of Staying

Some days are steady. Others, I’m just trying not to disappear.
But every day, I practice staying — through motion, through stillness, through the static hum of recovery.
I test my blood sugar. I take my meds. I check in. I rest. I drive. I write.
I remind myself that staying isn’t failure, it’s work.

And in that work, there’s an unexpected grace.
Even when I feel fogged and distant, the world still reaches back — through a cat’s sneeze, a text from a friend, the glow of a dashboard clock at 1 a.m.
Life keeps signaling: I see you.

To Be Seen

I’m writing this because I want to be seen — not for resilience or strength, but for being human.
For showing what it looks like to live in the middle of a sentence instead of waiting for the perfect ending.

Being seen isn’t about recognition; it’s about belonging.
It’s about someone reading this and thinking, me too.

If you’re there too — in the in-between, in the noise, in the work of staying — I hope you know that it counts.
You’re not behind. You’re not broken.
You’re alive in the process of becoming.

And maybe that’s what healing really looks like — not the light breaking through, but realizing you’ve been walking in it the whole time.

And here I am again, in the space between posts.
Not waiting anymore.
Just living.

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A Love Letter to Maine: Finding My Place in a New Life

Jared Kuvent — Fri, 14 Mar 2025 16:19:09 +0000

A Love Letter to Maine: Finding My Place in a New Life

Dear Maine,

I knew this move would change me, but I didn’t realize how much until I found myself driving down a quiet road, the trees lining the way like old friends. The air was crisp, the kind that wakes you up and makes you pay attention. And for the first time in a long time, I did.

Love takes many forms, and right now, I’m learning what it means to fall in love with a place, with a new rhythm of life, with the people who make it feel like home. It’s not all easy—there are moments of loneliness, of doubt, of wondering if I made the right choice. But there’s also discovery, connection, and the feeling that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, even if I don’t have it all figured out yet.

This is my love letter to you, Maine—not just to the place, but to the experience of starting fresh, of finding joy in the unfamiliar, and of letting life surprise me.

The Joy (and Sting) of Starting Over

No one tells you how surreal it is to come back to a place you once knew, only to realize you don’t fit in the way you used to. The landmarks are the same. The streets are familiar. But I’m different now. The kid who walked these roads in high school, dreaming about the bigger world beyond, could never have imagined the version of me that would return decades later.

There’s a beauty in that—returning with more life experience, with new perspectives, with a deeper understanding of what home actually means. But there’s also an emptiness to it. A strange sense of detachment, as if I’m floating between the past and the present, waiting for everything to settle into place.

At first, that feeling was hard to shake. The silence of a new apartment, the weight of uncertainty about where I belonged, the echoes of a life I left behind in San Diego. But I’ve learned something about transition: it’s not about finding an exact replacement for what you had before. It’s about creating something new—and that takes time.

Loneliness as a Side Effect of Change

Let’s talk about loneliness, because it deserves a seat at the table. It’s the thing that creeps in when the dust settles, when the excitement of a big move fades into the reality of everyday life. I don’t care how outgoing or adaptable you are—uprooting your life comes with an emotional price tag.

Some days, I miss the effortless friendships of San Diego. The casual meetups, the inside jokes, the feeling of being woven into the fabric of a place. In Maine, I’ve had to work harder to find those moments. I’ve had to be intentional about putting myself out there, about saying yes to plans, about pushing through the awkwardness of new social circles.

But here’s the thing: loneliness doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It’s just part of the process. If you sit with it instead of running from it, you start to see it for what it is—a growing pain, not a permanent state.

And the antidote? Love. Not just the romantic kind, but the love that comes from connection, from community, from showing up and letting people in.

Finding Love in All Its Forms

Love is meeting new people at Maine Street in Ogunquit, laughing over drinks, watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, and realizing that this little LGBTQ bar has become a cornerstone of my new life. Love is the comfort of a familiar face in a coffee shop, the barista who remembers my order, the friend who texts just to check in.

Love is living with Luke, navigating the weirdness and joy of sharing a space with a close friend, finding a rhythm that works for both of us. It’s the way we’ve made traditions out of small things—weekly outings, binge-watching old reality shows, making each other laugh on days that feel impossibly heavy.

And yes, love is also dating. It’s opening myself up to the idea of romance in a place that feels both new and familiar. It’s the excitement of possibility, the vulnerability of putting yourself out there, the reminder that even in a season of rebuilding, there’s room for something unexpected.

Cautions and Advice for Those in Transition

If I’ve learned anything in this process, it’s that starting over is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Some days, you feel invincible—like you can conquer anything. Other days, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake. That’s normal.

So if you ever find yourself in the middle of a major life shift, here’s my advice:

Expect loneliness, but don’t let it define you. It’s temporary. Keep showing up.
Find your rituals. Whether it’s a favorite café, a weekly event, or a quiet moment in a place that feels like yours, routine brings stability.
Be open to new friendships. They won’t replace old ones, but they’ll bring something fresh into your life.
Let yourself grieve the past, but don’t live there. Missing what you left behind is okay, but don’t let it stop you from embracing what’s ahead.
Give love freely, in all its forms. Love isn’t just about romance—it’s about connection, kindness, and investing in the people around you.

The Next Chapter

I don’t know exactly where this road leads, Maine. But maybe that’s the point.

Somewhere between the frost-laced windows of my apartment and the winding roads that carry me through this new life, I’ve realized that love isn’t always a person, a moment, or a single defining feeling. Sometimes, love is found in the in-between spaces—the deep breath before stepping into something unknown, the quiet comfort of a home that is still learning your name, the laughter of a friend who just gets it. It’s in the ache of missing what once was, and the pulse of excitement for what could be.

I came here searching for something—maybe a sense of belonging, maybe a fresh start, maybe just proof that I could do it. But what I’ve found is something even more unexpected: a willingness to sit in the uncertainty and trust that the road ahead will hold me. That somewhere in the echoes of old memories and the whispers of new ones being written, I am building something real.

So, Maine, I don’t have all the answers yet. But I do know this—I am here. I am showing up. I am walking forward, even when the path is blurred. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what love really is.

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What Could Have Been: Reflections on Growth, Loss, and New Beginnings

Jared Kuvent — Sun, 29 Dec 2024 22:33:28 +0000

What Could Have Been: Reflections on Growth, Loss, and New Beginnings

Have you ever found yourself standing at a crossroads, wondering about the paths you didn’t take? It’s a question that haunts many of us during times of transition—those fleeting thoughts of “what could have been” if only we had stayed, tried harder, or chosen differently. As I prepare to leave San Diego and begin a new chapter in Maine, this question has lingered in my mind. It’s a bittersweet tug-of-war between nostalgia for a life I’ve built here and the excitement of what’s to come.

In moments like this, I’ve realized that life isn’t linear. There isn’t one perfect path to walk down. Instead, it’s a series of choices, each one branching into infinite possibilities. Staying in San Diego could have led to one kind of life—a fulfilling career, new friendships, and deeper roots in this vibrant city. But moving to Maine presents an entirely different kind of opportunity: to reconnect with my past, to build a new foundation, and to embrace change as a catalyst for growth.

These transitions are never easy, though. The weight of “what could have been” can feel heavy at times. As I look at the empty apartment where memories were made, I can’t help but think about the life I’m leaving behind. Will I miss the sunset strolls along the beach, the weekly meetups with friends, or the familiar faces at my favorite café? Absolutely. But I also know this: running from the discomfort of change doesn’t make it disappear. Instead, I’ve chosen to lean into it, to walk boldly into the unknown with faith that the path ahead holds just as much promise as the one I’m leaving behind.

This move, like any major life decision, is as much about what you’re letting go of as it is about what you’re embracing. It’s about grappling with the “what ifs” and finding peace in the decisions you’ve made. It’s about recognizing that while we may not have control over every twist and turn, we do have the power to choose how we respond and what we carry forward.

So, I pose this question to you: when faced with a fork in the road, how do you decide which path to take? Do you cling to the comfort of what’s familiar, or do you take the leap into the unknown, trusting that growth often comes from discomfort? For me, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. It’s about honoring the past while stepping into the future, knowing that the people and places that have shaped me will always be a part of my journey, no matter where it leads.

As I prepare to hit the road tomorrow, alongside my best friend Luke and our trusty cat Hobbes, I feel a mixture of emotions—gratitude for the life I’ve had here, sadness for what I’m leaving behind, and excitement for the adventures ahead. This journey isn’t just about crossing state lines; it’s about choosing to embrace change, to trust in the process, and to believe in the endless possibilities that come with a fresh start.

This is my story of transition, reflection, and the beauty of choosing your own path. Let’s take the first step together.

Introducing Luke: A Friendship That Redefines Support

Every big life decision feels a little less daunting when you have someone to lean on. For me, that someone is Luke—a friend who has become like family.

Luke and I met not long after I moved to San Diego. It was a Pictionary night at a local bar called Number One. I was there with friends, and Luke was there with his own group, but there was something about him that caught my attention. He seemed easygoing, approachable, and genuinely kind.

When I handed him some of my raffle tickets that night, I had no idea it would lead to one of the most important friendships of my life. We exchanged numbers and quickly fell into a rhythm of weekly hangouts—game nights, movie marathons, and deep conversations about life, love, and everything in between.

Luke is the kind of person you can be entirely yourself around. We can sit in companionable silence for hours or dissect the latest Star Trek Voyager episode with equal enthusiasm. He’s introduced me to his world, and I’ve introduced him to mine. Together, we’ve built a friendship that feels effortless but is deeply meaningful.

When I asked Luke to join me on this move to Maine, I wasn’t sure what he’d say. It’s not a small thing to ask someone to leave behind their life and take a leap into the unknown. But without hesitation, he said yes. That moment solidified what I already knew—Luke isn’t just a friend; he’s a partner in this adventure.

The Final Farewell to San Diego

Saying goodbye to San Diego hasn’t been easy. This city has been more than just a place to live; it’s been a canvas for my life over the past few years. As I packed up my belongings, I found myself reflecting on the “what could have been” moments. What kind of life would I have built if I had stayed? Would I have found deeper roots here, or was I always destined to leave?

It’s tempting to dwell on those questions, but I’ve learned that the weight of “what could have been” is only as heavy as you allow it to be. For me, those reflections have only reinforced my decision. Maine is where I need to be right now, and I’m excited for what lies ahead.

That’s not to say I won’t miss San Diego. I’ll miss the friends I’ve made, the sunsets over the Pacific, and the sense of possibility that comes with living in a place like this. But I’m taking those memories with me, and I’m ready to create new ones in a place that already feels like home.

Hobbes Joins the Journey

No move would be complete without my furry companion, Hobbes. For those who don’t know, Hobbes is my cat, and he’s been a steady source of comfort throughout this process.

Hobbes has been surprisingly adaptable so far. He’s taken to the idea of travel better than I expected, curling up in his carrier with a calmness that mirrors Luke’s steady demeanor. Having him along for the ride makes this transition feel a little less overwhelming.

I’ve always believed that pets have a way of grounding us, reminding us to stay present even in the chaos. Hobbes has been a constant reminder to take things one moment at a time.

The Road Ahead: A Journey of Possibility

The next chapter of this adventure begins tomorrow. Luke, Hobbes, and I will set out for Maine, traveling through the heart of the U.S. and up through New York before finally arriving in Portland. It’s a route that promises both beauty and introspection.

I’m excited for the journey itself—the conversations Luke and I will have, the small towns we’ll pass through, the quiet moments of reflection as the miles roll by. This isn’t just a move; it’s an opportunity to embrace change and create something new.

When we arrive in Maine, there will be work to do—furnishing the apartment, settling in, and setting up my new office. But there will also be moments to breathe, to reconnect with family and old friends, and to start building a life that feels intentional and fulfilling.

What Friendship Teaches Us About Home

At its core, this move isn’t just about geography; it’s about relationships. Luke’s decision to join me on this journey says everything about the kind of friendship we share. It’s a friendship built on trust, mutual respect, and an unspoken understanding that we’re in this together.

As we prepare to leave San Diego behind, I’m reminded of something profound: home isn’t just a place. It’s the people who make you feel seen, supported, and valued. It’s the connections you build and the memories you share.

For now, home is a car packed with essentials, a best friend in the passenger seat, and a cat napping in the back. It’s the road stretching out before us and the promise of a new chapter waiting at the other end.

Closing Thoughts

As I stand on the edge of this transition, I am struck by the interconnected threads that make up our lives—the places we live, the people we meet, and the decisions we make that guide us toward the unknown. Moving to Maine isn’t just about packing up my belongings and heading to a new destination. It’s about acknowledging the chapters that have shaped me and stepping boldly into the pages yet to be written.

San Diego has been a place of growth, connection, and discovery. It gave me Luke—a friend who has become family. It gave me moments of clarity, nostalgia, and the realization that even when we leave a place behind, it stays with us in ways we can’t always explain. The memories I’ve built here, from late-night conversations to shared laughs over Star Trek Voyager, aren’t being left behind; they’re coming with me, shaping how I move forward.

This journey is also a reminder of the profound ways people shape our sense of home. Luke’s decision to join me, Hobbes’ quiet companionship, and the support of friends and family have shown me that home is more than a physical space. It’s a feeling, a connection, a shared purpose. It’s the ability to look at the road ahead, knowing you’re not walking it alone.

As I prepare to hit the road tomorrow, the horizon feels wide open, filled with possibilities I haven’t yet imagined. There’s excitement, yes, but there’s also a quiet understanding that this move is not an escape—it’s an embrace. It’s a choice to lean into change, to trust the connections I’ve built, and to believe in the path I’m creating.

Life is rarely linear, and that’s what makes it beautiful. The “what could have been” moments will always exist, but so will the “what will be” moments. And if this move has taught me anything, it’s that the latter is far more exciting. The adventure isn’t just in the destination—it’s in the journey, the friendships, the memories, and the courage it takes to step forward.

Tomorrow, the car will be packed, the road will stretch out before us, and Maine will await at the other end. But for now, I take a moment to breathe, to reflect, and to feel grateful. Grateful for San Diego, for Luke, for Hobbes, for the friends who’ve supported me, and for the chance to begin again.

The journey ahead is unknown, but I know this much: I’m ready to build a life filled with purpose, connection, and joy. And that, above all else, is what makes this moment so meaningful.

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