We’re Concerned

My parents called me the other night. My dad operated the phone while my mother sat with him, unspeaking. He communicated that they are worried about me. The exact wording he used was, “We’re concerned.”

Specifically, they were concerned about a poem I published. Apparently, it was concerning.

For those of you who don’t know me, a brief crash course in Cami: I am a very nearly forty-nine-year-old woman who has been out of my parents’ house since the tender age of seventeen. I have also been writing poetry that is quietly concerning to someone my entire life.

The number of times I have been pulled aside by teachers, professors, advisors, counselors, psychologists, or whomever to discuss a “concerning” piece of writing is… well, I’ve never counted it. But enough. And I’ve gotten really good at saying, “yeah, I’m okay.”

When my dad asked if I was okay this time, I couldn’t say yes.

The thing is, I am not okay.

I’m a middle-aged autistic woman with ADHD and multiple chronic illnesses. Illnesseees. Illnessi? There should be a better plural for the accumulation of things that wear a body down — in times when the ground itself feels unstable and men with power mistake cruelty for governance.

When my dad asked me if I was okay, I wanted to say yes. When my best friend texted to check in, I wanted to type those four small letters — because I always type the whole word — but I couldn’t.

Every time I try, I get mad.

It’s not okay.

I’m not okay.

And if you have even a shred of humanity, you are not okay either.

It made me want to run through the streets shouting: I AM NOT OKAY.

But this is Portland. I would either be arrested or some well-intentioned punk would try to hand me tea and cookies to calm me down. And then I would have to shout:I AM NOT OKAY. I CANNOT EAT THAT COOKIE.

Because it probably has gluten in it. Or dairy. Possibly both.

So no, Dad. I am not okay.

No, parental unit collective. I am not okay.

No, bestie. I am not okay — but we’re still having coffee next week.

BUT I AM NOT OKAY.

The weight of not being okay presses down until I feel pinned, unable to breathe. I only sleep every couple of nights right now. But unlike sleepless nights in the past, this is not about pretending.

I am no longer pretending to be okay.

I am done whispering it.

And eventually I realized something: I can’t keep shouting it either.

“I’m not okay” is honest.

But it is not a strategy.

Survival is necessary.

Staying alive is necessary.

Tending, sustaining, making it through the week — all necessary.

Survival is resistance.

Remaining soft in a system that prefers you exhausted and compliant is resistance.

But survival is not construction.

And I’m hungry for construction.

I grew up in a world that promised to be better than it was. Not perfect — just better. More rights. More safety. More forward motion. I was told the arc bent toward justice. I was told we were learning. Growing. Expanding.

Instead, I am watching contraction. Retrenchment. Rights narrowed. Language weaponized. Institutions hollowed out.

Resistance keeps us standing.

But standing is not the same as building.

Survival does not draft policy. It does not teach children differently. It does not create institutions that outlast the men trying to dismantle them.

It sustains.

We need sustaining.

But we also need to build.

Maybe that’s why I write.

Maybe that’s why I keep publishing poetry that makes someone somewhere “concerned.”

Art is resistance.

Writing is resistance.

Creation is resistance.

Not because it is soft.

Because it builds.

It sketches blueprints for a world that does not yet exist. It drafts new language when the old language collapses. It plants evidence that we were here and that we refused to disappear quietly.

I do not want to live in a perpetual brace position.

I do not want to spend the rest of my life absorbing impact.

I want to build.

I want to construct something that outlasts the news cycle and the panic and the men who think erosion is governance.

If resistance keeps us standing, construction moves us forward.

So make something.

Make something beautiful.

Make something ugly.

Make something tragic, fuzzy, slimy, awkward, loud.

Who cares?

Just make something.

Write the poem.

Paint the sign.

Start the newsletter.

Draft the policy.

Host the dinner.

Make friendship bracelets for all your friends.

Put your refusal into form.

Let the world see that you are not okay.

Let the world see that this is not okay.

And let the world see that we will not quietly stand for it.

I’m not okay.

This isn’t okay.

I’m building anyway.

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Cami Kaos is a writer, autistic woman, and former tech community organizer who spent more than a decade building inclusive spaces in an industry that rarely made room for people like her. After burning out from constant caretaking and code-switching, she turned inward—to reclaim the parts of herself that were silenced to make others comfortable. Cami writes about identity, survival, and neurodivergence—not always without apology, but with growing conviction. These days, she’s not interested in holding it all together anymore—just holding what matters. You can find Cami at camikaos.com. Bring snacks.

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