Personal Reflections: Nature as a haven for neurodivergent children

I often feel a deep sadness when I think back on my play experiences as a child. Growing up as an autistic child made me a frequent target of bullying and ostracization, and being raised in a turbulent household left me feeling anxious and hesitant to explore the world around me.
The combination of these factors – and others I could only name later – meant that many of my early play experiences, especially those involving other children, ended in conflict or discomfort.

Even so, I would say I was born with an intricate and genuine fascination with the natural world. At a certain point in my childhood, this fascination grew into something more: nature became my refuge. The reasons were simple and, for me, profound – nature never bullied me, never rejected me, and never made me feel unwelcome. Nature was steady, quiet, and reliable in a way that few people in my life were.

Some of my most vivid memories of childhood play take place in outdoor settings. I can still remember digging deep holes in the soil just to see what was beneath, chasing butterflies and grasshoppers in the patio, and gently repotting plants as though they were fragile friends who needed my care. In retrospect, I think my fixation on connecting with other living beings was tied to the conditions of my early attachment. My father, though present, was demanding and often unresponsive, while my mother, although warm and loving, could be unpredictable. I was always seeking a sense of safety, and this search expressed itself in my play.

One memory in particular stands out. I used to disguise myself as a leopard, imagining that I was the mother of several cubs. In the story I acted out, the mother leopard was hunted and killed by a human, but miraculously came back to life so she could continue caring for her cubs. Writing about this now, I feel a wave of realization wash over me: what I was expressing, perhaps without fully knowing it, was my longing for a caregiver who would always be there for me, no matter what happened.

This expression of need, however, did not come without risk. My play often overlapped with my early exploration of gender fluidity – an aspect of myself that was stigmatized and felt, at the time, forbidden. Yet, nature gave me permission to explore all of this. It represented a safe, nurturing, forgiving space where I could experiment with what it meant to protect, nurture, and love without fear of judgment.

In this way, nature was more than a playground – it was a sanctuary. It allowed me to explore my capacity to care for other beings, to imagine worlds where safety and love could coexist, and to create the healthy, reciprocal connections I so deeply desired.

All this said, in this art piece, I was channeling one of my friends from childhood, my passion fruit vine. My aunt gifted her to me and I, thrilled, gladly gave her a new home. I nurtured her, and she reciprocated my care: she grew and twirled around anything she could grasp. Sometimes, if I was patient enough and stood still as I touched her, I could see and feel as her tendrils would wrap around my finger, as if gently thanking me for the support. I still think about her–whenever I see a passion fruit vine, it almost feels as if her hand-like leaves are waving to me from the past.