A Story Inspired by How to Become an ABDL?

The apartment key felt heavy in Jamie’s palm as she stood outside apartment 412. Through the door, she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter—people who already belonged to this community she’d been circling around for months, too afraid to enter.

She’d almost turned back three times on the way here. Once at the subway station. Again in the building lobby. And just now, when she’d reached for the doorbell and her hand had frozen mid-air.

“You can do this,” she whispered. “It’s just a munch. Just people talking.”

The door swung open before she could press the bell.

“Jamie?” A woman with kind eyes and purple-streaked hair smiled at her. “I’m Rebecca. We’ve been messaging online. Come in, come in. You don’t have to stand in the hallway looking terrified.”

Jamie managed a weak laugh and stepped inside. The apartment was warm and surprisingly ordinary—cream-colored walls, a well-worn couch, plants on the windowsill. About a dozen people sat in clusters around the living room, holding coffee mugs and paper plates with cookies. Nobody was wearing anything unusual. They looked like regular people at a regular gathering.

That somehow made it harder.

“Everyone,” Rebecca called out. “This is Jamie. It’s her first munch, so let’s make her feel welcome.”

A chorus of friendly hellos filled the room. Jamie’s cheeks burned as she waved awkwardly.

“Come sit.” Rebecca guided her to a loveseat where a man with glasses was already seated, reading something on his phone. “This is Marcus. He’s been coming for about six months now. Marcus, be a dear and keep Jamie company while I grab her something to drink?”

Marcus looked up and offered a gentle smile. “First time is the hardest. I nearly threw up in the bathroom for twenty minutes at my first munch.”

Despite her nerves, Jamie found herself smiling back. “I almost didn’t come in. I’ve been standing in the hallway for five minutes.”

“That’s progress. I circled the block for forty-five minutes.” He set his phone down and shifted to face her. “What brought you here? I mean, you don’t have to answer. But sometimes talking helps.”

Jamie twisted her hands in her lap. Around them, other conversations hummed—casual talk about work, weekend plans, a new restaurant downtown. Nothing about why they were all really here.

“I’ve been reading about… this,” she said quietly. “About age regression and comfort and all of it. For years, actually. But I always thought I was the only one. That there was something wrong with me.”

Marcus nodded. “I wore my first diaper at thirty-two years old. I spent three decades thinking I was broken because I wanted to feel small and cared for sometimes. Because the world felt too big and too hard, and I just wanted…” He trailed off, looking vulnerable for a moment. “Permission, I guess. Permission to need things that adults aren’t supposed to need.”

“Yes.” The word came out as almost a gasp. “Exactly that.”

Rebecca returned with a mug of hot chocolate, complete with marshmallows. “I made extra,” she said with a knowing smile. “Figured you might like something sweet.”

The simple gesture made Jamie’s throat tight. When was the last time someone had thought about what might comfort her?

“Thank you,” she managed.

“We’re doing introductions in a few minutes,” Rebecca said. “Just first names and whatever you want to share. But first, eat, drink, settle in. This is a safe space. Nobody’s judging.”

As Rebecca moved away to greet another newcomer, Marcus leaned back against the couch. “She’s good at this. Making people feel human.”

“How long did it take you?” Jamie asked. “To feel… okay with all of this?”

Marcus considered the question, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh. “I’m still working on it, honestly. Some days are easier than others. I have a partner now who knows and accepts this part of me. That helps. But the shame doesn’t just disappear overnight.”

“I can’t imagine telling anyone,” Jamie admitted. “The people in my life would think I’d lost my mind.”

“Maybe some would. But you’d be surprised. My sister knows. My best friend from college. They don’t get it, not really, but they don’t have to. They just care about me being happy.” He paused. “Though I’ll admit, telling them was scarier than anything I’ve ever done.”

Across the room, a woman with a soft voice was talking about her week. Jamie caught fragments: “…finally ordered some items for myself… arrived in plain packaging, but I still hid them in the back of my closet… baby steps, right?”

Others murmured encouragement. Someone mentioned their own struggle with accepting their needs. Another person talked about finding a caregiver who understood.

Jamie sipped her hot chocolate and felt something inside her begin to unfold, like a flower that had been clenched tight for years.

“Okay, everyone,” Rebecca called out, clapping her hands gently. “Let’s do our circle. You know the drill—first name, pronouns if you want to share them, and one thing you’re working on or celebrating this week.”

They went around the circle. Some people shared small victories—buying their first pacifier, having an honest conversation with a partner, setting up a dedicated space in their home for regression time. Others talked about struggles—feeling isolated, battling shame, wanting acceptance they weren’t sure how to find.

When it came to Jamie, her mouth went dry. Everyone was looking at her with such kindness, but the words stuck in her throat.

“I’m Jamie,” she finally said. “She and her. And I guess… I’m working on believing that it’s okay to want comfort. That needing to feel small sometimes doesn’t make me broken.”

“It doesn’t,” said a soft voice across the circle. A younger person with a rainbow bracelet smiled at her. “It makes you human.”

The tightness in Jamie’s chest loosened slightly.

After the circle, people broke into smaller conversations. Jamie found herself talking to a woman named Theresa who worked as a nurse and had two kids.

“Wait,” Jamie said. “You’re a mom and you…?”

“I regress?” Theresa finished with a laugh. “Yep. Turns out being responsible for tiny humans twenty-four seven makes you crave someone else being responsible for you sometimes. My husband is my caregiver. Best arrangement we’ve ever had, honestly.”

“I always thought this was something people did instead of having real relationships.”

“Oh, honey, no. This enhances my relationship. It’s another way my partner and I connect, another layer of intimacy and trust.” Theresa’s expression grew more serious. “Look, I’m not saying it’s easy. We had to work through a lot of communication issues. He had to learn how to be a caregiver. I had to learn how to let someone see me at my most vulnerable. But it was worth it.”

Marcus joined them, holding a cookie. “Theresa giving her TED talk about healthy regression?”

“Someone has to counteract all the misconceptions,” Theresa said primly, then grinned. “But seriously, Jamie, the main thing is that there’s no one right way to do this. Some people regress alone. Some have caregivers. Some only regress occasionally, others make it a bigger part of their life. You get to figure out what works for you.”

“That’s the scariest part,” Jamie admitted. “Not knowing what I even want. Just knowing that I want… something. Some way to let go of always having to be strong and capable and adult.”

“That’s where everyone starts,” Marcus said. “With a feeling. A need. The rest you figure out as you go.”

Rebecca appeared beside them. “We’re about to do sharing time. People bring items, photos, whatever they want to show off. Totally optional, but it’s a nice way to see what’s possible.”

For the next hour, Jamie watched people share pieces of themselves. Someone showed pictures of a nursery they’d set up in a spare bedroom—soft colors, a rocking chair, shelves lined with stuffed animals. Another person passed around a handmade blanket their partner had made for them. A man with tattoos covering both arms shyly showed them a sippy cup decorated with dinosaurs.

Each item was met with genuine enthusiasm and support. No mockery. No judgment. Just people celebrating each other’s courage to embrace what brought them comfort.

When it was her turn, Jamie shook her head. “I don’t have anything yet. I’ve been too scared to actually… try any of this.”

“What’s stopping you?” Rebecca asked gently.

Jamie thought about her answer. “Fear that it’ll confirm something about myself I’m not ready to accept. Fear that once I start, I won’t want to stop. Fear that I really am broken.”

The room had gone quiet. She looked up to find everyone watching her with understanding, not pity.

“I felt that way too,” said the person with the rainbow bracelet. “So I started really small. Just… let myself watch cartoons without feeling guilty. Let myself sleep with a stuffed animal I’d kept hidden in my closet. Tiny permissions.”

“And one day,” Theresa added, “you wake up and realize those tiny permissions have added up to actually feeling better. More whole. Less ashamed.”

Marcus caught Jamie’s eye. “You took a huge step just coming here tonight. That counts for something.”

“It counts for everything,” Rebecca corrected. “Most people never get this far. They stay alone with their confusion and shame. You reached out. You showed up. You’re already doing the work.”

Jamie felt tears prick her eyes. She blinked them back, but one escaped anyway, trailing down her cheek.

“It’s okay to cry here,” Rebecca said softly. “We’ve all done it.”

Several people nodded, smiling.

By the time the munch ended, Jamie had exchanged numbers with three people and accepted Rebecca’s invitation to a smaller gathering the following week. As she rode the subway home, she felt lighter than she had in months—maybe years.

That night, alone in her apartment, Jamie did something she’d never allowed herself to do before. She went to her closet and pulled out a worn stuffed rabbit she’d owned since childhood, hidden behind storage boxes and winter coats. She brought it to her bed, climbed under the covers, and held it close.

It felt good. It felt right.

And for the first time, she didn’t tell herself to stop.

Small permissions, she thought, remembering the words from the munch. One at a time.

She closed her eyes, the rabbit tucked under her chin, and let herself simply be—without judgment, without shame, without the constant exhausting effort of being more adult than she felt.

In the morning, there would still be challenges. Questions to answer. Shame to unlearn. But tonight, just for tonight, she gave herself permission to find comfort in the simplest way she knew how.

And that was enough.