Mariah Tyler Moore | Updates

The Operating System I Didn't Know I Was Running

Mariah Tyler Moore — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I've been asking myself the wrong question my whole life.

I kept asking: why am I unhappy? Like if I could just find the right answer, the right relationship, the right accomplishment, the right combination of being enough... the unhappiness would lift. Like it was a puzzle and I was just missing a piece.

But that's not the right question. The right question is: how could I possibly be anything else when I have never, not once, been allowed to just exist?

Let me explain what I mean by that. And I'm going to get into some neuroscience here, because understanding the science of what happened to me is part of how I process it. Bear with me. I promise it connects.

I was not wanted.

That's the foundation. That's where everything starts. I was born to teenagers who told me, to my face, that I ruined their lives. And when you're a kid and your parents say that (not in a moment of frustration, but as a repeated, reinforced truth), your brain doesn't file that under their problem. Your brain files it under fact about me. You are a burden. You take up space that was meant for other people. Your existence requires justification.

So you learn to justify it. You become useful.

Here's what's happening in your brain when that lesson takes root early. Your nervous system is building itself during those first few years. The neural pathways that govern attachment, emotional regulation, self-worth... they're being wired in real time based on what your environment teaches you. When the environment teaches you are safe and loved regardless of what you do, the brain builds a foundation of secure attachment. The vagus nerve learns to regulate. The stress response calibrates to actual threats.

When the environment teaches you are a problem that must earn its place, the brain builds something very different. Your HPA axis (your stress system) gets stuck in overdrive. Cortisol floods your system chronically instead of in appropriate bursts. Your amygdala, the brain's threat detector, becomes hypervigilant. It starts scanning every interaction for signs of rejection, abandonment, withdrawal of love. Not because you're paranoid. Because you were right. The threat was real. Your brain learned the correct lesson for the environment it was in.

The problem is that your brain doesn't update the software when the environment changes. You carry that wiring into every relationship, every room, and every moment of your adult life. You're running a survival program that was written by a toddler's experience of being told she shouldn't exist.

I've been running that program for nearly thirty years.

The performance.

Here's what the program looks like in practice. I walk into every relationship, every friendship, every professional connection, every community, with an unconscious mandate: be so useful that they can't throw you away. Be the helper. Be the organizer. Be the one who shows up. Be funny, be talented, be generous, be resilient. Produce enough value that your presence is justified.

And it works. For a while. People love the performance. They really do. I'm good at it. I've built communities, published books, written songs, shown up for people in ways that genuinely mattered. None of that was fake. The love behind it was real.

But the engine driving it? That's where it gets complicated.

Because when your deepest motivation for showing up is if I stop being useful, I'll be abandoned, you're not building intimacy. You're building a transaction. And transactions have an expiration date. Eventually, you burn out or slip up or just get tired, and the people who were there for what you do (not who you are) start to drift. Or you realize they never really saw you at all. They saw the performance. They loved a version of you that was carefully designed to be loveable.

Neuroscience has a term for this cycle. It's called the fawn response. Most people know about fight, flight, and freeze. Fawn is the one that doesn't get talked about enough. It's when your nervous system learns that the safest response to a threat isn't to fight it off or run from it... it's to make yourself indispensable to it. To become so pleasing, so accommodating, so useful that the threat has no reason to hurt you.

Fawning becomes automatic. You do it without thinking. You read a room and instantly calibrate: what does this person need me to be? And you become that. Over and over. In every relationship. Until you've played so many roles that you genuinely don't know which one is you.

I don't know which one is me.

That's not something I say for dramatic effect. I mean it literally. If you stripped away every role I play for other people (the writer, the community builder, the helper, the strong one, the resilient one), I don't know what's underneath. I've never been alone long enough to find out. Because being alone, for me, isn't just uncomfortable. It's an identity void. If there's nobody to perform for, nobody to be useful to... then who am I? And do I even exist?

This is the pattern that has destroyed me more times than I can count. I find a person. I latch on. I pour myself into the relationship. I think, oh god, is this it? Did I finally find the thing? And then it collapses. Every time. They leave, or they turn out to be different than I thought, or I sabotage it before they get the chance to hurt me.

The sabotage is the part I'm only now starting to understand. My brain has learned, through decades of reinforcement, that love is temporary and conditional. So when something good starts to happen, my nervous system doesn't relax into it. The better things get, the more danger my brain perceives, because historically, the higher I climb, the further I fall.

There's research on this. People with early attachment disruption often experience what psychologists call fear of positive experience. It's not that you don't want good things. It's that good things trigger your threat detection system because your brain has linked them to inevitable loss. The dopamine hit of connection gets immediately followed by a cortisol spike of anticipated abandonment. Your body literally will not let you enjoy it.

So you do the only thing that feels safe. You pull the rug out yourself. Because if you're the one who destroys it, at least you saw it coming. At least you had control. The pain of self-sabotage is familiar pain. The pain of being blindsided by a person you trusted is the kind that puts you in a hospital.

I have been in that hospital. More than once.

So here's the trap, laid out as plainly as I can say it. I don't believe I have inherent worth. I believe my worth is manufactured through usefulness. So I pour myself into other people to earn my place. But because I'm pouring from an empty cup and performing a role instead of showing up as myself, the connections I build are based on the performance, not the person. When the performance cracks (and it always cracks, because I'm human and I get tired), the connection fails. Which confirms the original belief: I am not enough. I am only loved for what I provide.

Loop. Repeat. Forever.

My brain has been confirming this belief for my entire life. Not because it's true, but because the operating system filters for evidence that supports it and discards evidence that contradicts it. That's confirmation bias working at the neurological level. Your reticular activating system (the brain's filter for what's relevant) literally screens out information that challenges core beliefs established in early childhood. I could be surrounded by evidence that I'm loved and my brain would find the one data point that says otherwise and spotlight it.

I have been doing this. I can see it now. I've been so focused on the people who left, the people who betrayed me, the love that turned out to be conditional... that I may have missed moments where something real was being offered. Or worse, I may have destroyed those moments because they didn't match the operating system's predictions.

That's the part that makes me want to throw up.

Here's what I know. I know that I am scared all the time. Scared of being abandoned, scared of being alone, scared of being too much, scared of not being enough. Scared that if I stop performing, the whole structure of my life caves in. And honestly? Some of that fear is based in reality. I'm disabled. I'm financially dependent. I can't just blow up my life and start over in some eat-pray-love fantasy. The constraints are real.

I also know this: the only living beings on this planet who really love me are my animals. My dog. My cats. When I'm with them, the performance stops. I don't earn their love. I don't produce anything for them. We just exist together, and it's the closest thing to peace I've ever felt.

A therapist would ask: what makes that different? And I've thought about it. It's not that they can't leave. It's that the love is reciprocal without being transactional. I take care of them, yes. But they return it without keeping score. Nobody's calculating whether I've been useful enough today to deserve affection. We just make each other's lives better by being in the same room.

That's what I want with humans. That's what I've always wanted. And the sick irony is that I built an entire philosophy around it (Found Family, one of the pillars of my Radical Resilience work) without ever experiencing it myself. I've been writing the blueprint for the life I'm starving for and handing it to other people.

I stay alive because I promised I would. I promised myself and I promised my daughter. Not because of my books, not because of my brand, not because of what I produce. Because I love a little girl and I want her to know that her mama didn't quit.

That's the realest thing about me. And it took this long to see that it's also the most important clue. Because that love, the love I have for her, isn't performative. It's not based on usefulness. I would love her if she never did a single thing for me in her entire life. I would burn the world down just to make sure she knows she matters.

That kind of love exists in me. I have it. It's in there. I just have never turned it inward.

I don't have a neat resolution for this rant. I'm not going to tie it up with a bow and tell you I've figured it out, because I haven't. What I have is a hypothesis and the beginning of an awareness that scares the hell out of me.

The hypothesis is this: I'm not unhappy because something is wrong with me. I'm exhausted from a lifetime of earning the right to exist. And the path forward isn't to earn harder. It's to find the woman underneath the performance and figure out if she's worth knowing.

I don't know how to get there from here. I don't know how to rewire decades of survival programming while still living inside the constraints that make survival necessary. I don't know how to stop performing when the performance is the only thing keeping the lights on.

But I know she's in there. And for the first time in my life, I'm more curious about her than I am afraid of what I'll find.

That has to count for something, right?

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BOOKS & BOONES: An Afternoon with Mariah Tyler Moore and Angelique Daniels

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 2 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

FREE ADMISSION

Join author Mariah Tyler Moore for a relaxed afternoon of storytelling, wine, and conversation at one of Las Vegas's most beloved independent bookstores!

What to Expect:

A reading and Q&A with Mariah, featuring excerpts from her novel "The Spaces Between Us", a story about connection, healing, and the moments that shape us.

A special conversation with artist Angelique Daniels exploring the intersection of books, art, and creativity in Las Vegas.

Book signing opportunity; get your copy of "The Spaces Between Us" signed by the author (books available for purchase).

Complimentary wine (Boone's Farm & Stella Rosa) and light refreshments.

Tour the beautiful Multicultural Bookstore!

This is a FREE event; just show up and enjoy!

No registration required. All ages welcome (21+ to enjoy wine). Free parking available.

Questions? Reach out to Mariah directly.

Event Details:

Date: Saturday, January 17th, 2026
Time: 4:30-5:30 PM
Location: Multicultural Bookstore Las Vegas, 2027 Revere St, Las Vegas, NV 89106 (in the Historic Westside) [https://multiculturalbookstorelasvegas.com/ | https://www.paintwithangeliquelv.com/ | https://www.facebook.com/share/1GSQYQnste/]

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The 104° Rule (Or: Why You Shouldn't Text People When Your Brain is Literally Cooking)

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Here's a lesson I apparently needed to learn the hard way: when your fever hits 104 degrees, put the phone down.

I spent the last 48 hours in a fever-induced delirium, courtesy of some kind of bug that decided to throw a party in my already-compromised body while I was simultaneously weaning off a medication. The result? A perfect storm of vomiting, shaking, and sending panicked texts to people I care about while my brain was literally cooking itself.

I am embarrassed. I am ashamed. And I am, once again, learning something I should have already known.

In January of last year, I wrote about how "true strength sometimes means choosing stability over ambition, healing over hustle." I wrote about knowing "when to pause, when to prioritize health and relationships." I meant every word of it. And apparently, I still haven't fully absorbed my own advice.

The thing about Radical Resilience is that it's not a destination. It's not something you achieve once and then carry in your pocket forever. It's a practice. A messy, imperfect, sometimes-you-forget-everything-you-learned practice.

I put too much pressure on myself. I pushed through moments I knew I should have been resting. I told myself I could handle it, that I've handled worse, that stopping meant failing. And then my body made the decision for me in the most dramatic way possible: by shutting me down completely.

The shame spiral is real. I wrote about it before, about that "toxic roommate in our heads" that turns every mistake into evidence that we're fundamentally broken. Right now, that roommate is having a field day.

But here's what I'm trying to remember: "The shame spiral isn't evidence that I'm broken. It's proof that I care deeply about growth, about becoming better, about living authentically." I wrote that, and I need to believe it now.

So here's my new rule, and I'm sharing it with you in case you need it too:

If your fever is over 100, you are not allowed to:

Make important decisions
Have serious conversations
Send texts longer than "I'm sick, talk later"
Convince yourself you can push through
Feel guilty about resting

Your brain is not working correctly. Your emotions are not calibrated. Whatever feels urgent right now will still be there when your body temperature returns to normal.

I'm learning to give myself the same acceptance I preach to others. Slowly. Imperfectly. And with frequent setbacks.

This is one of those setbacks.

But I'm still here. Still learning. Still trying. And that has to count for something.

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Shouting Into The Void: Can You Read Me?

Mariah Tyler Moore — Tue, 13 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I'm going to be vulnerable with you today. More vulnerable than usual, which is saying something if you know me at all.

Does anyone actually care about my words?

I've been avoiding that question for a long time. Because the answer might hurt. But here's what I've been sitting with lately: even the people who love me most... the ones who cheer me on, who share my posts, who call themselves my biggest fans... most of them haven't actually read my work. Not really. Not all the way through.

And I'm not saying that to guilt anyone. I'm saying it because it's made me think about how we show up for each other nowadays.

We'll spend hours consuming content from strangers. Scrolling through posts, watching videos, reading hot takes from people we'll never meet. And I get it... it's easy. It asks nothing of us. We don't have to respond. We don't have to feel anything. We don't have to show up. It's emotional snacking... filling a void without ever being nourished.

But when someone we love hands us something they created and says "this matters to me"... that's different. That's an invitation into intimacy. And intimacy is terrifying because it requires something. It says "see me." And really seeing someone means we might have to feel something, respond to something, be changed by something.

So we scroll past the people who love us to consume the words of strangers. Not because we don't care. But because caring is work. And we're all so tired.

I've also been thinking about love languages lately. Not the warm, fuzzy way we usually talk about them, but the way they've become a kind of shield. Everyone knows what they need. Everyone expects their people to learn their language and speak it fluently. But somewhere along the way, it became a one-way street. "I know what I need, but your needs are your problem."

I'm done living like that.

Here's what I need you to understand about me: I am a writer. Not as a hobby or a side hustle or a fun thing I do sometimes. Writing is how I process the world. It's how I make sense of pain. It's how I reach across the distance between my weirdness and yours and try to find the place where we overlap.

I don't write for strangers. I never have. I write to build a found family of people who might actually understand the fucking weirdo I am. I write because I want the people I love to understand why I struggle but love so deeply.

When I ask you to read something I wrote, I'm not asking for a favor. I'm not asking you to do homework. I'm offering you a piece of myself and hoping you'll hold it gently. Reading my work is a way to love me back.

So here's my invitation, my gentle call-out, and my honest ache all wrapped into one:

If you're part of my found family... if you've told me you care about me... if you've ever wondered how to show up for me in a way that matters... read my words. Not all of them. Not right now. But sometime. One article. One chapter. One blog post.

And if it moves you, tell me. Not because I need validation (okay, maybe a little), but because connection is a two-way street. I pour myself onto these pages hoping someone on the other side will say "I see you. I'm here. You're not shouting into a void."

This isn't a test or a manipulation. It's a love letter in a bottle, sent out across a vast ocean, hoping the people I love will find it.

Do my words matter?

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When Did the Filter Change?

Mariah Tyler Moore — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I've been thinking about connection lately. About what happens when artists become successful and somehow, somewhere along the way, the criteria for who gets access to them shifts from "does this resonate with me?" to "what's the ROI?"

I'm not calling anyone out. This isn't about a single person. It's about a pattern I keep seeing, and honestly, it's breaking my heart.

Here's the thing: our brains are literally designed for connection. Social neuroscience research has shown that the need to belong is a fundamental human motivation, so fundamental that our brains process social acceptance the same way they process other rewards. The ventral striatum (the brain's reward center) lights up when we experience genuine connection with other people. We're hardwired for this. It's not optional.

And yet...

Somewhere along the line, we decided that success means building walls. That "making it" means insulating yourself from the very people whose support got you there in the first place. The bigger the audience, the higher the barriers. The more people who want to connect with you, the more gatekeepers you install to keep them out.

I get it. I do. You can't respond to millions of emails. You can't show up to every event. There are only so many hours in a day, and fame (or even modest success) brings demands that would crush anyone who tried to meet them all. That's real, and I'm not pretending it isn't.

But here's what I keep coming back to: when did the filter change?

It used to be that artists, writers, creators... we showed up for the things that moved us. We responded to the messages that tugged at our heartstrings. We made time for the connections that felt meaningful, regardless of whether there was a check attached.

Now? The filter seems to be: will this make me money? Will this grow my brand? Will this fill seats at my own event, my own convention, my own monetized ecosystem?

Art is not a fucking dollar sign.

The research backs this up, by the way. Matthew Lieberman, a social neuroscientist at UCLA, wrote an entire book called Social: Why Our Brains Are Wired to Connect. His conclusion after years of studying the brain? Our neural architecture evolved specifically for reaching out to and interacting with others. These social adaptations are central to what makes us human. When we cut ourselves off from genuine connection, we're literally working against our own biology.

Loneliness (even the kind that comes from being surrounded by people who only want something from you) triggers the same brain regions as physical pain. The anterior cingulate cortex, which processes emotional distress, goes into overdrive. The amygdala becomes hypersensitive to social threats. The long-term effects include increased risks of depression, anxiety, and cognitive decline.

In other words: isolating yourself from real human connection doesn't just make you a worse artist. It makes you a less healthy human being.

So here's my commitment, written down so I can't take it back:

If my work ever reaches a wider audience (and that's a big if, but stay with me), I refuse to let success change what matters to me. Connection is the point. It's always been the point. If someone from my home state, from my hometown, from some tiny corner of the world reaches out and invites me to show up... and it tugs at my heartstrings... I will find a way to show up.

Not because it makes me money. Not because it grows my brand. Because that's why I make art in the first place. To connect. To make people feel less alone. To build bridges between hearts that might otherwise never find each other.

I've written about this before, about the Wounded Healer archetype. About how our scars become our superpowers. About Found Family and Radical Resilience and all the messy, beautiful ways we save each other. But here's the thing I haven't said explicitly enough:

My brand IS my humanity. And I don't ever want to let that go.

I know I'm a small fish in a big ocean. I know that talking about what I'd do with success I haven't achieved yet might sound naive or presumptuous. But I think it matters to declare your values before you're tested. It's easy to say you'd stay grounded when no one's offering you the chance to float away.

So I'm planting this flag now, while I'm still nobody special. While I still answer every email myself. While I still show up to small-town events and book clubs and coffee shops because those connections feed my soul.

If the world ever picks me up as a writer, as someone who can make a difference... I promise I will keep operating from the place I'm at right now. Gratitude, not superiority. Connection, not distance. Humanity, not brand management.

Because here's what I believe down to my bones: we don't make art to get famous. We don't build audiences to monetize them. We create because something inside us needs to reach across the impossible distance between one human consciousness and another and say, "Hey. You're not alone. I see you."

The moment that becomes about money instead of connection, you've already lost the thing that made your art matter in the first place.

I refuse to lose it. Even if the world tries to take it from me someday.

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The Silence I'm Breaking

Mariah Tyler Moore — Fri, 9 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I don't talk about politics.

If you've followed me for any length of time, you know this. I've built entire communities around the explicit rule: no politics, no religion, no debates that divide us. I've believed that my job as a writer is to create spaces where humans can connect across those lines, not deepen the trenches.

I'm breaking that rule today.

Two days ago, I watched a woman named Renee Good get shot in the face by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. I watched it on my computer, scrolling Facebook. I thought it was just another piece of content. I flinched so hard my hand flew to my mouth. I started crying before I even understood what I'd seen.

She was a legal observer. She was a volunteer and a mother. She was driving away, not toward, the officers when one of them fired through her window. Then the administration called her a terrorist, claimed she tried to run over an officer, and praised the shooter. The videos show this is a lie. They released the lie anyway.

I am not writing this as a Democrat or a Republican. I belong to neither party. I belong to humanity. And right now, humanity is losing.

I'm writing this as a wife.

My husband is Hispanic. Since this administration took office, I've watched something happen to him that terrifies me more than any policy. The man I married (someone who is warm, funny, and generous) is disappearing under the weight of what it means to be brown in America right now. He's glued to his phone, afraid to miss any news. I told him not to leave our county without someone he trusts beside him. He knew I was right.

The fear has settled into our home like carbon monoxide... odorless, invisible, and poisoning everything slowly. What's breaking isn't really about us at all. It's about living under a government that looks at my husband and sees a target.

This is what they don't show you in the headlines. Not just the raids and the deportations and the women shot in their cars. But the marriages straining, the terrified families, the mental health collapsing. The millions of households where good people are reaching for each other and missing because fear has overtaken our country.

I'm writing this as a journalist.

I work for a small newspaper in rural Utah. I'm trained to report facts, to stay neutral, to present both sides. But there are not two sides to shooting an unarmed woman in the face. There are not two sides to lying about it afterward. There are not two sides to using federal power to terrorize communities while the administration's family starts cryptocurrency ventures and seizes foreign oil.

Some things are just wrong. Calling them wrong isn't partisan. It's human.

I'm writing this as a woman who is afraid.

I hesitated to write this piece. Not because I might lose readers, though I might. Not because my family might disagree, though they might. But because I watched what happened to Renee Good and thought: what if some authority figure sees my post, labels me difficult, runs into me in public, and decides I'm a threat?

That fear is not irrational. It's not anxiety. It's the reasonable conclusion of watching a woman be murdered on camera while her killers get promoted and she gets called a terrorist.

I'm writing this anyway.

Because silence feels like complicity. Because our boat is sinking and someone needs to say it out loud. Because I refuse to be invisible while others fight on the front lines. Because my whole life's work has been about radical resilience: turning wounds into wisdom, showing up as your whole self even when it's terrifying, believing that authentic truth-telling can change things.

This is me, showing up.

I don't know what comes next. I don't have policy solutions or a candidate to endorse or a neat conclusion that makes this feel okay.

All I have is this: Humans matter. Not colors or borders or wealth or status or party affiliation. Humans. When did we stop choosing life and love over hate? When did we decide that some people are acceptable losses? When did we let fear make us strangers to each other... in our country, in our communities, in our own homes?

I'm not asking you to agree with me. I'm asking you to stay human with me.

That's all I've got.

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The Self-Promotion Paradox (And Why I'm Stuck in It)

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 8 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Here's the unspoken rule of creative survival: Don't self-promote. Support others and hope they support you back.

I learned this the hard way. A few years ago, I was That Person. If I knew you, I was marketing at you. Links in DMs, asking for shares, treating friendships like networking opportunities. I didn't think I was being predatory. I thought I was hustling.

Then I got publicly called out, and it wasn't gentle. It sent me into a breakdown. I disappeared from social media for a long time.

Was the callout harsh? Absolutely. Did I also need to hear it? Yeah. I did.

So I've spent the last year trying to unlearn all of that. Practicing talking about my work only when it's genuinely welcome. Reading the room instead of just broadcasting. It's hard. I still mess up. But I'm trying.

The problem is... I did the work. I changed. And now I'm watching the same one-way dynamics play out in reverse. I support people who never support back. I give copies of my books to people who put them in desk drawers. I ask for small favors and get declined by people I've championed publicly for years.

And here's the real kicker: I'm currently blacklisted from posting in local Facebook groups. Not for rule violations. Just... quietly excluded. The admins decided they don't like me, probably for reasons rooted in mistakes I made years ago, and now I can't promote my own work in my own community.

So what do I do?

The research on this is pretty brutal, actually.

Studies from Carnegie Mellon and City University London found that self-promoters consistently overestimate how positively others will react to their self-promotion and underestimate how annoyed people actually get. We think we're sharing good news. They think we're bragging. The gap between those perceptions is massive, and social media makes it worse because there's no immediate feedback to correct for it. You post something about your accomplishment, you get some likes, you think it landed well. Meanwhile, half your audience silently unfollowed you.

Here's where it gets messier. Humans are wired for reciprocity. When we do something nice for someone, there's a deep, almost unconscious expectation that it will come back to us. Sociologist Alvin Gouldner called this the norm of reciprocity, and it's so fundamental that breaking it triggers actual distress. Research shows that failed reciprocity erodes trust, increases stress, and can even affect physical health. We like people who help us and dislike those who ask for help but never return it. That's not pettiness. That's how humans have functioned for thousands of years.

And when the reciprocity doesn't come? When you keep showing up for people who never show up for you?

Neuroscience research on social exclusion shows that being ignored or rejected activates the same brain regions as physical pain. The dorsal anterior cingulate cortex and the anterior insula (areas involved in processing physical hurt) light up when we're excluded from even something as trivial as a virtual ball-tossing game. Chronic exclusion depletes coping resources and leads to depression and helplessness. This isn't me being dramatic. It's measurable. Social pain is real pain.

So we have a perfect storm: Self-promotion triggers negative reactions. Relying on others to promote you requires reciprocity that may never come. Being excluded from community spaces causes actual neurological harm. And the algorithms running our social platforms? They're optimized for engagement, which means they reward outrage and punish anything that looks too much like marketing.

Research on Instagram users found that the unpredictability of algorithmic reward and punishment creates what one study called algorithmic precarity... a state of constant anxiety about whether your content will be seen, shared, or shadowbanned into oblivion. Creators describe feeling like they're trying to appease an inconsistent authority figure who changes the rules without warning.

Sound familiar?

I keep coming back to a question I asked myself recently: At what point in our lives are we responsible for realizing the only way to make this whole stupid society thing work is to uplift others AND ourselves? Not just one or the other.

Because the current model is broken. I can't self-promote. I'm supposed to support others and hope they support me back. But they don't. And I can't just keep giving without receiving anything in return, because that's not sustainable for anyone.

The research on rebuilding trust and social capital after reputation damage suggests that it takes consistent behavioral change over time. Not apologies. Not explanations. Actual, observable different behavior, sustained long enough that people start to believe the pattern has changed. One study found that the longer a positive relationship exists before a breach, the easier it is to recover trust afterward. When trust is broken early (before there's much relationship history to draw on), it's much harder to repair.

That tracks with my experience. People who knew me before my public callout have been willing to give me another chance. People who only know me from the callout or its aftermath? I'm starting from zero, or worse than zero.

Here's what I know from Radical Resilience: Growth isn't linear. Redemption isn't guaranteed. And sometimes you do all the right things and still don't get the outcome you want.

I don't have a tidy answer to this. I'm sitting in the tension right now, trying to figure out how to exist as a creative person who needs visibility to survive but can't self-promote without backlash and can't rely on others to do it for me.

Maybe the answer is to keep showing up anyway. Keep creating. Keep supporting people who deserve it (even if they never return it). Build a body of work so undeniable that eventually, maybe, the tide turns.

Or maybe the answer is to find different communities. New spaces where my past mistakes aren't tattooed on my forehead. Places where I can start fresh.

Or maybe there is no answer, and this is just what it feels like to be a creative person in a broken system that punishes authenticity and rewards outrage.

I genuinely don't know. I'm just trying to figure it out like everyone else.

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When Boundaries Become Blame: A Reflection on Gaslighting and Growth

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 8 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I've been thinking a lot lately about the moment when a relationship ends. Not the explosive kind, where there's a fight and a door slam and everyone knows exactly where they stand. I mean the quiet kind. The kind where you realize, somewhere in the fog of silence and non-responses, that you're the only one still holding on.

Recently, I had to set a boundary with someone I trusted. Someone I'd invited into my life in meaningful ways. Someone I'd shown up for, defended, worked with, and extended grace to when they needed it. The relationship had gone quiet without explanation, and after reaching out and getting nothing, I finally said: this isn't working for me, and here's why.

The response I got wasn't an apology. It wasn't even an explanation. It was a complete rewrite of history.

Suddenly, things I knew had happened hadn't happened. Things I'd said were twisted into things I hadn't meant. The silence I'd experienced? Apparently my fault for not communicating through the right channel. The work that wasn't done? Actually, I was the one who changed the plan. The whole thing got flipped so neatly that for a moment, I genuinely wondered if I was the asshole.

And here's the thing: maybe I was, a little. I'm not perfect. I know I have blind spots. I know I can be a lot. I'm still learning how to communicate, how to manage expectations, how to be a better friend and collaborator. I carry that awareness with me every single day.

But there's a difference between acknowledging your own growth edges and accepting a version of events that you know isn't true.

This isn't the first time this has happened to me. I've been on the receiving end of this pattern before: extend trust, get burned, try to address it, and suddenly become the villain in a story I don't recognize. It's exhausting. It makes you question your own memory, your own perception, your own sanity.

Gaslighting has become such an overused word that it's almost lost its meaning. Everyone accuses everyone else of it now. But at its core, gaslighting is simple: it's when you clearly communicate your experience and the other person responds by telling you your experience didn't happen. It's not a disagreement about interpretation. It's a denial of reality.

The tricky part is that sometimes, the other person genuinely remembers things differently. Memory is weird. Perspectives diverge. Two people can live through the same moment and walk away with completely different stories. That's not gaslighting. That's just being human.

So how do you tell the difference?

I've been sitting with this question, and here's where I've landed: I check myself first. I ask, genuinely, if I could be wrong. I look for evidence. I talk to people I trust who aren't invested in the outcome. I sit with the discomfort of maybe being the problem.

And if, after all of that, the other person's version still doesn't match reality? If the facts don't line up? If you have receipts and they're telling you the receipts don't exist?

That's when you trust yourself. That's when you close the door.

I'm not angry anymore. I'm not even sad, really. I'm just... done. I said what I needed to say. I documented my position. And I'm moving on.

But I keep coming back to this question, and I don't think I have a clean answer for it yet:

How do we know when we're being gaslit versus when we need to do some internal growth?

Maybe the answer is: both can be true at the same time. Maybe the work is learning to hold space for your own imperfection while still trusting your own reality. Maybe that's the whole damn point.

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When They Came for Wicked

Mariah Tyler Moore — Wed, 7 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I woke up to learn that Utah has banned more books. Again.

The state now has 22 titles that are officially illegal in every public school library statewide. The newest additions? Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, Nineteen Minutes by Jodi Picoult, and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.

So naturally, the ACLU of Utah filed a federal lawsuit against the state.

The plaintiffs include the estate of Kurt Vonnegut (whose Slaughterhouse-Five made the list), award-winning authors Elana K. Arnold, Ellen Hopkins, and Amy Reed... and two anonymous Utah high school students. One of those students was sexually assaulted during her freshman year. She went looking for Arnold's What Girls Are Made Of to help process what happened to her. Instead, she found an empty shelf. The book had been banned.

Let that sink in for a second. A teenage survivor of sexual assault tried to find a story that might help her understand her own experience, and Utah's government had already decided she didn't deserve access to it.

This is what we're doing now. This is who we are apparently.

I'm taking this personally because I have to. So many of the books on Utah's banned list shaped who I am. The Perks of Being a Wallflower found me at exactly the right moment in my life (and if you've read it, you know what kind of moment that usually is). I devoured the entire A Court of Thorns and Roses series. I've cried over Milk and Honey. Thirteen Reasons Why was controversial when I read it, but it started conversations that desperately needed to happen. Forever by Judy Blume was one of the first books that treated teenage sexuality like a real thing that real people experience, rather than something shameful to be hidden away.

These aren't obscene books. They're books about being human. About trauma, about love, about sex, about figuring out who you are when the world keeps telling you to be smaller. They deal with hard things because teenagers live through hard things, whether adults want to acknowledge that or not.

Utah's law (House Bill 29, if you want to look it up) defines these books as containing objective sensitive material or being pornographic. The way the law is written, a single sentence describing sexual content is enough to trigger a ban. It doesn't matter if the book won a National Book Award. It doesn't matter if it's taught in college classrooms across the country. It doesn't matter if the passage serves an important narrative purpose. One sentence, and it's gone.

Here's the wild part: Utah law allows sixteen-year-olds to consent to sexual activity. But those same sixteen-year-olds are forbidden from reading a book that contains a description of sexual activity. The state trusts them to make real decisions about their actual bodies, but not to read a paragraph in a novel.

Make it make sense!

The lawsuit names Utah Attorney General Derek Brown, the Utah State Board of Education, and several school districts as defendants. The plaintiffs are asking the federal court to declare the law unconstitutional under the First and Fourteenth Amendments, issue an injunction to stop the bans, and order schools to return the books to their shelves.

This isn't just a Utah problem, even though we're leading the charge in all the wrong ways. Book bans are spreading across the country, and the playbook is the same everywhere: target books that deal with sexuality, mental health, LGBTQ+ experiences, and racial identity. Frame it as protecting children. Ignore the children who are actually harmed when they can't find themselves in any story their school library carries.

One of the student plaintiffs put it better than I can: "For many Utah students, the first place we recognize our own lives and identities is in a library book. When those books disappear, students notice immediately. It sends a clear message about whose stories matter and whose do not."

So whose stories matter? That's what this is really about.

I don't know how this lawsuit will turn out. But I know that empty shelves don't protect anyone. They just make the silence louder. And I'm pissed about it.

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The Ghost That Won't Stop Knocking: Eighty Pages

Mariah Tyler Moore — Mon, 5 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I recently received documents detailing every shitty thing I've ever done, every mistake I've made, every way I've hurt people. Like eighty-something pages written by someone who loved me for nearly three decades of their life. Pages that read like a prosecution's closing argument against my entire existence.

I sat with the words for a long time. I read them and read them again. I didn't flinch, didn't look away. Because here's the thing: some of it is true. I was selfish. I was chaotic. I was so consumed by my own survival that I left wreckage in my wake. I hurt people who didn't deserve it. I made choices that I'm not proud of.

I'm not here to defend that person.

But I am here to tell you that she doesn't live here anymore.

The Ghost That Won't Stop Knocking

The past follows you in ways you don't expect. I tried to post about a new writing community I'm building in my local Facebook groups this week. The posts never went through. I guess the admins remember who I used to be. They remember the chaos, the drama, and the version of me that burned bridges and made messes. They don't approve me anymore. Literally.

I'm blacklisted from medical facilities in my area for being a "difficult patient." For advocating too hard, asking too many questions, and refusing to accept dismissal when I knew something was wrong with my body. The system has a long memory for women who won't be quiet.

And now, a legal document that reduces my entire life to a catalog of failures.

If anyone still thinks I'm the same major fuck-up I was for most of my life, I understand why. The evidence is everywhere. It's in court filings and medical records and the memories of people I've wronged. It's in the silence of groups that won't let me in and the wariness of people who've heard the stories.

But here's the phrase that keeps echoing in my head: used to be.

The Receipts

I'm not going to pretend that growth is invisible just because some people refuse to see it.

So here's what my life looks like now:

I volunteer. Regularly. Not for the optics, but because it feels good in my soul to show up for other people. I work with my local counseling center on community initiatives. I'm building toward helping start a writers' chapter in my county so other wordsmiths have a place to belong.

I write for my local newspaper. Like real journalism. I cover local government meetings and community events. I tell stories about the people in my county who are doing beautiful, quiet work to make things better. I get to shine a light on resilience and resourcefulness in others, and it fills something in me that was empty for a long time.

I built a community for professional writers; a vetted space where authors and journalists and lyricists can connect without the noise. No politics, no drama, and no marketing spam. Just people who put words on the page for a living, supporting each other. I still can't promote it in my local groups because they won't approve my posts, but it exists. It's growing. It matters.

I'm doing author events. Book signings and readings and Q&As. I'm going to be a guest on a podcast about chronic illness and talk about what it means to keep creating when your body fights you every step of the way. I'm volunteering at writing conferences, not because I need the free ticket, but because I believe in what they're building and I want to be part of it.

I am working and loving and laughing... all within my means. All within what my body and mind can sustain. I'm learning the difference between ambition that feeds you and ambition that devours you. I'm finally building a life instead of just surviving one.

The Why

I do it for my daughter.

I live for her. That's not hyperbole. She is the reason I get up when my body screams at me to stay down. She is the reason I keep building when the world keeps telling me I don't deserve to.

I want to show her that giving gives back. Even when it doesn't feel that way. Even when you volunteer and no one notices. Even when you help and it doesn't come back to you. Even when you pour yourself into community and the community still locks you out. I want her to know that you do it anyway, because it's the right thing, because it shapes who you become, and because the giving itself is the reward even when the world doesn't reciprocate.

I want her to see that her mother was someone who pivoted. A woman who took a life of selfishness and chaos and consciously, deliberately, and painstakingly turned it toward generosity and purpose. Not perfectly. Not without stumbling. But persistently. Relentlessly. With intention.

The Rewiring

I've been feeling so hated lately. The court documents. The Facebook rejections. The medical blacklisting. The weight of knowing that somewhere, someone is telling a story about me that ends with "she's a disaster" and never gets to the part where I changed.

But here's what I've noticed:

I catch myself now. In moments of stress, in the middle of a spiral, I catch myself reaching for an affirmation instead of a self-attack. I reject the negative thought before it takes root. I choose a different response than the one my trauma programmed into me.

I can feel my neural pathways being slowly rewired. Every time I catch a negative thought about myself and choose something different, I'm laying down new tracks. Every time I give myself grace instead of punishment, I'm building a new architecture in my brain. It's not a metaphor. It's not wishful thinking. It's neuroplasticity, and I can feel it working.

The person who wrote those eighty pages knew someone who couldn't do that. They knew someone who was drowning and didn't know how to stop pulling others under with her. They knew someone who was so broken that breaking things felt like the only language she spoke.

That person was real. She existed. I'm not erasing her.

But she is not who is sitting here writing this.

The Truth

I don't need to convince anyone anymore. I believe myself now. I know who I am, and I know who I'm becoming, and I know that the work is real even when no one else can see it.

I am happier now than I have ever been in my entire life. While simultaneously sad and anxious and downtrodden, I feel peace.

Not because everything is easy. Not because the past has released its grip. Not because the world has suddenly decided to give me a break. I'm happier because I'm doing the work. Because I'm earning this peace through thousands of small choices to be different than I was before. Because I've built something real out of the wreckage of who I used to be.

Eighty pages can tell you who I was.

But only I get to write who I'm becoming.

And that story? It's just getting started.

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2025: My First Year as a Published Novelist (By the Numbers)

Mariah Tyler Moore — Sat, 3 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I don't write for money. I never have.

I write because the stories won't leave me alone. I write because somewhere out there, someone needs to see themselves in a character who turns their wounds into wisdom. I write because connection is the whole damn point.

But I'd be lying if I said it doesn't feel good to see proof that the words are landing.

So here's my first year as an actively publishing novelist, laid bare. No filters. No exaggeration. Just the real numbers from a real indie author figuring this out in real time.

The Numbers

Books Sold: 592 units across 8 titles

Kindle Unlimited Pages Read: 5,118

Spotify Streams (Music): 2,754

Bestseller Moment: The Spaces Between Us hit #1 in Literary Sagas on Amazon

Bookstore Q&A Views: 60+ people watched my Boulder Bookstore interview

Rebuilt Facebook Following: 131 followers (more on this in a minute)

New Found Family Members: At least 1 (and they are irreplaceable)

What the Numbers Actually Mean

Let me be honest with you: these numbers are small by industry standards.

I know authors who sell 592 books in a week. I know musicians whose singles get 2,754 streams in a day. I know influencers who gain 131 followers before breakfast.

But here's what I also know: every single one of these numbers represents a real person.

A real person who saw my cover and thought "maybe." A real person who read the blurb and thought "this might be for me." A real person who took a chance on an indie author they'd never heard of and gave my words space in their life.

That's not nothing. That's everything.

The Reviews That Made Me Cry

Some wins can't be measured in units sold.

In January 2026, a reader left this review for The Spaces Between Us:

"Wow! That's how I can begin to explain The Space Between Us. Zahra and Adrian's story is so relatable and uplifting. As a person who suffers from chronic pain and am in recovery this book intrigued me from page 1. The way the story goes through all the trials and tribulations of recovery and dealing with chronic illness is dead on. I absolutely loved this book."

I sat at my desk and cried. The good kind of crying.

Because this is why I write. Not for the sales numbers, though I won't pretend they don't matter. Not for the bestseller rankings, though that #1 spot felt pretty damn good. I write to create connection. To help people feel less alone. To offer representation and hope.

That reader saw themselves in Zahra. That's the win that matters.

And then there was a fellow author I met at a book signing who compared The Connectivity Hypothesis to Heinlein and Clarke. You can read the full story here, but the short version is: when a fellow author says your neurodivergent sci-fi belongs in conversation with the titans of the genre, your brain short circuits.

The Wins You Can't Put in a Spreadsheet

The Boulder Bookstore Interview

In late 2025, Boulder Bookstore invited me to do an author Q&A about The Spaces Between Us. They asked me questions about my work. It was recorded. They put it on YouTube.

Over 60 people have watched it.

I know that's not viral. I know that's not impressive by internet standards. But sitting there, answering questions about characters I created and themes I care about, being treated like a real author whose work matters enough to discuss... that felt special. That felt like proof that I belong at this table.

I want to do more of these. Many more.

The Friend I Made at a Book Festival

Sometimes the best wins walk right up to your booth.

At one of my 2025 events, someone approached me and asked, completely out of nowhere: "What does the color purple taste like?"

Without pausing, I said, "Grapes."

We've been friends ever since.

This person has become part of my found family: the people who show up, who get it, who make the lonely parts of this work feel less lonely. You can't put that in a sales report. But it might be the most valuable thing I gained all year.

The Hard Parts (Because I'm Not Going to Pretend There Weren't Any)

My original Facebook account got hacked. Years of connections, gone.

I had to rebuild from scratch. And not just rebuild the follower count... rebuild a community that actually supports me instead of tearing me down.

That 131 followers? Those are 131 people who aren't cruel. Who don't troll. Who engage with my work because they want to, not because they want to watch me fail.

After everything, building a community of genuine support feels like its own kind of victory.

What Kept Me Going

My daughter.

My husband.

My own stubborn refusal to quit.

And, slowly, learning to believe in myself without needing external validation to prove I'm allowed to exist.

That last one is still a work in progress. But 2025 taught me that I can do this. That my words do land. That there are people out there who need the stories I'm telling.

The Lesson

Keep going even when the numbers feel small BECAUSE connection matters more than sales.

Every book sold is a reader. Every page read is someone choosing to stay in your world. Every stream is someone letting your words into their ears. Every follower is someone who said "yes, I want more of this."

Those connections are the point. The numbers are just how we count them.

Looking Ahead to 2026

I've got Lawful Good and The Identity Debt in edits. I've got more events planned, more interviews I want to do, more words to write.

And I've got 592 readers who took a chance on me this year.

Here's to finding more in 2026.

🖤

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I Figured It Out Myself

Mariah Tyler Moore — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I slept last night.

Not the fitful, sweaty, heart-pounding kind of sleep I've gotten used to. Real sleep. The kind where you close your eyes and then it's morning and you feel like a person instead of a haunted house.

I kept food down yesterday. And the day before that. After weeks of daily vomiting, I ate meals and they stayed where meals are supposed to stay.

No doctor did this for me. I did this for me.

The Breakthrough

For years, I've collected diagnoses like the world's worst trading cards. POTS. Gastroparesis. Interstitial cystitis. Fibromyalgia. IBS. Migraines. MCAS. Pelvic congestion syndrome. Anxiety. Depression. The list goes on. Dozens of specialists, each one seeing their piece of the puzzle, none of them seeing the whole picture.

This week, I finally saw the whole picture. And I saw it because I refused to stop looking.

All of my conditions trace back to one thing: my connective tissue is built differently. The collagen that holds my body together (my blood vessels, my gut, my bladder, the sheaths around my nerves) is too stretchy, too fragile. This is hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, or hEDS. It's genetic. It affects everything.

When your blood vessels are too stretchy, blood pools in your legs instead of returning to your heart. Your heart races trying to compensate. That's my POTS. When your gut is structurally different and the nerves controlling it are embedded in faulty tissue, food doesn't move through properly. That's my gastroparesis. When your bladder wall is fragile and the immune cells living in it are constantly overreacting, you get urgency, frequency, and pain. That's my interstitial cystitis.

The immune cells overreacting? Those are mast cells. They live in connective tissue. When that tissue is abnormal, they get irritated and release chemicals they shouldn't like histamine, inflammatory molecules, things that make your heart race and your gut seize up and your brain feel like it's wrapped in cotton. That's Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, or MCAS.

One underlying condition. Not sixty billion separate diseases. One body, doing exactly what a body with faulty connective tissue would do.

What the Doctors Missed

Six months ago, I was prescribed Duloxetine, an SNRI antidepressant. My providers meant well. SNRIs are often used for chronic pain and for depression.

But here's what nobody checked: SNRIs are contraindicated in hyperadrenergic POTS. The kind of POTS I have. The Vanderbilt Autonomic Dysfunction Center (one of the leading research institutions for dysautonomia) explicitly warns against them because they increase norepinephrine, which is already sky-high in people like me.

Six months after starting Duloxetine, my gastroparesis, which had been in remission for three years after surgery, came roaring back. I started vomiting daily. I lost 14 pounds. I developed new nerve pain. I couldn't keep pills down to treat any of it.

I brought this research to my provider. Cited my sources. Explained the timeline. Asked for help tapering off the medication safely.

"I'm not going to take your recommendations."

That's what he said. He called standard lab tests "Mayo Clinic level." He offered to see me in clinic when I'd already told him I was too dizzy to drive.

So I Did It Myself

When you can't keep pills down, you have to get creative. When your doctors won't help you taper off a medication that's making you sicker, you have to figure it out yourself.

I researched safe tapering methods for Duloxetine. The medication comes in capsules filled with tiny beads... it's designed this way because it's extended-release. The standard doses are too far apart for gradual tapering, which is why so many people struggle with SNRI withdrawal. The medical system's solution is usually "just push through it" or "that's not a real thing."

But pharmacists and patients have developed workarounds. You can open the capsule, count the beads, and remove a few at a time for a gentler taper. Or you can dissolve the beads in water and drink a measured portion, reducing your dose by tiny increments.

That's what I did. I opened the capsules, dissolved the beads in water, and sipped. A harm reduction approach when the alternative was cold-turkey withdrawal while already malnourished.

I did the same with thiamine and magnesium supplements, dissolved them so my angry stomach could absorb them slowly instead of rejecting them whole.

Why thiamine? Because weeks of vomiting plus weight loss plus new neuropathy is a classic presentation of gastrointestinal beriberi, AKA thiamine deficiency. The European guidelines say you treat first and test later because delays can cause permanent damage. My provider wanted to test first. The guidelines I cited disagreed with him.

Within days of getting nutrients in and reducing the medication that was flooding my system with norepinephrine, the vomiting stopped. I started sleeping. I started eating. I started feeling like maybe I wasn't dying.

The Part That Makes Me Cry

I'm 29 years old. I've declared medical bankruptcy twice. Not because I have some exotic disease requiring experimental treatment but because I kept getting dismissed until manageable conditions became crises.

The average time to diagnosis for hEDS is 10-12 years and 15 different clinicians. I've seen more than that. 94% of hEDS patients receive at least one psychiatric misdiagnosis before getting the right answer. 88% are told they're making it up. 69% of POTS patients are initially labeled with anxiety.

I am not a statistic. I am a person who spent a decade and a half being told my symptoms were in my head while my body was screaming a consistent, coherent story that no one bothered to listen to.

And the thing that breaks me? I shouldn't have had to figure this out myself. This information exists. It's in peer-reviewed journals. It's in clinical guidelines. It's taught at specialized centers. It's just not making it to the providers who see patients like me.

So I became my own specialist. I used AI to help me synthesize research papers, to organize the connections between my conditions, to translate medical jargon into patterns I could see. The same AI tools my provider told me he uses and advocates for. When he uses them, it's innovation. When I use them, it's "inappropriate recommendations."

What I Want You to Know

If you're reading this and you see yourself (the endless appointments, the conflicting diagnoses, the providers who make you feel crazy) I want you to know:

Your research is valid. You're allowed to be educated about your own body. You're allowed to notice patterns your doctors miss. You're allowed to cite medical literature and expect it to be taken seriously.

Your symptoms are connected. If you have a collection of "unexplained" conditions affecting multiple systems, especially if you're a young woman, especially if you're hypermobile, look into hEDS and MCAS. Look into the triad. The answers might be hiding in plain sight.

You are not too much. You are not a difficult patient for advocating for yourself. You are a person who deserves answers, and the system's failure to provide them is not your fault.

Where I Go From Here

I'm not cured. hEDS doesn't work like that... you don't fix your collagen with willpower. But I understand now. I understand why my heart races and my stomach stops and my bladder screams and my nerves burn and my joints slip. I understand that these aren't separate problems but one body doing what it was always going to do, given how it was built.

Understanding changes everything. It means I can stop chasing diagnoses and start managing root causes. It means I can find providers who know this triad and stop wasting time with ones who don't. It means I can stop doubting myself every time someone in a white coat looks at me like I'm nutso.

I slept last night. I ate today. I figured out what was wrong with me when no one else would.

I'm so fucking proud of myself.

And if you're out there fighting the same fight, I'm proud of you too.

—

For everyone who's ever been told it's all in their head: Keep looking. The answers are out there. Sometimes you just have to find them yourself.

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The Epidemic of Medical Dismissal

Mariah Tyler Moore — Sun, 28 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The Numbers Don't Lie

Before I tell you my story, I need you to understand that it is not unique. It is not an outlier. It is the statistical norm for women seeking medical care in America.

93% of women aged 25-34 report feeling dismissed when seeking medical help.

Over 40% visited multiple providers before receiving a diagnosis.

Women with chest pain wait 29% longer in the ER for heart attack evaluation than men.

Women are 7x more likely to be sent home during a heart attack.

Women have a 50-59% greater chance of being misdiagnosed during cardiac events.

Women with endometriosis wait an average of 9 years for diagnosis.

The KFF Women's Health Survey found that 29% of women report doctors dismissing their concerns, compared to 21% of men. Women are more likely to be believed to be lying (15% vs. 12%) and more likely to report discrimination (9% vs. 5%).

A UK survey of over 110,000 women found that 50% felt their pain was disregarded. Women were frequently told symptoms (particularly those related to menstrual health) were "to be expected" and didn't deserve medical attention.

This isn't paranoia. It's epidemiology.

Naming the Harm: What Is Medical Gaslighting?

A 2024 study published in Current Psychology defines medical gaslighting as "the invalidation, dismissal, and denial of symptoms presented by a patient, often trying to ascribe symptoms to psychological issues or attention-seeking." The study demonstrates that medical gaslighting creates a form of trauma that doesn't fit standard PTSD criteria but causes the same lasting harm.

A separate study on Ehlers-Danlos syndrome patients coined the term "Clinician-Associated Trauma" (CAT) to describe the trauma created by repeated negative clinical interactions. This isn't one bad appointment... it's the cumulative effect of being dismissed, disbelieved, and gaslit by the very people who are supposed to help you.

As one PMC study notes: "Gaslighting has been used by physicians to dismiss women's health problems, enforcing the misogynist stereotype that women are irrational and 'hysterical' - a prejudice that dates back centuries."

Medical gaslighting erodes trust, negatively impacts future healthcare interactions, and leads to what researchers call "medical trauma." Every dismissive appointment triggers PTSD. Every provider who treats patient research like a threat worsens anxiety. Every time we have to fight for routine care, our autonomic nervous systems, often already dysregulated, go into overdrive.

The system makes us sicker. And then blames us for being sick.

The AI Hypocrisy

In late 2025, I established care with a new provider; let's call him NP Adams. In our first appointment, he told me: "I use AI. I'm an advocate of AI. I had an AI transcription tool running during our entire conversation."

Great, I thought. We're on the same page. We both understand that AI is a tool for efficient information synthesis.

Then I got sicker. I developed new alarming symptoms: bladder incontinence, bloody noses, nerve pain that hadn't resolved in seven weeks, continued daily vomiting, 14 pounds of weight loss. I sent him an urgent document outlining what I'd found in the medical literature:

SNRIs like Duloxetine are explicitly contraindicated in hyperadrenergic POTS per Vanderbilt Autonomic Dysfunction Center guidelines, because they increase synaptic norepinephrine and worsen sympathetic overdrive. The timeline matched: I started Duloxetine, and six months later my gastroparesis, which had been in remission for three years after surgery, came roaring back.

I met criteria for empiric thiamine treatment per European Federation of Neurological Societies guidelines on Wernicke encephalopathy prevention. The triad of vomiting plus weight loss plus new neuropathy is classic gastrointestinal beriberi. The guidelines say treat first, check levels later, because delay can cause permanent brain damage.

I needed basic metabolic tests, beta-hydroxybutyrate, prealbumin, magnesium... standard labs available at any commercial laboratory.

I cited my sources. I explained my reasoning. I organized everything to make his job easier.

His response: "I'm not going to take your recommendations." He called standard labs "Mayo Clinic level" testing. He offered to see me in clinic after I'd told him multiple times I was too dizzy to drive.

When he uses AI, it's professional. When I use AI, it's threatening.

The difference isn't the tool. The difference is who's holding the information.

The Pattern Repeats

NP Adams isn't unique. He's a symptom of a larger disease. Here are highlights from my year:

Rural Utah ER, December 2025: Dr. Bennett told me all my problems are from cannabis and refused thiamine despite clear malnutrition markers. He ignored my explanation of why I don't have Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome. Patients with CHS are drawn to hot showers because heat activates TRPV1 receptors, and I have POTS, which makes me heat intolerant. This alone clinically excludes CHS. He didn't care. He also ordered a pregnancy test despite my chart clearly documenting my hysterectomy.

Rural Utah ER, November 2025: I presented with severe nerve pain following an IM injection that caused immediate electric shock-like pain during administration, pathognomonic for nerve injury. NP Carter told me it's "highly unlikely" an injection could cause nerve damage. Sciatic nerve injection injury is the most common nerve injured by IM injection and is extensively documented in medical literature. He refused diagnostic imaging, suggested "heat/cold and ibuprofen," and took his notes on a napkin. A napkin!

The common threads: Young woman. Complex chronic illness. Mental health history. Cannabis prescription. Educated and articulate. Did her research.

I am a "difficult patient." And the system punishes difficult patients by withholding care until we learn to be appropriately grateful and deferential.

How the System Fails Us

Would NP Adams have treated a 29-year-old man who brought him peer-reviewed research from Vanderbilt the same way? Would he have called it "inappropriate recommendations"? Would he have built conditional barriers to care?

Or would he have said, "Interesting findings. Let's discuss this"?

Research confirms that women's perceptions of gender bias are correct. One study found that providers perceive women to be in less pain than they actually are. Women's "facial expressiveness" was considered exaggerated, leading doctors to regard women's pain as less credible. Men in chronic pain are regarded as "stoic" while women are considered "emotional," "hysterical," or accused of "fabricating pain."

The medical system was built on research that used male bodies as the default. Women weren't even required to be included in clinical trials until 1993. As Dr. Janine Clayton of the NIH's Office of Research on Women's Health explains: "Because we have studied women less, we know less about them. The result is that women may not have always received the most optimal care."

There's a reason "difficult patient" is code for "woman who advocates for herself."

Conditional Help Is Not Help

"I'm happy to help, BUT..." is manipulation.

"I'm happy to help" BUT "I'm not going to take your recommendations." "I'm happy to see you" BUT only in person even when you've told me you can't drive. "I'm happy to discuss thiamine" BUT only after getting labs first which contradicts the guidelines you cited.

Either help or don't. Don't create barriers designed to make patients give up. Don't offer appointments they can't physically attend. Don't require tests that contradict clinical guidelines.

The Cost

I've declared medical bankruptcy twice before the age of 30. Not because I have rare diseases requiring experimental treatments. Because I keep getting dismissed, denied, and gaslit until my conditions deteriorate to the point of crisis. And crisis care is expensive.

A doctor's appointment should feel safer than a spa. Instead, it's high-intensity anxiety. Will they believe me this time? Will they dismiss my research? Will they blame everything on my mental health or my cannabis prescription? Will they order the tests I need or call them "inappropriate"?

What You Can Do

If you recognize yourself in this story:

Document everything. Keep copies of your messages, your research, the guidelines you cite. Screenshot everything. When, not if, you need to escalate, you'll have evidence.

File formal complaints. Every state has a Division of Professional Licensing that oversees medical providers. Hospital systems have patient relations departments. These complaints create paper trails.

Request your medical records. You have a legal right to them. Read what providers write about you. Dispute inaccuracies in writing.

Know that your research is valid. Using AI to organize medical information is no different than printing articles from Mayo Clinic. You're allowed to be educated about your own body.

Find providers who collaborate. They exist. They're rare, but they exist. A good provider says "I don't know, but let's figure it out together," not "I won't take your recommendations."

The Reckoning

I'm tired. Tired of fighting for basic care. Tired of having my research dismissed. Tired of being labeled "difficult" for daring to be educated. Tired of medical trauma compounding my physical illness.

But I'm also a journalist. And journalists don't shut up just because the truth is uncomfortable.

So here's the truth: Medical education doesn't actually come with a superiority complex. But too many providers act like it does.

Until that changes, until providers view educated patients as assets rather than threats, until "I did my research" is met with curiosity rather than dismissal, until collaborative care becomes the default instead of the exception.... patients like me will keep documenting, keep filing complaints, and keep demanding better.

Because we deserve better. And deep down, even the providers with god complexes know it.

—

Do you have a medical dismissal story? Share it. Document it. Let's build the evidence together. Because the more we share, the harder it becomes for the system to pretend this isn't happening.

And to the providers who made it this far: Welcome to the reckoning. What are you going to do differently?

*Alias names were given to the individuals in this article.*

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Monsters: A Meditation on 'Do No Harm But Take No Shit'

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 18 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I'm going to tell you something embarrassing. Not embarrassing like "I accidentally texted grandma a poop emoji" embarrassing. Embarrassing like "I should have known better and here I am, punching myself in the face repeatedly."

Someone tried to scam me recently. My husband and I entertained an offer from a guy who wanted to pay for some spicy photos. We're not sex workers—we were a couple who used to be polyamorous, and this felt like a moment to be a little wild together. A little extra cash around Christmas never hurt anyone, and we were curious.

The more we talked to him, the weirder it got. He pushed for more than we'd agreed to. He wanted information we weren't comfortable giving. And when we started asking reasonable questions—basic safeguards anyone would expect—he got defensive.

We said no. We backed out. And then he ghosted. Deleted his account. Disappeared into the digital void.

Here's what pisses me off: there's nothing wrong with what we almost did. Consenting adults exchange intimate content for money every single day. OnlyFans is legal. Private sales between adults are legal. What's NOT legal is being a predator who uses fraud to obtain images or threatens to distribute them without consent.

The Vulnerability Tax

I've written before about the vulnerability paradox—how being real is supposedly the key to connection, but it also makes you a target. Well, here's another layer to that paradox: when you're navigating something unfamiliar, your judgment can get cloudy. You start seeing adventure where there might be traps. When someone offers you money and excitement in the same package, you want to believe them. You overlook the fact that legitimate transactions have safeguards, paper trails, proof of good faith. Con artists know this. They dangle exactly enough to make you ignore the alarm bells.

I'm not saying I deserved what happened. I didn't. My husband didn't. We were genuine. We communicated openly with each other about boundaries and comfort levels. We were responsible adults trying to navigate a weird situation together. The other person? They were a predator wearing an opportunity costume.

And that's the thing about monsters. They don't announce themselves. They study you first. They learn what you want, what you're curious about, what makes you feel desired. And then they use all of it.

The Special Trap

I want to talk about that word: special. Because there was a moment—I'm being honest here—where some part of me felt flattered. Wanted. Valuable. Even though the whole situation was unconventional, there was this tiny glow of "someone sees us and wants something from us" that felt almost validating.

And I hate that. I hate that I'm hardwired to seek validation, that despite all my work on myself, there's still a part of me that lights up when someone acts like I matter. That's the wound the monsters know how to find. They're not targeting your stupidity; they're targeting your humanity.

The aftermath isn't just anger. It's shame. It's the internal monologue that says "you should have known better" on repeat until you want to scream. It's paranoia—because now I'm wondering if there's something worse coming, if I'm being set up for something, if my vulnerability is going to be weaponized.

And you know what? Maybe it will be. Maybe some asshole is sitting somewhere right now with a piece of my life they shouldn't have. But I refuse to let fear turn me into someone who never trusts again.

Do No Harm But Take No Shit

So here's the philosophy I'm building: Do No Harm But Take No Shit.

The first part is about who I want to be. I don't want to become the monster just because monsters exist. I don't want to hurt people preemptively because I've been hurt. I don't want to close myself off so completely that I become another cynical casualty of the crabs in the bucket. The world doesn't need another hardened, suspicious person adding to the collective distrust. I want to stay soft where it counts—with my husband, with my family, with the people who have earned my vulnerability.

The second part is about boundaries. And I'm realizing that "take no shit" doesn't mean being aggressive or retaliatory. It means recognizing the shit for what it is and refusing to accept it as normal. It means learning the patterns so you can spot them earlier next time. It means forgiving yourself for the lessons that cost you something and using that wisdom as armor.

Was I naive? A little. Did that creepy dude try to take advantage of us? Absolutely. But here's the truth that sits underneath both of those things: we were operating in good faith, and he wasn't. That's not a character flaw on our part. That's just the terrible math of living in a world where some people are monsters.

The World We Actually Live In

Isn't life supposed to be pleasurable and joyful as long as we don't harm anyone? I ask that question a lot. I think about all the ways humans have made simple things complicated, how we've built systems that judge people for their sexuality while consuming their content, how we stigmatize choices that hurt no one.

Here's the thing I need you to hear: there is nothing shameful about adults choosing to share their bodies with other adults. There's nothing wrong with OnlyFans. There's nothing wrong with being sexual, being curious, or wanting to explore something new with your partner. Millions of people create and consume adult content every single day, and the vast majority of those transactions happen between consenting adults who walk away satisfied.

The tragedy isn't that we considered selling some photos. The tragedy is that predators exist who weaponize people's openness. The shame belongs to them—not to the people who trusted in good faith.

What I'm Taking From This

I'm taking the lesson, not the shame. The lesson is that I need to listen to my gut when something feels too eager, too pushy, too resistant to reasonable questions. The lesson is that legitimate opportunities don't get weird when you ask for safeguards. The lesson is that my worth isn't determined by whether strangers want something from me.

I'm also taking this: I still have my husband. We navigated this together, honestly, with communication and care for each other's comfort. We're still a team. We're still building our life. Some asshole disappearing into the internet void doesn't change that. Our foundation is solid because we built it on truth, even when the truth was uncomfortable.

And I'm taking this platform. This space where I get to write about the shit that happens and hopefully make someone else feel less alone. Maybe you've been there too. Maybe you're reading this and cringing because you recognize the feeling of being played. If so, hear me: you're not stupid. You're human. And being human in a world full of monsters is a goddamn act of bravery.

The Monster Check

Before I wrap this up, I want to offer something practical. A little checklist I'm developing for myself, because apparently I need one:

Does this person get weird when you ask for safeguards or time to think? Legitimate people understand caution. Predators resent it. This was our biggest red flag—the pushback when we wanted to slow down and verify things.

Is there a verifiable paper trail, or is everything conveniently off-record? Disappearing is a lot easier when there's no evidence you existed.

Are they pushing for more than you agreed to? Scope creep is a warning sign. If someone keeps expanding what they want after you've set boundaries, they're testing how far they can push you.

Does your gut feel excited or desperate? Excitement and desperation can feel similar. One comes from abundance; the other comes from scarcity. Know which one is driving you.

Would you be embarrassed to tell someone you trust about this? Shame is often a signal that something's not right. Not always—sometimes it's just trauma or social conditioning—but it's worth examining.

Know your rights. As of 2025, federal law (the TAKE IT DOWN Act) makes it a crime to publish intimate images without consent—and "consent" legally means agreement made without fraud, coercion, or misrepresentation. If someone lies to get your photos and then threatens you with them? That's a federal crime. If your photos show up somewhere you didn't agree to? Platforms have 48 hours to remove them once you report it. This doesn't undo the violation, but it does mean you're not powerless.

The Softness I'm Keeping

I could end this by saying I'm never trusting anyone again. That would be the expected arc, right? Get burned, become bitter, close up shop.

Fuck that.

The monsters don't get to win by turning me into someone I don't want to be. I'm keeping my softness. I'm keeping my belief that most people are trying their best. I'm keeping my openness with the people who have proven themselves. I'm just getting better at identifying who those people are before I hand them anything valuable.

And I'm keeping my right to be a sexual person who explores things with my husband without shame. That's mine. No predator gets to take that from me.

Do no harm. Take no shit. Stay soft where it matters. Get sharper where it counts.

Don't be a fucking predator. That's the only rule that matters.

That's the path forward. That's how we survive in a world with monsters without becoming one ourselves.

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Indie Author Spotlight: Jamal Byas and the Chase of Paradise Trilogy

Mariah Tyler Moore — Sun, 14 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

One of the things that lights me up the most about indie publishing is discovering authors who are telling the stories that mainstream publishing keeps overlooking. Stories where the people we're told don't belong... actually run the whole damn show.

Meet Jamal Byas.

Jamal is a New York-based author on the autism spectrum who started writing Chase of Paradise as a freshman in high school. What began as a teen story evolved alongside him, maturing into something bold and unapologetic. The premise alone hooked me: a school where the special education kids rule. They're the popular ones. They make the rules. And the main character, October, falls for a girl with a disability who happens to be the queen bee.

That's not a side plot. That's the whole point.

From his synopsis: October James is emerging from his past and looking for love to be his key to paradise. He encounters Carly Hull (beautiful, brilliant, intimidating) and despite being shackled by his history, he's desperate to get close to her. As October matures, he meets four other women who become his keys and win his heart. The question driving the trilogy: can love survive, or will his past dwell over his future?

Jamal now has eight books under his belt (the Chase of Paradise trilogy plus a five-book saga called Who Wants to Date a Celebrity), and he's actively working on audiobook adaptations. His mission is clear: to bring stories about people with disabilities to the reading universe. To show that people with disabilities have stories to tell, too.

As someone who writes neurodivergent and disabled characters into my own work, I feel this in my bones. Representation isn't charity. It's necessity. And Jamal is out here doing the work.

Find Jamal's Work:

Amazon: Chase of Paradise (Chase of Paradise Trilogy)
Watch his interview with Meet The World Image Solutions: YouTube

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When A Fellow Author Compares Your Work to Heinlein and Clarke (And Why I'm Still Crying About It)

Mariah Tyler Moore — Sun, 9 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I need to tell you about something that happened recently that has me feeling all the feelings.

You know that thing where you pour your heart into a book, send it out into the world, and wonder if anyone will truly get what you were trying to say? And then someone does. Not just someone, but a fellow author who understands the craft, who sees the layers, who connects with the heart of the story in a way that makes you feel like every late night and every revision was worth it.

That just happened to me, and I'm still processing.

The Beginning: A Book Signing and a Connection

Back in September, I had the incredible opportunity to share a signing table at Mad Red Books with Brian Rouff, a Las Vegas author whose work I deeply respect. We spent the afternoon chatting between book sales, talking craft and community and what it means to be a writer in this wild literary landscape we're all navigating.

Before he left, I gave him a signed copy of The Connectivity Hypothesis. Not with any expectation, you understand. Just author to author, one storyteller to another, the way we do in this community.

And then I kind of forgot about it. Life happened. I kept writing. I threw myself into my Las Vegas book tour, started planning my Colorado events, finished my eighth novel. You know, the usual Moore chaos.

The Email That Changed Everything

A few weeks ago, an email landed in my inbox. Brian had finished The Connectivity Hypothesis.

His initial message was kind, thoughtful, and specific in ways that told me he'd really engaged with the story. But it was one line that stopped me in my tracks:

"I especially liked the last fifty pages or so, beginning when the galactic council held its hearing and passed judgment on the humans. Thanks to your skills, I was able to project myself right into that scene."

That galactic council scene. The one I rewrote four times because I couldn't get the stakes right. The one where I wanted readers to feel the weight of humanity's future hanging in the balance. The one that matters most to the whole thesis of the book.

He got it. He really got it.

The Ask (And Why It Terrified Me)

Here's the thing about asking for testimonials: it's vulnerable as hell. You're basically saying, "Hey, did you like my work enough to publicly endorse it?" What if they say no? What if they thought it was just okay? What if they regret agreeing?

But I've learned something about building this creative universe of mine: sometimes you have to be brave enough to ask for what you need. So I sent Brian a follow-up email, explained that I'd love a testimonial if he was willing, and tried not to hold my breath while I waited for his response.

His reply? "It would be my pleasure (and honor) to provide a testimonial."

I sent him questions about the book. About the themes. About what resonated. About his experience reading it. And then I waited again, this time genuinely nervous about what he might say.

The Response That Made Me Cry

Today, his answers came through, and I'm not exaggerating when I say I sat at my desk and cried. The good kind of crying. The kind where you realize someone saw exactly what you were trying to create and found value in it.

Let me share some of what Brian wrote:

"With the ongoing emphasis on neurodivergent individuals in the media and in real life, I'm certain the thought has occurred to many people that maybe this is a new form of evolutionary development, something that will ultimately be good for the human species and our world. Author Mariah Tyler Moore has taken that big idea and run with it, carrying it to its logical conclusion in the near (and far) future."

That right there? That's everything. The whole point of The Connectivity Hypothesis is to reframe neurodivergence not as deficit but as evolutionary advantage. Not as something to fix but as something that might literally save humanity. Brian got it. He understood the thesis.

But then he said something that hit even deeper:

"As the grandfather of two neurodivergent grandchildren, I was able to easily relate to Lila, our protagonist, as well as Dot, her step-grandmother, and Dr. Tanaka, Lila's mentor. I especially loved the way the main characters worked together in an attempt to prevail against the longest odds."

This! This is why I write. Not for the sales numbers (though I won't pretend they don't matter). Not for the bestseller rankings (though that #1 spot for The Spaces Between Us felt pretty damn good). I write to create connection. To help people feel less alone. To offer representation and hope and a vision of a world where our differences are our strengths.

Brian's grandchildren. His personal connection to the themes. The fact that this story resonated with him not just as a reader or as a fellow author, but as someone who loves neurodivergent people and wants to see them reflected in hopeful, powerful ways.

I'm crying again just writing about it.

The Comparison That Still Has Me Shook

And then Brian wrote this, and I genuinely had to read it three times to believe it was real:

"I would recommend this book to any fan of old school speculative fiction, such as those drawn to Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land or Clarke's Childhood's End."

Heinlein. Clarke. Two titans of the genre. Two authors whose work shaped modern science fiction. And Brian sees The Connectivity Hypothesis in conversation with their legacy.

I don't even know what to do with that level of validation. Frame it? Tattoo it? Print it on business cards?

I'm probably going to do all three.

What This Means (Beyond My Feelings)

Look, I know testimonials are marketing tools. I know they serve a practical purpose in helping potential readers decide whether to take a chance on a book. I know this is "content" and "brand building" and all those industry buzzwords.

But this testimonial is more than that to me.

It's validation that my approach to building this creative universe matters. That refusing to fit into neat little boxes and instead writing across genres, creating music, developing workshops, and building community is actually working. Brian said it himself:

"Today's declining readership and ultra-competitive marketing environment means it's not enough to simply be a good author. I believe anything that helps a writer establish their market position and rise above the crowd is essential for moving books and establishing a lasting brand identity and Mariah's approach to building her creative universe does exactly that."

It's confirmation that the themes I'm exploring resonate beyond my own experience. That stories about neurodivergence as strength, about found family, about the Wounded Healer archetype have an audience that spans generations and perspectives.

It's proof that authentic vulnerability in storytelling creates real connections. That writing from the rawest, most honest parts of yourself isn't self-indulgent... it's necessary.

An Invitation

If you've been curious about The Connectivity Hypothesis but haven't taken the plunge yet, maybe Brian's words will nudge you over the edge.

This book is for you if:

You love old school speculative fiction
You're looking for hopeful sci-fi that wrestles with big questions about humanity's future
You want to see neurodivergence portrayed as evolutionary advantage rather than deficit
You're drawn to stories about found family and characters working together against impossible odds

You can grab it on Amazon in paperback or Kindle. And if you do read it, please let me know what you think. Send me an email. Leave a review. Tag me on social media. I genuinely want to hear from you.

Because that's what this is all about, isn't it? Connection. Community. Building bridges between our different minds and hearts and experiences through the power of story.

A Thank You

Brian, if you're reading this: thank you. Thank you for taking the time to read my work. Thank you for seeing what I was trying to create. Thank you for your thoughtfulness and your generosity and your willingness to share your perspective. Thank you for being the kind of fellow author who lifts others up.

And to everyone who's supported my work, who's shown up at book signings, who's bought my books or listened to my music or joined my Found Family: thank you. You're the reason I keep creating. You're the reason I believe in the power of art to help us feel less alone.

What's Next

I'm gearing up for the November release of my eighth novel, Sweet Little Unforgettable Thing (yes, it's an erotic romantasy, and yes, it's completely different from The Connectivity Hypothesis, and yes, that's exactly the point). I'm finishing up my Las Vegas book tour. I'm planning my Q1 2026 Colorado bookstore tour. I'm pitching my Radical Resilience workshop to all 25 branches of the Las Vegas-Clark County Library District.

And I'm doing it all with a little more confidence today, thanks to Brian's words reminding me why this work matters.

Let's keep building this community together. Let's keep telling stories that matter. Let's keep creating space for all kinds of minds and hearts and experiences.

Want to read Brian's complete testimonial? Here it is in all its glory:

TESTIMONIAL FOR THE CONNECTIVITY HYPOTHESIS

By Brian Rouff, Author

"With the ongoing emphasis on neurodivergent individuals in the media and in real life, I'm certain the thought has occurred to many people that maybe this is a new form of evolutionary development, something that will ultimately be good for the human species and our world. Author Mariah Tyler Moore has taken that big idea and run with it, carrying it to its logical conclusion in the near (and far) future.I found the galactic council scene near the end of the story—in which a cadre of watchful alien representatives vote on the future of humanity—to be particularly compelling. The author paints the picture with skill, empathy, and compassion, enabling me as the reader to project myself right into the drama and imagine how I would act in a similar situation.As the grandfather of two neurodivergent grandchildren, I was able to easily relate to Lila, our protagonist, as well as Dot, her step-grandmother, and Dr. Tanaka, Lila's mentor. I especially loved the way the main characters worked together in an attempt to prevail against the longest odds.I would recommend this book to any fan of old school speculative fiction, such as those drawn to Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land or Clarke's Childhood's End. It's a well-written cutting edge story with relatable characters and a positive message."— Brian Rouff, Author

About the Author

Mariah Tyler Moore is a multi-genre author and lyricist operating under the "Radical Resilience" brand. She has published eight novels spanning contemporary romance, dark fantasy, science fiction, and self-help, plus over 115 songs across streaming platforms. Her work explores themes of found family, neurodiversity as strength, and the Wounded Healer archetype. She is currently based between central Utah and Las Vegas, Nevada, where she works as a Staff Writer for the Sanpete Messenger and continues her West Coast book tour.

Connect with Mariah

Website: www.mariahtylermoore.com
Email: mooremariaht@gmail.com
Phone: (435) 262-9327
Books: Amazon Author Page
Music: Spotify | Apple Music | YouTube Music

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WORKPLACE MASKING: Why We Become Someone Else for 40+ Hours a Week

Mariah Tyler Moore — Tue, 4 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

My friend was having a terrible week. Life had beaten her down in the way it does when everything compounds... relationship stress, money problems, an exhaustion that lives deep within bones. When the HR guy called about a job opportunity, she took a breath, painted on what she calls her "bubbly, happy" mask, and performed enthusiasm she didn't feel.

"I didn't want to scare him away," she told me later.

Scare him away. As if her humanity (her real, struggling, beautifully messy humanity) was a threat to her employability!

Yesterday, I called out sick from both my jobs. I've had a headache bordering on a migraine since Sunday. Three days of my brain feeling like it's wrapped in barbed wire. I couldn't drive. I couldn't remember basic words. Working was impossible. So I called out, and then I cried for thirty minutes straight.

Not because of the pain. I'm used to pain.

I cried because I know my bosses are disappointed in me. I can see it in their body language, hear it in their tone. I know the pattern: disabled employee does great work, but isn't available 24/7, so becomes a problem. I cried because I felt like I let everyone I care about down. I cried because I'm mad at myself for having a body that doesn't cooperate with capitalism's demands.

And here's the fucked-up part: both of these stories are about the same thing.

We've created a work culture where being human (having emotions, having limitations, having bodies that don't perform like machines) is treated as a professional liability. We've forgotten that work is supposed to support life, not replace it. We've built a system that demands we become someone else for 40+ hours a week just to afford rent and food.

And for those of us with disabilities? The mask isn't just uncomfortable. It's suffocating.

The First Mask: Emotional Labor

Let's start with my friend. What she was doing (performing bubbly for HR) has a name. It's called emotional labor.

The sociologist Arlie Hochschild coined the term back in 1983, defining it as emotion work that is performed in exchange for pay and as a condition of employment. This isn't just being nice. It's the commercialization of human feeling, when your employer has a degree of control over the emotional activities of its employees, demanding a smile and a "happy to help" attitude whether you feel it or not.

This is the baseline robot behavior we're all expected to perform. And the cost of this performance is staggering. This faking it creates cognitive dissonance and is a direct line to employee burnout, emotional exhaustion, and reduced mental health. This isn't just a me problem or a you problem. This is a global economy problem. The World Health Organization estimates that depression and anxiety from workplace burnout cost the global economy $1 trillion in lost productivity every single year. For a single company of 1,000 employees, the cost of burnout can exceed $5 million annually.

The Double Mask: Neurodivergent Camouflaging

But here's the point you really need to get: that's just the first mask.

For those of us with disabilities or neurodivergence, this is exponentially harder. We're expected to perform that same emotional labor on top of a second, deeper mask, just to get to the same starting line. This isn't just faking an emotion. This is faking your entire neuro-physical state.

This is what researchers call neurodivergent masking or camouflaging: a high-cost survival strategy where we actively force neurotypical traits to avoid being recognized as different. For me, an autistic person, this means forcing eye contact, which is a high-energy, deeply uncomfortable cognitive load. It's manually performing a specific tone of voice, practiced facial expressions, and neutral body language angles that are not my native operating system.

This is hiding symptom management... the conscious concealment of our reality. It's deliberately keeping it together at work, hiding the fact that you need to take medication, use an inhaler, or check your blood sugar because of the stigma and the fear that disclosing will undermine your professional role.

This is heartbreaking symptoms... finding a private space to deal with severe pain, or pretending your migraine is just a headache so you don't sound dramatic.

My friend had to put on one mask: the bubbly employee. I have to put on that same mask, but only after I've already put on the "I'm not in pain, my brain isn't full of barbed wire, and standing up doesn't make my heart spike" mask.

That is the Double Mask. And the cost of wearing it isn't just $1 trillion. It's our frickin' lives.

The Systemic Trap: The Disability Employment Gap and the SSDI Catch-22

Let's talk about what equal opportunity employment actually looks like in practice.

In 2024, only 22.7% of people with disabilities were employed, compared to 65.5% of people without disabilities. Read that again. Less than one in four of us can even get a job. And our unemployment rate? 7.5% (nearly double the 3.8% rate for people without disabilities). This chasm is known as the Disability Employment Gap (DEG), a key indicator of systemic inequality in the labor market. And when we do get jobs, we are twice as likely to be stuck in low-quality, precarious employment.

But wait, it gets better. (By better, I mean so much worse that I want to flip a table.)

Let's say you can't work. Your body simply won't let you anymore. You apply for Social Security Disability Insurance (SSDI), which is supposed to be the safety net for exactly this situation. The average SSDI benefit for a disabled worker in 2025 is $1,580 per month.

Now let me tell you what it actually costs to survive in America. According to the MIT Living Wage Calculator, a single adult with no children in Mississippi (which has one of the lowest costs of living in the nation) needs to earn $43,159 per year before taxes to cover basic needs. That is $3,596 per month.

The system that is designed to be our safety net pays us $1,580 a month. The bare minimum cost of living in the cheapest state is $3,596 a month. That is a $2,016 gap. Every. Single. Month.

he living wage for a single adult in Mississippi is $3,596 per month, according to the MIT Living Wage Calculator. Based on the average SSDI benefit for a disabled worker in 2025, that means the monthly survival gap is negative $2,016.

You literally cannot afford to be disabled in America.

I've applied for SSDI twice. I've been denied twice. The process has taken years. And you want to know the really fun part? The legal jargon they use to deny is so dense, so deliberately opaque, that I can't even fully understand why I've been denied.

Meanwhile, I have to keep working. With the migraines. With the POTS. With the days when my body decides it's done cooperating. Because $1,580 a month (even if I could get approved) wouldn't even cover rent, let alone food, medication, utilities, or the accessibility tax of just existing in a body that needs extra support.

So I work. I do great work, actually. And then my body reminds me it's the ultimate boss, and I have to call out, and I disappoint my employers, and the cycle continues. This isn't a personal failing. This is a system designed to break us.

The Burnout Loop: Ableist Microaggressions and Enforced Masking

This brings me back to crying for 30 minutes.

The reason I cried wasn't just disappointment in myself. It was the terror of their disappointment. It was knowing that my great work is always, always conditional. The minute my body (my Ultimate Boss) overrules my employer's deadline, I stop being a great employee and become a disappointment.

My lived experience (doing great work but being unavailable equals disappointing) has a name. It's called subtle discrimination, and it's delivered through ableist microaggressions. A microaggression is one of those small but hurtful actions from coworkers or supervisors that maintain unfair treatment, even if they are not intended to be harmful. That disappointed body language I see? That shift in tone? That's the microaggression. Researchers categorize these as microinvalidations (actions that negate or undermine our reality) and microinsults (subtle communications of bias). It's the subtle, unintentional bias of a manager who fundamentally, subconsciously, believes my invisible disability isn't as real as their deadline.

This creates a destructive feedback loop that disabled and chronically ill people know in their bones. My invisible disability (POTS, migraine, fibromyalgia) is not outwardly visible. I have to call out. This is a symptom of my disability, not a choice. My manager's unintentional bias leads them to interpret this symptom as a character flaw: You're not reliable. They communicate this judgment through microaggressions... the disappointed tone, the sigh, the "we need to talk about your patterns" texts. My nervous system, already hypervigilant from trauma and chronic illness, correctly identifies this as a real social threat. This triggers the shame and fear (the extended crying session) and forces me to mask even harder next time, which leads directly to Disability Burnout: a specific, crushing exhaustion from navigating a world not designed for me. This burnout makes me sicker, which starts the whole goddamn cycle over again.

The gaslighting isn't just in my head. It's in their body language. They're telling me, "You're not reliable," when the truth is I'm literally surviving.

And if the subtle discrimination at work is designed to break your spirit, the SSDI process is designed to break your will to live. My personal story of two denials and years of waiting isn't a fluke. It is the statistical norm. When you first apply for SSDI, your claim is denied about 62 to 67% of the time. If you appeal (which is called reconsideration), your claim is denied 84% of the time. My years of waiting isn't an exaggeration... it's the data. The average wait for an initial decision is 7.5 months. The average wait for a reconsideration decision is another 6 months. And the average wait to finally get a hearing in front of a judge is another 12.2 months. Add it all up. The average applicant waits 2.1 years just to get a hearing.

And remember my deliberately opaque legal jargon? That's not an accident. It is a weapon of attrition. Denial letters are infamously vaguely worded, confusing, and not helpful. The legal jargon is so challenging to comprehend that 90% of claimants who win at the hearing level have to have a lawyer. The system is designed to be so complex that you'll just abandon your claim or miss the appeal deadline. Your confusion is the intended outcome.

This creates the ultimate Catch-22: Too sick to work, not "sick enough" for benefits. This isn't just a feeling; it's a series of documented logical traps. The Still Working Trap: You have to keep working to survive the 2.1-year wait, but the SSA then uses Catch-22 logic to deny you, arguing that if you're still working, you can't possibly be disabled. The Unemployment Trap: You can't get unemployment benefits while you appeal, because unemployment requires you to be "ready and willing to work" (which directly contradicts your disability claim). The Benefits Cliff Trap: Even if you do get approved, you risk falling off the "Benefits Cliff." If you try to work part-time and earn even slightly above a certain income threshold, you can lose the essential Medicaid or SSI benefits you need to survive.

We are trapped. And this systemic gaslighting (You're not really sick) is a perfect mirror of the medical gaslighting so many of us have faced. It's the same invalidation. It's the doctor dismissing your pain as just anxiety or some psychiatric issue or a weight problem. It's the ER visit where they treat you like a drug seeker. It's the SSDI letter that discounts, doubts, and questions your suffering. Both are forms of dismissive medicine designed to protect the system, not the patient.

Radical Resilience: Exposing the Loop

This is where my philosophy of Radical Resilience comes in. It's not about meditating on a mountaintop. It's about seeing the battlefield clearly.

My wound is my superpower? Okay. My superpower is seeing this for what it is: an unsustainable burnout loop. The system demands robot behavior (masking) to get a job. This emotional labor and camouflaging is work. This work leads directly to emotional exhaustion. For someone with a chronic illness, that burnout directly exacerbates our physical symptoms. This leads to more absences, which leads to more subtle discrimination, which forces us to mask even harder to prove we're reliable.

This isn't resilience. This is survival mode. And survival mode is, by definition, unsustainable. It's a slow death by a thousand paper cuts.

Radical Resilience isn't about enduring this loop. It's about exposing it. It's about calling it what it is so we can build something new. This is the heart of Radical Unmasking: reclaiming ourselves by refusing to participate in the performance. And that means this isn't a problem we can positive-vibe our way out of. We need systemic, radical change.

A Way Forward: Ditching the Professionalism Theater

So let's start with coworkers. This is where it begins. Your help is not helpful if it's full of judgment. Stop the ableist microaggressions. Stop analyzing your coworker's patterns. Recognize that non-visible disabilities are real. When your disabled colleague calls out, they aren't "unreliable" or "faking it." They are sick. Believe them. Your simple, unconditional belief is a revolutionary act.

Now, let's talk to the bosses. And to be fair, let's look at it from your guys' side. I know why you demand the mask. You have a business to run! You've been taught that professionalism (the bubbly mask) is the foundation of a well-functioning environment that builds trust with colleagues. You believe this emotional labor is good for business because it increases customer satisfaction and loyalty. And you're worried about the law. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) requires you to hold employees to essential job functions and performance standards. You know that a "reasonable accommodation" does not mean you have to excuse poor performance or lower a production standard.

So when I call out, you're legally trained to see a performance issue, not a medical disability. This is the source of the gaslighting. You think you're just "managing performance." We experience it as a total invalidation of our reality.

But here's the truth you're missing: Your entire business case for the mask is a bad, short-sighted, unprofitable strategy. You're right... forcing the mask does increase customer satisfaction in the short term. BUT that same mask leads directly to burnout and emotional exhaustion. AND that burnout is what costs your company $5.04 million and the global economy $1 trillion. Your robot mask isn't talent retention. It's the direct cause of talent loss.

You want a smarter business plan? Here it is. It's the Radical Resilience model. Ditch the professionalism theater and build a psychologically safe and inclusive culture. Offer real flexibility and remote work, which aren't perks but essential accommodations. This reduces burnout, which actually increases productivity and retention. This isn't charity. It's just a better P&L decision.

It's Time to Remember

And for everyone (all of us, regardless of disability status) we need to remember something fundamental: Life matters. Work is what we do to live, not the other way around. We've forgotten this. We've let capitalism convince us that our worth is measured by our productivity, our availability, our willingness to perform the mask without complaint. But you know what? Life freakin' matters! The relationships that sustain us matter. The health that allows us to experience joy matters. The rest that lets us be present for the people we love matters. All of it matters more than any deadline, any performance review, any quarterly goal.

We work to live. We do not live to work.

This should not be a radical statement. But in 2025, it feels revolutionary to say: your humanity is not a liability. Your limitations are not weaknesses. Your body's needs are not negotiable.

The workplace masking that my friend does (performing bubbly for HR while drowning inside) is the same mask I wear when I force myself to work through a migraine, terrified of disappointing yet another employer who will see my chronic illness as a pattern rather than a disability. And pretending is SO exhausting.

The mask is suffocating us. All of us. Whether you're disabled or not, whether you're neurodivergent or neurotypical, whether you're chronically ill or temporarily healthy... this system is breaking you too.

The only way out is to take the mask off. To refuse to pretend. To build workplaces, policies, and cultures that honor the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of being human.

Because at the end of the day, that's all any of us are: human beings trying to survive in a system that forgot we were human at all.

It's time to remember.

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You're Invited: Become a Member of Our Found Family at Multicultural Books Vegas

Mariah Tyler Moore — Fri, 8 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I've always said that the ultimate goal of my work, the reason I pour my own scars onto the page, is to find my people. To build a Found Family. For a long time, that family has lived online and in the pages of my books.

Now, we're giving it a home.

I am overcome with joy and gratitude to invite you to a very special Meet & Greet at the Multicultural Bookstore Las Vegas on Saturday, October 18, 2025, from 2:00 PM to 4:00 PM.

From the moment I first learned about MCBLV and its vital mission to foster community and ensure every reader can see themselves in the stories on their shelves, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. This partnership is a dream come true, born from a shared belief in the power of stories to heal, connect, and empower.

But this is more than just a book signing. MCBLV has proposed the official launch of the "Moore Universe" Book Club! Born from an incredible idea by MCBLV's co-owner, Carol Santiago, this book club will be a space for us—the Wounded Healers, the misfit survivors, the broken-hearted bards—to gather, discuss the themes of Radical Resilience across all my novels, and build the real-world connections we all crave.

Come and be a founding member of our tribe. Be there on day one as we build this beautiful new thing together. I'll be signing copies of all my books, with a special focus on the #1 Bestseller The Spaces Between Us, a story about two broken people building something better from the ashes—a perfect theme for our new beginning.

This isn't just my event. It's ours. Let's make this house a home, kids.

Event Details:

Date: Saturday, October 18, 2025
Time: 2:00 PM - 4:00 PM
Location: Multicultural Bookstore Las Vegas, 2027 Revere St, Las Vegas, NV 89106 (in the Historic Westside) [https://multiculturalbookstorelasvegas.com/]

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Let's Celebrate Our Stories at the Pearson Community Center Book Fair!

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 7 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I am one of the featured authors at the Collective Book Fair at the Pearson Community Center on Saturday, October 4th, from 2:00 PM to 5:30 PM. This event is a beautiful collaboration with the amazing Carol Santiago and the Multicultural Bookstore Las Vegas, and it’s all about bringing our community together through the power of words.

This isn't just about selling books; it's about celebrating the stories that make us who we are. It’s about connection, community, and the shared strength we find when we honor our messy, magnificent truths.

Getting to connect with you—my readers, my found family—is what this is all about. Onward, peeps.

Location: Pearson Community Center - 1625 W. Carey Ave, Las Vegas, NV 89032 [https://multiculturalbookstorelasvegas.com/]

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Got Dragons? Join Me and Two Other Local Authors for a Fantasy & Sci-Fi Showcase

Mariah Tyler Moore — Thu, 7 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Calling all my broken-hearted bards, misfit survivors, and anyone who believes a well-crafted magic system is a form of self-care. For one afternoon, we're trading the mundane for the multiverse.

I am so excited to be a part of a special three-author signing event at the amazing Mad Red Books on Saturday, September 27, 2025, from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM. This isn't just a chance to get your books signed; it's a celebration of the incredible local authors who are building new worlds right here in Las Vegas.

For this event, we're diving deep into the epic side of the Moore Universe. Per the store's request, I'll be featuring my fantasy and science fiction titles. This is your chance to grab signed copies of:

Tides of Ruin: An epic fantasy saga where the battles are as much about inner demons as they are about clashing swords.
The Trilogy of Thalvannar: A D&D-campaign-turned-novel, perfect for anyone who has ever found their truest family around a gaming table.
The Connectivity Hypothesis: A high-concept sci-fi thriller where a neurodivergent student's unique way of seeing the world is the only thing that can save it.

While the settings may have more dragons and spaceships, the heart is the same. These stories are forged in the fire of Radical Resilience, exploring what it means to find your power in the very things that make you different.

Come out and support local creators, discover your next favorite author, and let's talk about epic quests, world-altering truths, and why the Wounded Healer is the most badass character archetype of all.

Event Details:

Date: Saturday, September 27, 2025
Time: 3:00 PM - 6:00 PM
Location: Mad Red Books, 9480 S. Eastern Ave #105, Las Vegas, NV 89123 [https://madredbooks.com/]

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