
Sign up to save your podcasts
Or


A video introduction to When the Future Won’t Hold—why this series is arriving now, why it must be poem-first and auto-theoretical, and what it means to name the collapse of futurity without flattening it into crisis.
This video is a threshold piece—an opening hand before the series begins in earnest. I wanted to speak directly, in my own voice, because When the Future Won’t Hold enters difficult terrain, and I did not want that terrain flattened by automation, sanitised by summary tools, or mistaken for melodrama. This series moves through states that psychiatry often names poorly—burnout, collapse, passive suicidality, the collapse of futurity—but it does so from inside lived experience, not from the outside language of compliance, surveillance, or forced optimism. It is not a performance of crisis. It is an act of witness.
At the heart of the video is a simple but devastating question: what happens when the future stops functioning as a believable structure? I speak about this both personally and professionally—as an autistic educator holding space for students whose lives have been reorganised in real time by political and economic decisions beyond their control. The promises they were handed at the start of secondary school—college, loans, deferment, a workable path forward—have been quietly revoked. And when the terms of survival change this abruptly, the damage is not only financial. It is existential. It alters meaning itself. This series names that rupture as a collapse of futurity: the moment when planning no longer feels like hope, but like contact with a door that has been bricked up whilst you were still walking toward it.
The video also explains the form of the series. These pieces are arriving poem-first because that is how they came to me—whole, lyrical, fielded before they were analysable. As a gestalt processor, I often receive meaning before I can dissect it. So the poem comes to me first, then the field notes, then the analysis, then the introduction. That is not an aesthetic gimmick. It is the architecture of the mind doing the work honestly. There is very little formal research for what I am trying to name here, so this series sits in the space of autotheory: lived experience in dialogue with frameworks like PTMF, Glasser’s Choice Theory, kairos and chronos, and the political conditions shaping our nervous systems in real time.
And perhaps most importantly, the video makes clear what the series is for. Not to romanticise despair. Not to produce inspiration porn. Not to turn difficult inner states into evidence against the people living them. Its purpose is to create language where there has been silence—to offer scripts for states that many autistic and gestalt-processing people know intimately, but rarely see named without punishment or pathologisation. It is an offering of company. A way of saying: if the thread between now and later has gone slack for you, too, you are not the only one. And until we build the fuller commons we need, this is one small place to begin.
By Jaime Hoerricks, PhDA video introduction to When the Future Won’t Hold—why this series is arriving now, why it must be poem-first and auto-theoretical, and what it means to name the collapse of futurity without flattening it into crisis.
This video is a threshold piece—an opening hand before the series begins in earnest. I wanted to speak directly, in my own voice, because When the Future Won’t Hold enters difficult terrain, and I did not want that terrain flattened by automation, sanitised by summary tools, or mistaken for melodrama. This series moves through states that psychiatry often names poorly—burnout, collapse, passive suicidality, the collapse of futurity—but it does so from inside lived experience, not from the outside language of compliance, surveillance, or forced optimism. It is not a performance of crisis. It is an act of witness.
At the heart of the video is a simple but devastating question: what happens when the future stops functioning as a believable structure? I speak about this both personally and professionally—as an autistic educator holding space for students whose lives have been reorganised in real time by political and economic decisions beyond their control. The promises they were handed at the start of secondary school—college, loans, deferment, a workable path forward—have been quietly revoked. And when the terms of survival change this abruptly, the damage is not only financial. It is existential. It alters meaning itself. This series names that rupture as a collapse of futurity: the moment when planning no longer feels like hope, but like contact with a door that has been bricked up whilst you were still walking toward it.
The video also explains the form of the series. These pieces are arriving poem-first because that is how they came to me—whole, lyrical, fielded before they were analysable. As a gestalt processor, I often receive meaning before I can dissect it. So the poem comes to me first, then the field notes, then the analysis, then the introduction. That is not an aesthetic gimmick. It is the architecture of the mind doing the work honestly. There is very little formal research for what I am trying to name here, so this series sits in the space of autotheory: lived experience in dialogue with frameworks like PTMF, Glasser’s Choice Theory, kairos and chronos, and the political conditions shaping our nervous systems in real time.
And perhaps most importantly, the video makes clear what the series is for. Not to romanticise despair. Not to produce inspiration porn. Not to turn difficult inner states into evidence against the people living them. Its purpose is to create language where there has been silence—to offer scripts for states that many autistic and gestalt-processing people know intimately, but rarely see named without punishment or pathologisation. It is an offering of company. A way of saying: if the thread between now and later has gone slack for you, too, you are not the only one. And until we build the fuller commons we need, this is one small place to begin.