The Story of Geraldine Francis Devoir, and I live with autism
I noticed a long time ago that people looked at me differently.
Kids at school were so mean to me. They mocked me, called me names, and pushed me around. But what always struck me was how those same kids would act like completely different people when my brother or sister were around. Suddenly, they were kind. Warm. Friendly.
It confused me at first—but then I realized, people often change their masks depending on who’s watching. I learned early that cruel words do not define who I am. As I used to tell myself, one times zero equals zero—so that’s what I thought about the things they said to me: nothing. Meaningless.
But me? I have autism.
One times one equals one.
That’s me—just one. And there will never be another me.
I would repeat that in my head over and over again whenever things got hard.
Most times, though, I still felt alone in this world. Cruel. Cold. Unforgiving. I used to think I didn’t have any friends. But that wasn’t entirely true. My real friends were my siblings. Rosalina and Marcus—my protectors. They may not have known everything I went through, because I didn’t tell them. I couldn’t. I needed to grow and learn on my own, especially if I was going to survive in this world.
There were nights I would sit alone and cry, asking God,
“Why did You let me be born in this cruel world?”
I didn’t ask for autism—but it’s a part of who I am.
And maybe… just maybe, there’s a purpose in that.
One Saturday morning, I was locked in my thoughts, sitting by the window, when I saw something that stirred my soul.
A hummingbird fluttered to and from her nest, feeding her babies. I could hear their tiny chirps—soft, sweet, and in perfect rhythm with one another. It was like music. Their melody drifted in through my open window,
Light as air, but strong as truth.
Those birds… they felt like a message from God in disguise.
My family was outside, doing their own things, not paying me any mind. But those birds, their rhythm—something about it spoke to me. It moved something inside me. Suddenly, I felt inspired to go to the living room where my dad kept his piano.
No one had ever given me a single lesson. But I had spent my whole life watching my father play, memorizing the way his hands danced over the keys. I remembered every note, every movement.
So, I sat down.
And I played.
Then I began to sing.
For the first time in my life—I felt free.
I played by ear, and my voice flowed out naturally, melodic and full of feeling. I had found something I could do. Something that was mine.
My family, hearing the music from outside, came rushing in. At first, they were confused. Then I heard their voices cheering:
“Sing it from your heart!
Go sing it from your heart, Geraldine!”
And I did.
That single Saturday morning was the beginning. I started playing more and more, and little by little, the world began to listen.
That moment changed everything. I was once ashamed of who I was—of what made me different. But now? I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve accomplished.
What once made me feel broken now gives me a unique voice—one that others can’t ignore.
Autism isn’t my weakness. It’s my superpower.
Those days feel like yesterday.
Now, five years later, I play and sing for audiences around the world. People pay to hear me. To see me. They acknowledge me—out loud.
Some of the very same people who used to mock me and call me names are now the ones asking for my attention. And you know what? I don’t hold bitterness. Because my story isn’t about them, it’s about how far I’ve come.
I thank Our Heavenly Father. It’s because of Him that I stand on this platform. He has been a beautiful blessing in my life.
I now realize that I am a special person with special needs—but that doesn’t make me irrelevant. It makes me powerful. Purposeful. Proud.
And maybe—just maybe—I can be an inspiration in someone’s life.
Someone who’s still searching for their voice.
Someone like I once was.