My dear student,

When you left the village to return to the city, I watched you for a long time. Not to follow your footsteps, but to listen within myself, to see if there was anything left unsaid. And there was.

You are strong enough to continue on your own. I know this not because your fracture has disappeared, but because you have learned to look at it without running away. That is a step many never take in their entire lives.

So today, I want to tell you a story I have never told — the story of my own fracture.

Years ago, when I was still a young scientist in the city, I had someone very dear to me. A quiet child, withdrawn, afraid of noise, living in a world I could not enter. Back then, people called it a “disorder.” I believed that too.

I took the child everywhere: hospitals, intervention centers, special classes. I tried to “fix” them, as if they were a machine out of rhythm. I thought I was doing the right thing.

But the more I tried, the wider the fracture within me grew.

One day, the child had a panic attack in the middle of a crowded street. I held them, and it felt like holding a world collapsing in my arms. In that moment, I understood:

it was not the child breaking — it was me.

I broke because I could not accept the difference of someone I loved.

That was the first day I truly saw my fracture.

And it was also the day I decided to leave the city.

You once asked why I chose a quiet life in the countryside.

I was not running away.

I simply needed a place quiet enough to learn again:

– to see a person without placing expectations on them,
– to listen without trying to fix,
– to let a fracture exist instead of hiding it.

That child — my loved one — was my first teacher in the equality of all beings.

They did not speak much, but every glance felt like a question:

“Why must the world be so loud?”

It took me years to understand:

People with autism are not burdens.

They are mirrors reflecting the fractures society refuses to see.

In a world too full of noise, they remind us of silence.

In a society obsessed with speed, they remind us of each soul’s unique rhythm.

In a community accustomed to judgment, they remind us of compassion without distinction.

You once asked me:

“Have you ever truly healed your fracture?”

I did not answer then.

Today I can say:

Yes. But not by filling it.
By living with it.

And your recent visit helped me realize this once more.

When you spoke of your fracture, mine softened.

When you faced yours, I felt myself healing a little too.

No one crosses their fracture alone.

Not even those called “teachers.”

I have only walked a few steps ahead of you, nothing more.

Remember this:

People with autism are not signs of a broken society.

They are reminders that society must learn how to love again.

And the fracture within each of us — no matter how painful — is part of the shared map humanity is drawing together.

If one day you feel unsteady again, remember:

a fracture is not an ending.
It is where the light enters.

Your teacher.

P.S. Before I fold this letter, I want to leave you with something I learned from Jiddu — not a teaching, but a truth I have seen for myself:

“When you look directly at the fracture within you — without fixing, without fleeing, without naming — in that very moment, the fracture is no longer an enemy. It becomes a doorway.”

I do not follow Jiddu. I only see the light in the way he looks at truth.
And I hope one day, you too will see that light — not in anyone’s words, but in your own heart.