Introducing Virtual Writer in Residence: Claire Kearns

This month, as part of a cultural exchange organised by Melbourne City of Literature, Bookbag joins Tartu (Estonia), Krakow (Poland) Kozhikode (India), and UK cities Edinburgh, Norwich and Nottingham to host a Melboune-based writer in residence.

Bookseller Sirisha has been getting to know Claire, a graduate researcher and casual academic whose work focuses on war trophies and the political economy of memory. Her research examines how objects taken during conflict are used to construct national identity and historical narratives, with particular attention to Indigenous service and institutional silencing. Claire’s work combines archival research, political theory, and case studies of war trophies. Her work is informed by her lived connection to Country. Her broader writing engages questions about veterans’ and Indigenous peoples’ voices in Australia’s commemorative culture. Claire is also an award-winning visual artist and poet, and her work is tied to both Country and her research. Being neuro-divergent also shapes Claire's writing. You can read the first piece,  Finding Humanity in a World That Moves Too Fast, below.

Finding Humanity in a World That Moves Too Fast

By Claire Kearns

Sometimes, things happen in the world that shift us. They unsettle what we thought were shared values and replace them with something harder; a clash with the unorthodox that can feel disorienting. For neurodiverse people, this space is often overwhelming. The way we perceive the world does not always align with dominant expectations, and the nuances of difference can be difficult for others to understand.

Moving through the world, I have often felt moments of discomfort stemming from differences in opinion, communication, and ways of being. Many people will recognise this feeling. It sits in the background of everyday life. It is shaped by what we see, what we hear, and the pressures we navigate. We live in a world that increasingly prioritises speed. It is a world shaped by constant demand, where the personal can be pushed aside and time feels scarce.

And yet, some values endure. What has sustained me are the people who quietly choose to act differently. They are not always in positions of power. Often, they have little control over the systems around them. But their influence is profound. They listen. They respond with care rather than an innate reflex. They recognise something essential: that life is, at its core, a human experience. For neurodiverse people, these moments of connection are transformative. They create space where difference is not treated as a deficit, but as a perspective. They allow conversations where uncertainty is not punished but explored. In these moments, the world shifts. It becomes slower, more deliberate & closer to what it could be at its best.

I have met people who understand that the pace of modern life does not always align with careful thought. They recognise that constant pressure can obscure deeper purpose. What they offer is something increasingly rare: time. That generosity is not incidental. It is an ethical choice. It says, clearly and without condition: you belong here, not despite your differences, but because of them. These connections do not erase the challenges of navigating the world as a neurodiverse person. The tensions remain. But they become more manageable when held within relationships grounded in care and understanding. That shift matters. It shapes not only how we move through the world, but what we are able to contribute to it.

My work focuses on war trophies and the silences surrounding veterans’ stories, particularly the human experiences and silenced stories embedded within material objects. It draws on Indigenous knowledge systems and challenges dominant narratives that prioritise objects over people. At its heart, it asks us to listen more carefully: to what is said, and to what is not. What I have come to understand is that there is a quiet form of resistance in the world, one that exists in everyday interactions. It is the refusal to reduce life to metrics and outputs. It is a commitment to maintaining the personal within the systems we inhabit. It is a recognition that human connection still matters, even—perhaps especially—when it is under pressure. And, for the neurodiverse individual, that pressure can be felt quite profoundly.

The world is not a single, unified structure. It is a collection of relationships. Some are supportive, others are not. Systems shape our experiences, but they do not define them completely. The presence of kindness, thoughtfulness, and care shows that other ways of being are always possible.

Within this, my neurodiversity is not simply a challenge. It is also a strength. It brings a particular attentiveness. To silences, to dissonance, to nuance. It allows me to notice what might otherwise go unseen. And it reinforces something I have come to believe deeply: that the future will not be determined solely by policy or reform, but by the ways we choose to treat one another. The pressures we face are unlikely to disappear any time soon. But difficulty can obscure possibility, and it is easy to lose sight of what remains. The people I have encountered remind me that, at its best, the world is still shaped by generosity and care. There have been challenges—many of them. But what continues to matter is that we still care.

This is what allows meaningful work—and meaningful lives—to endure.

Perhaps the clearest way to understand this is through a simple story. There is a person I have never met. In a world defined by distance and technology, our lives have never physically crossed. And yet, their impact on me has been profound. We share very little, except our humanity. Still, they became my friend. I have often wondered why. Perhaps it was an obligation. Perhaps it was circumstance. But I believe the truth is simpler: they believed I could succeed, despite the obstacles. They made time. And in doing so, they replaced something insufficient with something generous. They showed, in a quiet but powerful way, that kindness is a choice.

When asked to speak about challenges, it would be easy to produce a long list of frustrations. (There are many!) But that is not the story I want to tell. If there is one message to offer, it is this: inclusion is not only about systems or policies. It is about how we treat one another. It is about the time we give and the humanity we recognise in others.

Neurodiversity and unconventional backgrounds do not simply shape how people experience the world. They shape what they can see—and what they can contribute. In my work, I am drawn to what sits beneath the surface: the absences, the silences, the stories that are difficult to articulate. War trophies, for example, are not just objects. They are sites where memory, trauma, and narrative intersect. Understanding them requires attention to complexity and lived experience. This way of seeing is not incidental. It is the result of a difference. And it matters. Because the stories that are hardest to tell are often the ones we most need to hear.