I was sitting in a knit café, minding my own business, crocheting a dress the way I always did — from instinct, from my head, from that place where my hands know more than my words. I was alone, having a coffee, wrapped in the quiet safety of not understanding Swedish.
Then two women tapped me on the shoulder.
I froze.
Swedish? English? Panic.
They switched to English — thank God — and told me they worked for H&M.
They asked about the dress I was making.
They said they loved it.
They said I should contact them.
And what did I do?
I panicked.
I told them I didn’t have a pattern.
Which was true — I never had a pattern.
My neurodiversity meant everything lived in my head, not on paper.
They smiled, said they were interested, and left me with an opportunity I didn’t know how to hold.
I never contacted them.
It was a tiny moment with huge emotional weight — a door opening, and me too overwhelmed to step through it.
Footnote: True story, coffee shop on the corner of "Svervagan" not far from Hortorget Tunnelbanna.
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