Chapter 1: A normal day
The camera light glowed a steady red. Mae adjusted it slightly with a fingertip, the soft click of the casing loud in the quiet morning room. She settled back into her oversized beanbag chair, a nest of fleece blankets around her.
“Hey, you’re here early. Or I’m up late. One of those.” She smiled, a little lopsided. “Just finished my first coffee, so bear with me. Thought I’d just… talk through the morning shuffle today. The glamorous stuff, you know?”
She gestured vaguely at herself. She was swimming in a thick, footed pajama set covered in faded rocketships. The cuffs were slightly frayed.
“Okay, first order of business. The great migration.” She pushed herself up, the beanbag crinkling and sighing. The camera watched as she padded across the plush cream carpet to a dresser painted a soft, matte lavender. She opened the top drawer, which was neatly organized with stacks of folded cloth.
“Nighttime configuration,” she said, her back to the camera as she pulled out a fresh, white cloth diaper and a plastic-backed disposable one. “The double-layer system. Not the most fun part, honestly. The tabs on these things are either whisper-quiet or sound like Velcro tearing apart the fabric of spacetime. No in-between.”
There was a rustle, the soft whisper of fabric, a few crisp snaps. She worked efficiently, her movements practiced. A faint, clean powder smell drifted toward the camera.
“The part I don’t enjoy? The cold wipes. Always a shock. A necessary evil.” She chuckled. “The part I do enjoy? The fresh one going on. It’s a reset. Like new sheets on a bed. Everything’s clean and secure and… set up right. It just feels right.”
She turned back to the camera, now wearing just the fresh diaper and a simple, snap-crotch tank-style onesie in heather grey. She grabbed a second item from the drawer—a thicker, button-front onesie in a soft denim blue.
“Daytime uniform,” she announced, slipping her arms in. She began fastening the long row of plastic snaps up her front, each click a punctuated sound. “This is the good part. The texture is everything. It’s snug without being tight. It just… holds me together. Makes me feel like I’m in my own skin properly. I know it sounds backwards to people who live for jeans and a t-shirt, but for me, this is the comfort zone. Literally.”
She smoothed the fabric down over her hips. Next, she reached into a cubby on the dresser and lifted a helmet. It was a soft-shell model, white with a subtle grey honeycomb pattern, lined with plush foam.
“Now for the dome,” she said, her tone turning practical. She settled it gently onto her head, her fingers deftly checking the fit at her temples and the base of her skull. She fastened a broad, padded strap under her chin. “Indoor model. Lightweight. It’s not about protection from falls in here, really. It’s more… pressure. A constant, even hug for my head. It dials the world back just a few notches. The silence it creates isn’t auditory, it’s neurological. Cuts the static.”
She gave the chin strap a final pat and walked back to the beanbag, settling in with a contented sigh. She reached for a pacifier that was clipped to the collar of her onesie, popping it into her mouth for a moment. Her eyes closed briefly. She removed it, letting it fall back to its clip with a gentle tap against the plastic snap.
“People ask if the pacifier is for babying. It’s not. It’s just… a good sensory tool. It regulates my breathing. Gives my mouth something to do that isn’t grinding my teeth into dust from anxiety. Simple as that.”
She looked directly into the lens, her expression open and calm.
“The routine isn’t a cage. It’s the scaffolding. Once it’s all done—” she gestured to her clothed body, the helmet, “—I’m free. My body feels sorted. My head feels quiet. Then I can go think about actual things. Like what to make for breakfast, or if I should finally edit that footage from Tuesday, or whether the birds at the feeder are getting enough good seed.”
She tilted her head, the helmet brushing against the back of the beanbag. “The outside world sees the clips and the straps and the… the paraphernalia. They see the costume. They don’t see the function. They don’t feel the relief of everything being exactly where it needs to be, finally quiet and still. That’s the part you can’t really film.”
Mae pushed herself up again, the pacifier clip swaying. She walked toward the camera, her smile easy.
“Anyway. Scaffolding’s up. Time to go build a day. See you out there.”
Her hand reached out, the screen wobbled for a second, and then the image went black.
The black screen dissolved into a bright, sunlit room. Mae was back in frame, this time standing in front of a full-length mirror leaned against the lavender dresser. The soft-shell helmet was gone.
“Okay, adventure mode,” she said to the camera, her voice bright. She held up the denim blue onesie she’d been wearing earlier. “So, this is the base layer. Always. It’s the comfort constant. But for leaving the house, we add the exoskeleton.”
She laid the onesie on the bed behind her and picked up a pair of sturdy, forest-green overalls. The fabric was a thick cotton canvas.
“The overalls are key. Pockets? Amazing. Security? Top tier. It just… contains everything. Makes the whole thing feel like a single unit instead of a bunch of separate parts.” She stepped into them, pulling the straps over her shoulders with a familiar grunt. The fastening clicks of the brass buckles were sharp and satisfying. She did a little wiggle, settling the heavy fabric.
Next, she turned to the dresser and lifted a different helmet. This one had a harder, glossy white shell, a transparent plastic visor flipped up, and a more substantial chin cup with a buckle.
“Outdoor model,” she announced, her tone shifting to something more instructional. “This is the serious one. Hard shell, impact-resistant. The visor is for visual regulation—cuts down glare and random visual clutter. The chin cup…” She demonstrated, buckling it snugly. “It stops me from… well, from absentmindedly trying to scratch my jaw on every doorframe and tree branch I pass. Proprioception is weird, guys.”
She tapped the visor down. Her face was still visible, but softer, framed by the plastic.
“Now, the walk.” She grabbed a small cross-body bag and began loading it: a water bottle, a set of keys, a folded piece of paper. “And the logistical talk. You guys ask about this a lot in the comments, so let’s just address the elephant. Or the… absorbent core, I guess.”
She leaned against the dresser, facing the camera directly. Her voice was casual, practical.
“The diapers. How long they last. It’s not a one-answer thing. It’s like asking how long a tank of gas lasts. Depends on how you’re driving.”
She shrugged, the strap of her overalls slipping slightly before she pushed it back.
“If I’m just puttering around the house like this morning? A cloth diaper with a disposable stuffer can go, easy, four to six hours. It’s about comfort, not capacity. I’ll change before it’s even halfway to full because I prefer the feeling of being dry. It’s a sensory thing, not a necessity thing.”
She picked up her water bottle and took a sip, the action normal through the clear visor.
“If I’m going out, like now, I’ll switch to a heavier-duty disposable. The good ones. The kind they make for actual twenty-four-hour care. Those are for insurance. I’m planning a two-hour walk, max. This will last easily triple that. Probably more. The point isn’t to test its limits. The point is to not have to think about it.”
Mae’s expression was earnest, her hands moving in simple gestures as she explained.
“It’s about removing variables. My brain has a million open browser tabs running all the time. ‘Are you thirsty?’ ‘Is that noise too loud?’ ‘Did you remember to lock the door?’ ‘What’s that smell?’ If I can close the ‘what if I need a bathroom and there isn’t one’ tab permanently, that’s a huge amount of mental bandwidth freed up. I can use that bandwidth to notice the color of the sky, or plan a video edit, or just… breathe.”
She straightened up, adjusting the bag across her chest.
“So, for a walk? I’m set for the whole afternoon, even if I get distracted and sit in the park for a while. It’s freedom. It’s the opposite of being restricted. It’s the reason I can decide to go for a walk at all on a whim, without a forty-five-minute logistical planning session about restroom locations.”
She walked toward the camera, her figure growing larger in the frame. A pacifier, clipped to the front strap of her overalls, bobbed gently.
“The gear isn’t a limitation. It’s the launch pad. Alright. Systems are go. I’m hitting the sidewalk.”
She reached for the camera. The last thing in frame was the sleek white curve of her helmet and the determined, peaceful set of her mouth before the screen went dark.
The last thing in frame was the sleek white curve of her helmet and the determined, peaceful set of her mouth before the screen went dark.
Sunlight dappled the pavement through the thick canopy of old oaks. Mae walked with a steady, purposeful rhythm, the crunch of gravel under her boots a satisfying counterpoint to the distant city hum. She breathed in the green, damp smell of the park. After a few minutes, she stopped at a wooden bench overlooking a small, muddy pond. A few ducks quacked listlessly.
She unclipped her camera from its little harness, held it up, and tapped the screen. The red light blinked on.
“Pit stop,” she said, her voice slightly muffled by the visor before she pushed it up. She sat on the bench, arranging the camera on its mini-tripod on the armrest. “Got a question this morning about sourcing the overalls, so I figured I’d do a walk-and-talk. Or a sit-and-talk.”
She adjusted the frame so it caught the pond behind her, the green blur of trees. The helmet and the chin cup gave her a certain astronaut-in-the-wilderness look.
“So, the overalls.” She plucked at the stiff forest-green fabric on her thigh. “These are a game-changer, honestly. The brand is ‘Duxbury Workwear.’ Not sponsored, wish I was. You want the men’s section. The women’s ones are cut weird—too tight in the shoulders, too short in the torso. The men’s classic fit is where it’s at. They’re cut boxy, which is perfect for layering over a padded onesie. Room in the hips, see?” She shifted, showing the comfortable space. “And these pockets.” She slapped the chest pocket, then the deep side pockets. “Actual, functional pockets you can fit a whole water bottle in. Magic.”
A duck waddled closer, eyeing her. She nodded at it.
“The key is to get them a little big. You want to be able to move, to sit cross-legged if you need to, without everything feeling strained. The snaps on my onesie underneath need to breathe, you know? Compression over that layer is just… no. It’s sensory chaos.”
She leaned back against the bench, the wood creaking softly.
“And the material. It’s a heavy cotton canvas. Breaths enough, but it’s a solid barrier. Wind doesn’t get through this. It’s like a wearable fortress. For people who need that definite boundary between them and the world… it’s good. It’s really good.”
Mae unclipped her water bottle and took a long drink.
“Process stuff. A few of you asked about the changing routine when you’re out for a long time. It’s logistics, right? My bag.” She lifted the cross-body bag into frame. It was a simple, waterproof waxed canvas thing. “Everything has its place. A wet-dry bag for used items—it’s got a charcoal liner, kills the smell. A roll of disposable wipes. A travel packet of powder. And a fresh, folded disposable. The super-absorbent overnight kind.”
She zipped the bag closed.
“I plan my longer outings around places I know have a single-occupancy, lockable bathroom. The library. The community center. The fancy pet store, honestly, their bathroom is always clean. I go in, do a full change if I need to, and it takes five minutes. No stress. The helmet… well, it fits through doorframes. I’ve practiced.”
She offered a small, wry smile to the camera.
“It sounds like a military operation. It’s not. It’s just… knowing what you need and setting it up in advance so you don’t have to think about it when you’re trying to enjoy the ducks. The goal is to forget about the system entirely once it’s running.”
A breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and she tilted her head back, the hard shell of her helmet tapping the wood. She closed her eyes for a moment, the pacifier clip swaying gently on her chest strap.
“The helmet,” she said, eyes still closed. “This model is a ‘ProTec Classic.’ The hard shell version. The visor is an add-on—it’s actually meant for cycling. The chin cup is essential. It stops the helmet from twisting if I… if I stim by shaking my head side to side. Which happens. The indoors soft-shell is a ‘Bump Cap’ brand, the kind warehouse workers wear. Less protection, more constant, gentle pressure.”
She opened her eyes and looked directly into the lens, her expression earnest.
“You don’t just wake up and order this stuff online. It’s a process. You try a cheap version, you hate it, you research for hours, you read obscure forums, you finally spend too much money on the right thing, and then it clicks. And you feel stupid for not finding it sooner, but also relieved that it exists. My channel is just… me skipping you to the ‘it clicks’ part. If it helps.”
She stood up abruptly, the motion smooth. She picked up the camera, holding it in front of her as she began walking again, the path unfolding in the shaky frame behind her.
“The biggest thing is giving yourself permission to need the weird solution. The overalls, the helmets, the… the diapers. The world is built for people whose bodies and brains follow a standard operating procedure. Mine doesn’t. So I built my own interface. It’s clunky. It draws stares. But it works. And a working system is always more beautiful than a broken normal one.”
She walked in silence for a minute, the sound of her boots on the path and her steady breathing filling the audio. The light filtering through the trees painted moving stripes across the white dome of her helmet.
“Okay. Recommendations over. Back to the ducks, or the sky, or whatever’s next.”
She gave a small wave, her fingers filling the frame for a second, and then the screen juddered and went dark.